The Disappearance of Trudy Solomon

by Marcy McCreary

  When I stepped outside I spotted a folded piece of paper tucked under my windshield wiper. Ray leaving me another note, I assumed. I plucked it out and unfolded it.

  You won’t get away with murder

  I whipped my head around. Had this been here earlier the morning? I racked my brain trying to visualize if I saw the note when I peered out the window. No way. I would have seen it. Whoever stuck it there did it in the past hour. And managed to do it in daylight with me—alone—in the house. I refolded the paper and tossed it in the glove compartment.

  “WOULD YOU like some coffee?” Eleanor Campbell led us to her living room. “I just put on a fresh pot,” she added, to make sure we didn’t think it was an imposition to accept her offer.

  “I can always go for a cup of Joe,” Dad said. “Susan takes hers black. I like a little milk.”

  A birdcage in the corner of the room jailed two parakeets. The blue one perched on a swing, the yellow one paced sideways on a bar. Both squawking incessantly since we’d walked into the room. Eleanor motioned us toward a dark green velvet-upholstered Queen Anne couch, the armrest near the window faded to mint. Dad and I miscalculated the firmness of the cushions and quickly sank deep into the innards of the sofa.

  “Don’t worry, they’ll quiet down. My budgies get excited when visitors come around, which, unfortunately, is not very often,” Eleanor said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me for a moment, I will get the coffee.”

  “Susan, I think I’m gonna need your help getting out of this sofa,” Dad whispered. “And those birds are driving me fucking crazy.” His face transformed from a scowl to a smile when Eleanor reentered the room.

  She deftly balanced three mugs on a silver tray and set it on the coffee table in front of us. She handed one of the mugs to Dad, perhaps aware of his sunken predicament.

  Dad took a careful sip. “Coffee is very good. And your birds are quite lovely.”

  “Aren’t they? A birthday present from my sister a few years ago. Melopsittacus undulatus, or more commonly known as budgerigars. The blue one is Shirley and the yellow one is Laverne. Shirley knows a few words, but Laverne just sings. Right, Shirley?”

  “Right!” Shirley shrieked.

  “You’re such a pretty girl,” Eleanor said.

  “Pretty girl. Pretty girl,” Shirley mimicked.

  Dad’s eyebrows arched upward and his mouth formed a little o. “Well, I’ll be a son of gun. That’s something. That’s something, all right. So, Ms. Campbell—”

  “Please, call me Eleanor.” She touched her collarbone and batted her lashes.

  “Eleanor. Do you remember when we met, forty years ago? I was the lead detective on the Trudy Solomon case. I was here with my partner Sam.”

  “I do. I remember quite well. Haven’t lost my faculties yet. I’m eighty years old and manage just fine, thank you very much.”

  “Thank you!” Shirley chirped.

  Eleanor lowered her voice to a whisper and leaned in toward us. “I have to be careful what I say around Shirley. She repeats about fifteen words and not all of them are—how should I put this—rated G.” She batted her lashes again. Was this a tic or an attempt to flirt with Dad?

  Dad snorted, then cleared his throat. “Eleanor, I have a copy of your original statement if you’d like to read it,” he said, offering her the document. She took the paper and placed it in her lap. “You mention a woman who you said visited Trudy’s house twice, a few weeks before she disappeared.”

  “Yes, I remember that. Trudy asked me not to tell anyone about her, but I felt obligated to tell the police . . . in case she was tied to Trudy’s disappearance.”

  I pulled a sheet of paper from my bag—a printout of Tammy Resnick’s obituary. “Is this her?”

  “No. Definitely not her.”

  “How about this woman?” Dad handed Eleanor a photograph of a young Rachel he’d clipped from an old magazine article about the hotel during its heyday.

  Eleanor lifted her dangling pink-framed reading glasses, adjusted them on the end of her nose, and examined the photograph. “No, that’s not her.”

  “You sure? Take a second look.”

  Without looking at the photo, Eleanor said, “I am one hundred percent sure this is not the woman who visited Trudy. I would certainly remember a woman who looks this beautiful. Not that the other woman wasn’t attractive—she was, but not like this. The woman I remember seeing had lighter skin and straight blackish hair . . . like your color,” Eleanor said to me. “This woman has dark brown hair with bouncy waves,” she said, pointing to the picture.

  “Anything else you can recall about this woman?” Dad asked.

  “She was thin, but had an ample bosom. Oh, and she smoked. But who didn’t back then? On one of the visits she wore a blue-and-white-striped kerchief.”

  “How about her?” I asked, holding up a faded picture of Maxine. “Do you recall seeing her around?”

  “That’s Trudy’s friend, Maxine. As you can see, she is plump with stringy blonde hair. Not too attractive either. Obviously, not the mystery woman.”

  “And this guy. Have you ever seen him?” I handed her the sketch of Ed Resnick.

  Eleanor studied the sketch. “I’ve seen him, but not visiting Trudy. My brother George, God rest his soul, worked at Monticello Hospital, head of maintenance. This guy worked for him occasionally. I was at my brother’s house one day, and this guy came by to pick up a paycheck. I think his name was Ted . . . no, Ed.”

  “You’ve got some memory there, Eleanor,” Dad said.

  “That, my health, and these birds are what keep me in this house. My nephew wants me to move to Horizon Meadows or Lochmore Manor, sell the house. No siree. I plan to die here with my budgies. Not in some nursing home. And if my Laverne and Shirley go before I do, I’ll just get two more.”

  I knew Dad wanted to say something positive about Horizon Meadows, tell her she would be less lonely there, that it was not what she imagined, but he kept his mouth shut. He had a good rapport going with this woman and might need her assistance in the future to identify the woman who visited Trudy.

  “Would it be possible to speak with your brother about Ed?” I asked.

  “Afraid not. George died ten years ago. Heart attack. Left me his car though, that green Pontiac out there. Still runs.”

  “Saw that. A Pontiac Grand Am. They don’t make ’em like they used to,” Dad said. He leaned forward. “Did you gift or loan Trudy five thousand dollars?”

  Eleanor reached for her collarbone again and chuckled. “Oh my, no. I was lucky if I had a few hundred dollars in my bank account back then.”

  “Okay, well, we’ve taken up enough of your time,” Dad said, rocking slightly back and forth in an attempt to launch out of the couch. “You’ve been very helpful. Very.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to stay for lunch? I’ve got cold cuts and fresh bread in the fridge.” Again, her eyelashes fluttered. “I could make a few sandwiches.”

  Dad managed to get to his feet with a slight assist from me. “That’s very generous of you, Eleanor, but I’ve got to get back to Horizon Meadows. Promised my buddies I would join them for lunch today. And then I’ve got a billiards tournament this afternoon.”

  Maybe he was planting a seed in her mind, nudging her toward a less lonely life if she sold the house. But knowing Dad, he just couldn’t leave without defending his lifestyle.

  I SAT in my car and read the text messages Eldridge had sent while I was driving Dad back to Horizon Meadows. Mordecai Little would be driving up on Tuesday to give us access to the recorded files. He also spoke to three BLM members who were willing to provide character references and go on record about my work with the local BLM chapter and the community outreach programs I had organized. Every part of me was sweating, not just my hands. My heart was revved up. Not panic-attack level, but pretty cranked up. I rolled down the driver’s-side window a few inches in an attempt to clear the steamy windshield and windows.

  My phone
rang. “Unknown Number” flashed on the screen. “Hello, this is Susan,” I said hesitantly, expecting it to be one of those robocalls.

  “Hi Detective Ford. It’s Thomas.”

  Thomas? Did I know a Thomas? Did we interview someone named Thomas?

  Before I could ask ‘Thomas Who?’ he said, “Thomas Dillon. The guy living in your old bedroom.”

  “Oh, yes. Hi Thomas. What’s up?”

  “Your mom asked me to clean out your bedroom closet. Seems she’s been using it to store old stuff. But it started to overflow, so she wanted me to get rid of anything that was broken or of no future use. Perhaps sell some things on Craigslist. Anyway, once I got everything out of there, I found something of yours.”

  I tried to recall if I had left anything behind when I moved out in 1985. “Okay, what is it?”

  “It’s a diary. And I swear I didn’t read it. It’s locked, and there’s no key. It was lying flat on the corner of the shelf above the hanger rod. I didn’t want to toss it without your consent.”

  “Is it yellow with a fuzzy flower on the front?”

  “That’s the one.”

  I wanted to say, burn it. “I’ll be over later today to pick it up. And Thomas—”

  “Yes ma’am?”

  “Please don’t let my mother see it.”

  THOMAS HANDED me a pair of scissors and I cut the piece of cloth strap securing the lock.

  “Like a little time capsule,” he said.

  “A time capsule from hell,” I told him.

  “Seems you turned out okay, maybe a little burnt around the edges.”

  “Actually, I’m more like lava cake. Burning on the inside, soft and spongy on the outside.”

  Thomas nodded and smiled. “If you say so. Your mother should be back shortly if you want to stick around.”

  Should I stick around? Here was my chance to ask Thomas his thoughts on the Barnes case.

  “Unfortunately, I can’t wait around for her. Lots to do today. Oh, and no need to mention I was here.” I waved the diary like a tambourine. “Or that you gave me this.” I jogged toward my car, hastily putting distance between me and the conversation I should have had with Thomas.

  THE SLICED-OPEN, six by nine-inch, pale yellow, cloth-textured journal with a felt appliqué daisy affixed to its cover sat on the dining-room table, patiently waiting for me to remove my coat, hat, and gloves. I was less patient, and hurried to undress. I had been tempted to start reading it when I got into the car back at my mother’s house but thought better of it. Didn’t want Thomas to come out to the curb and ask what I was still doing there. Or worse, have Mom return from her errands and see me crying (or screaming) in her driveway. Not that I thought reading the diary would evoke either of these emotions, but better be safe than sorry.

  I probably wouldn’t even have started a diary if Dad hadn’t given me this one. He’d bought the diary soon after he moved out, April 2, 1978. That date was permanently etched on my brain like intricate carvings on a sperm whale’s tooth. When he presented the diary to me as a gift, he told me a police shrink had said it would be “a helpful way for me to work out my feelings about their separation.” I threw the diary in my desk drawer. About one month later, while searching for some stickers, I came across it. Lori had shared her diary with me the week before. Mostly musings about boys she liked, the disgruntled teachers who clearly had no business being in their chosen profession, and basement parties where kissing games were taking precedence over dancing and gossiping. If Lori kept a diary, I figured, then so should I. Once I had written a few entries, I could read my diary to her. It’s what best friends did.

  Although Dad bought me the journal as a cathartic exercise to calm my angst about their split, none of the entries between May 3, 1978, when I started writing, and June 1, 1978 made mention of either one of them. The first entry was a single paragraph about going to the movies with Lori to see Return from Witch Mountain and spotting Bonnie and Joe making out in the movie theater. All my entries in May were simply one or two paragraphs describing what other kids were doing. How I felt about these incidents was conspicuously absent—as if what I thought or felt didn’t matter. The first entry that had anything to do with my family appeared in early June.

  6/3/78

  * * *

  Good Morning Diary,

  Sorry I didn’t write last night. I was super tired. Yesterday I found out from Sharon that two Broadway shows are coming out as movies this year. They are Grease and The Wiz. Me and Lori already put it in our calendars to go on June 16th the day Grease opens. Mrs. Gold took the class to see Grease on Broadway last year and I have the album. I know every word to every song. Although Sharon told me that new songs were added to the movie. They better be good! Today is a half day at school. So I’m thinking it is going to be a good day.

  This day ended up sucking. My family is royally fucked up. They keep hinting at getting back together but I think Mom might be dating someone. She must have forgotten I had early release today. Sixth graders came to the school for a tour. Lori volunteered to be a tour guide but I didn’t want to be in the school when I didn’t have to be. So mom must have forgotten this. Like she forgets everything!!! So what happened is that I’m walking up the driveway and I see mom hugging this man on the front porch. They didn’t kiss or anything like that. From a distance he looked handsome but I didn’t get to see him up close because I hid in the bushes when he drove by. I waited fifteen minutes so my mom wouldn’t suspect I saw anything. Should I tell dad? I’ll decide tomorrow.

  Sharon. That must be Sharon Katz. Star of the school plays. Always with her nose in a book. I seemed to recall she went to Harvard. Or was it Yale? And, contrary to what I wrote about going to the movies with Lori, I was pretty sure it was Dad who took me to see Grease. I flipped to June sixteenth and there, in all caps, I wrote: “SAW GREASE WITH DAD. IT WAS GREAT! I LOVE THE NEW SONGS!” It was the only entry for the day. No reference to Lori or why our original plans fell through. I turned back to the June 3 entry. The first paragraph (like all the entries before it) was written in a neat cursive handwriting with carefully drawn letters tilting slightly to the right. In the second paragraph, the letters were bigger, rounder, and angrier. A mix of cursive and block script. Tilted left and right. A little hole pierced the page where a period should have been.

  What disturbed me most about this passage was that I had no recollection of the man on the porch. It seemed pretty traumatic at the time. Didn’t traumatic events stay with you? Or were these the types of unwelcome memories buried in the core of your brain, like crabs that burrowed into the sand to make themselves harder to capture?

  I flipped through the diary, scanning the entries for another reference to the man who hugged my mother. After leafing through movies I’d seen, parties I attended, friends I gossiped about, and a few arguments with my mother, I found another entry about this man.

  8/1/78

  * * *

  Dear Diary,

  Everything about this day sucked. I saw that guy again. The one mom hugged a few weeks ago. I never told dad about him because I got the feeling things were going better between mom and dad and I didn’t want to ruin things. I came home early from swimming at Lisa’s pool and they were talking in the kitchen. They didn’t see me and I didn’t go in but I could hear them whispering and laughing. And then mom told him to not worry, because he’ll never find out. What the hell!!!! And that isn’t even the worst of it. Me and Lori got into a huge fight today. She’s been hanging out with that bitch Marilyn. Marilyn’s dad is some big shot lawyer and her mom is a doctor so they have a ton of money. The two of them were going on and on about all the new clothes they were going to buy for eighth grade and they totally ignored me. Lori then told me she left me out of the conversation because she said my family doesn’t have enough money to buy the clothes they were planning on buying so what’s the use of me going with them to the mall. She said it would be like torture.

  Although I had no recoll
ection of the time I saw Mom hug that man back in July, this day, August 1, 1978, I suddenly and fully remembered. One of those deeply buried crabs clawed its way to the sand’s surface and I nabbed it. The fight with Lori at her pool. The overheard conversation in the kitchen. With this day firmly in my mind, I tried to picture the man. But he was seated at the table with his back toward me. And I, trying not to be seen, was crouched midway up the stairs out of their view. The conversation rising and falling, so I was only able to catch a few words here and there. And although I could not recall what Mom and that man discussed, the argument with Lori sharply crystalized in my mind. There we were, best friends, standing together at the starting line. On your mark, get set, go. What ensued was a drawn-out marathon, a series of slights and insults that would unfurl over a full year before we both reached the finish line. The end of our friendship (although I was pretty sure she reached the end before I reluctantly did). And this was the day it began—the day the starter’s pistol sounded—with the not-so-subtle jab at my lower socioeconomic status. Her remark, a kick to the gut. I grabbed my towel and hastily pulled my T-shirt over my bathing suit. As I stormed off, she yelled, “What, Suzie, what did I say? I was only trying to make it easier for you.” When I turned back, I saw Marilyn smirking. Her new friend Marilyn, and probably that girl Sharon, encroaching on our friendship like the moon slowly overtaking the sun during a total solar eclipse, until all I felt was darkness and stillness and a sense of foreboding. Did she really believe she was making life easier for me? Or was she deliberately sowing the seeds of our breakup, seeing an opportunity to climb the social ladder? And she climbed it, all right. By the time Lori was a junior, she was the third-most popular girl in high school, behind Marilyn Jones and Tracy Edgar. By senior year, Lori eclipsed Tracy for the number-two spot. And me, I remained midway on that ladder. Purgatory. Not weird enough or nerdy enough to fit in with the unpopular kids on the lower rungs. Not cool enough or rich enough to hang out with the jocks and theater kids on the higher rungs.