“A local, Renee Carter, thirty-one years old,” Eldridge said, handing me the manila folder with the forensics report. “Minot got a match from a local dentist whose father filled some of Renee’s cavities. We lucked out—he kept all of his father’s patient files.”
Dad grabbed the folder from my hands. “Shit. She’s the woman whose landlord reported her missing in the spring of 1977. We just thought she skipped town to avoid paying rent.” Dad turned to me. “She was a prostitute, Susan. And I’m ashamed to say that we jumped to that conclusion. And just so you know, she had a history of doing that.”
“So you assume something bad happened to Trudy, because she worked at the hotel, but Renee, being a prostitute, simply ran off. Jeez, Dad. I mean, did anyone even bother to investigate . . . even a little?”
“There’s more to this story, and it’s a doozy,” Eldridge said.
“Before you go there, I just want to say that we did investigate. We interviewed the landlord, who was somewhat of a recluse, an agoraphobe, I think is the term. Never left her apartment—so she wasn’t able to provide much information. She said the only interaction she had with Renee was when Renee slipped the rent check under the door. We searched Renee’s apartment and there was hardly anything there. It appeared she had packed up her things and left.”
“Did it occur to you that someone wanted you to think that?” I asked, halfway between miffed and surprised that Dad would dismiss this case so easily. “So ironic. Trudy did run away and Renee was murdered.”
“We did treat this as a missing persons case . . . even collected the few remaining items from her apartment . . . but there was nothing to lead us to believe something nefarious happened to her. So we thought she ran.”
“Will, no one is accusing you of not doing your job. Now we have a chance to investigate further. Right that past wrong. Okay? So, here’s the crazy part . . . Minot retrieved the evidence box you assembled . . . which contained a pacifier.”
Dad jumped up and started pacing. “That’s right! The landlord said Renee had a newborn son—heard it crying at night. She told us she wrote a note to Renee to let her know that having a child in the apartment was not allowed, so she assumed Renee found another place. But she wanted us to find Renee and get the last month's rent. We just didn't have the resources for that back then.”
“Okay, Dad. We get it. You had good reason to believe she left the area.”
Eldridge cleared his throat. “Do you want to know what else we learned?”
Dad and I nodded like admonished children.
“Minot was able to pull DNA off the pacifier. Hoping to maybe get a match to the dad and hoping he might be in the system. Turns out dad’s not in the system and mom isn’t either, because—get this—Renee was not the baby’s biological mother. However, the boy was in the database. Had a bar brawl a few years back and got arrested. His name . . . you're ready . . . Jake Solomon.”
“What the—?” Dad exclaimed.
“And get this, a woman claiming to be his mother, a Joyce Solomon, posted his bail. And she is none other than Ben Solomon’s sister. So, answer me this, how the fuck did Renee’s supposed son end up with Ben’s sister?”
“Holy shit. Is it possible the two cases are related?” I asked. “I mean, is it just a coincidence that Ben is connected to both Trudy and Renee, two women who mysteriously disappeared from the area?”
Dad stopped pacing. “Un-fucking-believable.”
“God, I hope Joyce Solomon is alive,” I said.
Dad clenched his right fist and hammered it into his left palm. “Man, I can't wait to hear Ben's explanation. It should be a doozy.”
THE TEMPERATURE was rising according to the gauge on my dashboard. Still below freezing, but in a few hours the temperature was supposed to hit thirty-two degrees and these snowflakes would change to ice pellets. After dropping Dad at the entrance, I slowly drove away from Horizon Meadows, mindful of the fact that the Prius was not an ideal car for slippery roads and whiteout conditions. I cranked up the windshield wipers and gripped the steering wheel tighter. When I turned into my driveway, a pair of headlights swung in behind me. Ray’s Jeep. Had he been behind me this whole time? As I unlatched my seat belt, he tapped his knuckle on my window and waved. Then he ran inside.
“Hey babe,” he said when I opened the front door and stepped in. “I saw you leaving the station. I was nervous about you driving home in that environmentally friendly death trap you call a car, so I followed you. Wanted to make sure you made it home in one piece.”
I peeled off my coat and stood directly in front of him. The top of my head level with the bottom of his chin. He reached his arms straight out, pulled me in, and squeezed tight.
“How’s the Solomon thing coming along?” he asked when he released me.
“It’s crazy. We simply wanted to find out what happened to Trudy and in the process we’ve stumbled upon two murders, one possible baby abduction, and an apparent extortion scheme. We’ve uncovered a lot of crazy shit related to this case—and the thing is—we still don’t know what really happened to Trudy Solomon.”
“Wait. Two murders? A baby abduction?”
“Oh yeah. The plot has thickened, my friend.”
Trudy
“Trudy, this is Rita. Rita, this is Trudy,” the nurse said. “Rita is moving into the room next to yours.”
Trudy giggled, then sang, “RITA RITA bo-bi-ta. Bo-na-na fan-na fo-fi-ta. Fee Fi mo-mee-ta. Rita. Your turn.”
Rita glanced at the nurse and then back at Trudy. “I’m sorry. I don’t know that song.”
“Of course you do. We sing it all the time.”
“Trudy, this is Rita Messinger. Do you know a different Rita?”
Trudy scrunched her face. This wasn’t the right Rita. My Rita had bouncy blonde hair, doe eyes, and legs like a Rockette.
“Where’s my Rita?” Trudy asked. “Rita was my friend. She told me Ben pushed his sister. His sister bowls, y’know. Ben said I can’t bowl. He says I’m . . . I’m . . . spastic.”
“Well that’s not nice,” said Rita. “Who’s Ben?”
“We think Ben was her husband,” the nurse answered.
“Not a good husband, it seems,” said the wrong Rita.
Trudy scowled. “I’m no spring chicken. Gotta get married. Tick tock. No one else knocking at my door. That’s what my ma said.” A smile spread across Trudy’s face. “Wanna learn the song?”
14
Friday, November 9, 2018
“HOW DID your conversation go with Clara Cole last night?” I switched the audio to speaker and laid the phone on the dresser.
“She’s a pretty interesting lady. Kept all the newspaper clippings from the case in a scrapbook. Said it fascinated her because she was scheduled to assist the doctor who was supposed to see Trudy on the day she disappeared. She also told me what the appointment was all about. Which, back then, the doctor wouldn’t disclose. She was being treated for depression. Only back then it was referred to as—and I’m quoting Clara here—‘problems with living.’ She said that this particular doctor prescribed benzodiazepines to many of his patients.”
“Benzowhat?”
“A class of minor tranquilizers, like Valium.”
"Ah yes, Mother’s Little Helper. I guess her life wasn't all sunbeams and rainbows after all.”
“Why do you sound so far away?”
I parted the curtains. “Just looking outside,” I yelled.
I shut my left eye to minimize the intensity of the sunlight bouncing off the white carpet of snow and ice. My property had been transformed into a picture postcard, the limbs of the elms and maples encased in ice—glassy cocoons glistening in the low morning sun. The green needle tips of the spruce trees poked out from under several inches of snow. The lake was motionless, hardened by a thick layer of grayish ice. Stunning, really, until I spotted my car and reality set in. Shit. A four-foot snowdrift, sealed in place by a thick layer of ice, sloped against the driver’s-s
ide door. I peered down at the snowfall measuring stick planted in the yard. It was half hidden, which meant about twenty inches had accumulated since the snow started falling yesterday morning. But from this angle it was hard to see how much was snow and how much was ice.
“Mighty beautiful out there. But treacherous,” Dad said. “I don’t think you’ll be making your way here any time soon, so we’ll have to postpone our meeting with Trudy’s neighbor, Eleanor.”
I picked up the phone and switched off speaker. “Yeah. I’ll be spending the better part of the day digging out my car. Did you email Ben?”
“Last night. No response yet. Will let you know the minute I hear from him. Just told him I wanted to follow up with a few questions. Didn’t mention Jake or Joyce. Didn’t want to get the door slammed in our faces.”
“Okay. Keep me posted. I’m going to do some online sleuthing later and try to find Ed Resnick’s mother.”
RAY HANDED me a mug of coffee. “I brewed more than usual. We’re going to need some extra caffeine to shovel this shit.”
Moxie stood at the door, whimpering to get out. This was her kind of weather. I opened the door, grabbed the tie-out, and hooked it onto her collar. Okay. Her favorite command, giving her permission to do the thing she was itching to do. She bounded across the porch and leaped into the snow like a puppy. She wasn’t expecting a layer of ice, which impeded her ability to frolic. She stepped gingerly across the yard, the weight of her body disturbing the icy surface, startling her every time she sunk into the snow. I pulled out my phone and shot a few seconds of video to send to Natalie.
I figured now was as good a time as any to tell Ray about my trip to Florida. “Dad and I need to talk to the Roths. He booked us a flight to Fort Lauderdale out of Stewart. We leave on Thursday.”
“Do they know you’re coming?”
“Nope. Dad is pretty sure they’ll refuse to see us if we ask. So—”
“They might refuse to talk to you even if you manage to get in front of them. That’s a lot of time and money wasted.”
“Perhaps, but it’s warm and sunny there. Dad could use a little vacation.” So could I, but I kept that thought to myself. Ray mumbled. “What was that?” I asked him.
“Nothing. I’m trying to think up reasons why this is crazy, but y’know, if I were in your shoes, I would be on the next plane down to Florida myself. So, I get it.”
“Ready?” I said, pulling on my snow pants.
Ray gulped down the rest of his coffee. “Let’s do this.”
“I’M TOO old for this shit,” Ray said, stomping the snow off his boots. “That is heart-attack snow.”
I had given up twenty minutes earlier. After thirty minutes of chipping away at the ice that hermetically sealed the driver’s-side door, I got in and started the car, hoping the blast of heat would melt the buildup of ice on the windows. The heater barely helped and the winter sun was too weak to do much melting. And really, there was no point in digging out my car . . . Ray’s Jeep was parked behind my Prius. Neither of us was going anywhere today. The good news was that the temperature was supposed to hit the midforties around noon and stay mild and sunny for the next few days. Mother Nature would finish the job.
Ray planted himself on the living-room couch and fired up Game of Thrones. When I had finally made the decision to watch it, Ray told me six seasons of the series had already aired. It seemed too big of a commitment to start bingeing now. (“Maybe the next time you get shot,” he teased.) As a sword fight ensued, I flipped open my laptop and began my search for Ed Resnick’s mother, whose first name might, or might not, start with the letter M. If she gave birth to Ed at an early age, say twenty, she would be eighty-nine now. The chance that she was still alive was pretty slim, so I started with a search of the obituary listings in the local Rochester newspaper, the Democrat and Chronicle. The paper’s obituary section was powered by third-party software called legacy.com—yet another technology that would have been helpful to Dad back in the day. I typed M in the box for first name and Resnick in the box for last name and adjusted the time frame from last 3 days to any time. Three hits. Maude. Millicent. Marilyn. I read through each of their obituaries and there was no mention of a son named Ed. I clicked back to the search page and left the first-name box blank and typed “Resnick” in the last-name box. I got a few more hits, but one name caught my eye. Tammy. Two Ms in the middle of the name—a plausible memory snafu of an ex-drug addict. I clicked on Tammy Resnick’s obituary, who died in 1993 of cancer, and there it was in the second-to-last paragraph: Tammy Resnick is survived by her children, Ed Resnick of Waltham, MA, and Naomi Silverton and her husband John of Hull, MA; grandchildren Michael and Cindy Silverton; brother Alfred Resnick and his wife Suzanne (Metz) Resnick of Weymouth, MA; and several nieces and nephews. Interestingly, no mention of Trudy as Ed’s wife or significant other. I searched the legacy.com database for Ed’s siblings, Naomi Silverton and Alfred Resnick. No obituaries. Didn’t mean they weren’t dead. Was it worth hunting them down? Would they even know the answer to our questions: Did Ed’s mother give him five thousand dollars? Did they know why Trudy and Ed left this area without telling anyone? Was Trudy a willing participant in her so-called disappearance? Would they know if Ed was extorting money from someone?
I was beginning to feel achy from chipping and shoveling and stood to stretch. I peeked into the living room. The television was off. Moxie was in her dog bed, out cold. Ray was splayed out on the couch with a paperback tented on his chest—the book moving up and down as Ray breathed in and out. I headed upstairs, closed the bedroom door, and called Dad.
15
Saturday, November 10, 2018
THE ADVIL I took the night before had worn off. Snow shoveling did me in. My biceps, pecs, lats, and lower back were punishing me for not exercising on a regular basis. When I turned my head to the left (the only body part I could move), I saw a blank space where Ray should have been. The digital clock on Ray’s bedside table illuminated the time: 8:34 am. I let out a strange animal noise and sluggishly lifted my torso.
“Ray?” I yelled toward the bathroom. “You in there?” I reached for my robe, which hung on the edge of the footboard. “Ray?” No answer. I walked over to the window. His Jeep was gone, the driveway was shoveled, and my car had been freed from its icy encasement. The icicles that formed under the gutters dripped furiously onto the wooden deck, making a plinking sound. I leaned my forehead sideways against the pane to read the outdoor thermometer. Forty-one degrees. Thank you, Ray. Thank you, Mother Nature. One less thing to deal with today. I peeled off my robe and stepped into a very hot shower.
A hand-scrawled note was propped up against the coffeemaker. Didn’t want to disturb you. Headed out early to catch up on work. I crumpled up the paper and deftly basketball-tossed it in the garbage. Score! I texted Ray to ask if he’d fed Moxie. He had, but forgot to give her incontinence medication. I signed off with a heart emoji and thanked him for freeing my car.
I texted Dad to let him know I was no longer imprisoned at home and would pick him up at eleven o’clock. He had called Trudy’s neighbor, Eleanor Campbell yesterday and she’d agreed to see us today. Said she was pretty much homebound (unclear if that was because of the weather or a medical condition), so to stop by anytime.
Then I made the mistake of checking Facebook. A private message from Meryl awaited me in Messenger.
Hi Susan, I got a call from my mother yesterday and she was quite distraught over the investigation you have re-opened. She said dad is in a pretty fragile state these days, and she believes this rehash of the case, which nearly ruined the hotel, will only make things worse for him. I told her that this has nothing to do with her or dad, but she did ask me to reach out to you and explain the situation. She’s hoping you would find it in your heart to let this go, especially since Trudy has been found alive and well. Best, Meryl
No exclamation marks this time. And no mention of Scott. What were they afraid we would find? We were pretty
sure Scott was involved. Stanley wasn’t looking all that innocent. And, we had an inkling that Rachel knew something. I wrote a response to Meryl.
Hi Meryl, The last thing we want is to do is upset your parents. We’re pretty much wrapping up the case. We heard from some Cuttman staff and guests after I posted that message on the Facebook group. Turns out Trudy left of her own volition. She was going through a personal crisis and took off with a friend. We have a few lingering questions about why she left and some trouble she ran into years later, but we’re sure this has nothing to do with your parents. Best, Susan
I called Dad and recited the messages to him. “What do you think?”
“Well, you’re not exactly lying. But you’re pretty close to the line.”
“I’m rethinking our visit to Florida to talk to Rachel and Stanley. I say we leave them alone . . . for now. Focus on Scott.”
“Are you saying we keep our reservations but pay Scott a visit instead?”
“Yeah. Meryl didn’t mention Scott. It’s quite possible he has no idea the case has been resurrected. He’s somewhat estranged from the family and he doesn’t have a presence on social media. If he’s in the dark, that could work to our advantage.”
“Fine. But if we find out they are involved in some way—”
“Right. Then we’ll deal with it.”
I hit send, hoping my message would appease Meryl and her parents. In a way, I was kind of glad this happened. I thought questioning them at this stage was a bit premature. If they were involved in either Trudy’s disappearance or Ed’s murder, it was unlikely they were going to feel remorse and confess all of a sudden. We needed to know more before confronting them. Besides, Scott was the person who kept popping up, like a jack-in-the-box. Shove him down, crank the handle, and back up he sprung, over and over again. He thought his father killed Trudy. Why? He was seen furtively chatting with Trudy. Why? He was sent away that summer. Why? His initials appear in a letter Trudy wrote to her friend Sandra. Why? He argued with Ed and Trudy in 2007. Why? He was estranged from his parents. Again, why? Maybe, just maybe, an unannounced visit would rattle Scott enough to cough up some answers to these questions.
The Disappearance of Trudy Solomon Page 11