The Disappearance of Trudy Solomon

by Marcy McCreary

  I only knew the second woman. “Generous? What do you mean by that?”

  “When we first got married, she volunteered her time at the library and the high school. She actually wanted to become a librarian, but she never finished college, and then you came along. She continued to volunteer at those places, even organized their fundraisers. She also worked part-time over at Joe’s hardware store, so she could have what she called ‘her own spending money.’ And you know what she did with that money? Made sure fundraising goals were met. If a fundraiser was shy of its goal, she topped it off.”

  “Why don’t I remember any of this?”

  “It all came to an abrupt end when you were about five. If I had to pick a point in time, I would said she started drinking in the early seventies. Usually a glass—or two—of wine at dinner. Perhaps more at a party.” He swirled the last sip of coffee in his mug, then turned and signaled to the waitress who had winked at him. He leaned in closer to me, and whispered, “Depression wasn’t something people talked about back then. You self-medicated. Wine morphed into vodka. The time of day no longer mattered. I think she saw her life on a slow track to nowhere. But I was so steeped in work, I was oblivious until it was too late.”

  “Well, I gotta tell you, I wasn’t oblivious. It was pretty clear to me, even as a kid, that Mom had a drinking problem.” I threw my head back and exhaled. I didn't want to end up in a fight with Dad. “Why have you never told me any of this before?”

  “I don’t know. You never asked, for one. And it’s not something I like to talk about. I carry around some amount of guilt for how things turned out for her.”

  The waitress sidled up close to Dad. “Want another cup?”

  “Fill ’er up.”

  “You just let me know if you want more, honey.” The waitress flashed a flirtatious smile before leaving his side.

  “You should ask her out on a date,” I said.

  “The waitress?” he half laughed, half snorted. “Not my type. A little too . . . skinny for my taste,” he said, sliding his hands down the front of his chest.

  I grimaced and glanced around to see if anyone just saw him, but everyone around us was involved in their own conversations. “Um, okay, well, I wasn’t aware you had a type,” I said. “So, about Mom, I know this is a tough subject for both of us. But now that she might be getting herself help, I’m willing to meet her halfway. Get to a better place with her.”

  “I’m glad to hear that, Susan. Why the change of heart?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I’m seeing things in a whole new light these days. And a lot of that has to do with getting back in touch with the Roths . . . which, believe me, I never would have done if you didn’t strong-arm me into resurrecting the Solomon case.” My palms started to sweat—perhaps a Pavlovian response to mentioning the Roths, if I had to muster a guess. I grabbed a couple of napkins to absorb the moisture. “My conversations with them have been pretty mind-blowing. I really thought they were the perfect family. Sure, we had problems . . . but seems they are on a whole different level of dysfunction. And talking to Lori, hearing her perspective on our friendship, well, just proves the old adage that every story has two sides. I can’t totally erase from my mind all the times Mom made me feel like shit, but y’know, I’ll cop to the fact that I couldn't see past my own anger to walk a day in her shoes.”

  “Alcoholism is a disease, Susan. You know that.”

  “Knowing that doesn’t make it any easier to deal with her. But, like I said, I’m willing to try.”

  The waitress reappeared at Dad’s side. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

  “How about your phone number?” Dad said.

  She retrieved a scrap of paper from her apron pocket and scribbled down her number. “I thought you’d never ask,” she said as she shimmied away.

  “Really?”

  “What? You’re the one who suggested it.”

  I STARED at my two whiteboards. A few weeks ago, I’d moved Trudy’s picture from the Victim column to the Witnesses column. In her place, two other victims stared back at me: Renee Carter and Ed Resnick. Were these cases related? The jury was still out on that.

  For the moment, I just wanted to concentrate on the Trudy Solomon/Ed Resnick case. Have it straight in my head before chatting with the Roths at the party. The Witnesses column was crowded with all the people who had helped us piece together Trudy’s story. I was amazed that we were able to track down a few of the original witnesses and find new ones (hat tip to Dad). I had arranged the witnesses along a time line, starting with Rita Mayer, the hotel cocktail waitress who met Trudy a few years before she disappeared and provided us with background on Trudy and Ben. The timeline ended with Ray finding Trudy at an Alzheimer’s facility in Lowell, Massachusetts. In between—neighbors, friends, hotel staff, a hotel guest, a doctor, a nurse, a detective, and a nun.

  The Suspects column was less crowded. Who wanted Ed dead? Who had motive and opportunity? There was Stanley Roth, who threatened Trudy in 1978 and years later was forking over two grand a month to Ed. (And, according to his wife Rachel, he left the inn the day of the murder and was gone for the entire day.) There was Rachel Roth, who wanted to end the payments to Ed and Trudy when money got tight. (But she was in the Berkshires the day of the murder.) There was Scott Roth, who also knew Ed was demanding money from his parents and made an earlier attempt to squash it. (His alibi simply meant he didn’t take matters into his own hands, but he certainly made enough money to hire someone.) There was Ben Solomon, who might have exacted revenge on Ed for absconding with his wife. (As much I didn’t trust Ben, my instincts told me he truly didn’t know Ed, let alone Trudy’s whereabouts.) There was David Roth—if he was somehow involved in Renee's murder, perhaps he had a hand in this as well, helping his brother get rid of a problem. There was always the possibility of a robbery gone wrong—although the Waltham detective strongly disputed that line of thinking, as valuable items were left in the apartment.

  And, of course, Ed could have pissed off some unknown person.

  There was one more crazy theory. That it was Trudy. Both Ray and Dad thought it was cuckoo to pin this on her, but she had a history of emotional instability, she was the right height, had spats with Ed, and lied to her neighbor, Cynthia Lambert, claiming the argument with Scott was not about money, when clearly it was. Maybe Trudy was trying to convince Ed to stop blackmailing whoever he was blackmailing, and the argument escalated to a point where she felt threatened and grabbed the closest weapon she could find—the knife. Then she went shopping, came home, screamed. Highly implausible, but I had seen crazier shit.

  34

  Saturday, December 8, 2018

  ONE YEAR before they tied the proverbial knot, the youngest Roth sibling, Josh, and his boyfriend, Steven, bought a turn-of-the-century six-suite guest house in the Berkshires town of North Adams, an historic mill town (now a tourist draw) situated in the northwest corner of Massachusetts. Steven, a Culinary Institute of America-trained chef, ran the kitchen. Josh, with a degree in hospitality from Boston University, handled everything else. They got married on Saturday, July 19, 2008, at the historic inn. It was a close-knit friends-and-family affair, officiated by a local minister. (“Low key and joyful,” Lori said.) Three months later, a fire swept through the inn. Neither wanted to rebuild, so they plowed the insurance money into a twenty-room bed and breakfast in Brattleboro, Vermont. The existing inn (called the Brattle) had a so-so reputation on travel websites, so they renamed it Blueberry Hill Inn, and now, when you googled it or searched for it on TripAdvisor, it ranked as one of the top three places to stay in Vermont. They converted a barn on the property to a year-round event hall for weddings and whatnot. They also rebuilt a dilapidated smokehouse and sold cured meats as a side business.

  About an hour into our four-hour drive to Brattleboro, I rattled off this information to Ray.

  “You’re a fountain of knowledge,” Ray said. “How do you know all this stuff?”

&nb
sp; “Lori. She called to tell me how thrilled she was that I was coming.”

  “And you’re sure Scott is coming?”

  “Lori said he is. The brothers remained somewhat close. Lori said she doesn’t need Scott’s negativity in her life. My sense is that Meryl is the ‘let’s all try and get along’ sibling, but Lori said even Meryl thinks Scott is too harsh. Says he’s a grudge holder, mad at the world.”

  “Life’s too short. I agree with Lori.” Ray poked my left thigh. “I prefer to be around positive people. Spread love and good cheer.”

  “Is that why you became a cop?”

  “Yes! Because it’s our job to make peace in the valley and restore order to a troubled world.”

  “Really?”

  “What? That’s not why you became a cop?”

  “Always the comedian.” I poked his right thigh.

  I spun the radio dial, trying to find a music station after the one we were listening to fell out of range. But all I could find was a country music station (Ray nixed that), a conservative talk radio station (we both nixed that), and a classical music station (Ray nixed that as well, claiming it would make him sleepy).

  “Podcast?” I asked.

  “That true-crime one you like?”

  “Nope. This is another one, called Serial.”

  “Let it rip.”

  RAY HAD booked us a room at a nearby inn, The Stone Arch Lodge. Lori recommended it based on its proximity to the Blueberry Hill Inn and its reputation for incredible pancakes. I was surprised there was a room available a few days before the party, but as luck would have it, another couple (college friends of Josh’s) canceled that morning when their child came down with fifth disease (as reported to me by Lori when I told her we snagged a room). The party was scheduled to start at six o’clock, giving us a few hours to relax, shower, and strategize about how to cajole Scott. Pry out of him what he knew. We were eager to get our first glimpse of the feeble patriarch, Stanley Roth. I hoped to get some alone time with him—suss out his mental state and memory.

  With time to kill, I set off to explore the grounds and to check out the majestic stone arch that gave the inn its name. At check-in, the receptionist told us it served as a photographic backdrop for many brides and grooms. (“Couples have even gotten married under it,” she said.) I wandered over to the stone arch and ran my fingers along the edge of the interlocking marbled-gray rocks. It always amazed me how masons found exactly the right stones to construct these architectural marvels. At its center, the arch was about seven, maybe seven-and-a-half feet high. Plenty of clearance for even a very tall groom. I walked from one end to the other and counted out eight steps, heel to toe. Low stone walls jutted out from both sides of the arch and continued for about twenty or so feet, gently tapering off until they blended with the ground cover. I could see why couples would pick this spot for wedding photographs. Leafless, gangly branches loomed above. Vibrant evergreens, coated with a dusting of snow, in the foreground. A shiny frost carpeted the underbrush, shimmering slightly in the afternoon sun. Each season offering up its own charms. Flowers and budding bushes in the spring. Bright sun filtering through the treetops in summer. Canopies of colored leaves in the fall. With all the variations of shadow and light in this spot, you could probably take hundreds of photographs, and no two would ever be the same.

  I heard rustling behind me and turned around.

  “Hey, babe.”

  I handed Ray my phone. “Take a picture of me under the arch.”

  “We need to start getting ready,” he said, snapping a few photos.

  “Let me get a few of you.” A small puffy cloud blocked the sun, suddenly diminishing the light.

  “Hey, Ansel Adams, what are you waiting for?”

  When the sun reappeared, I snapped a few pictures of Ray.

  THE BARN twinkled. Trendy teardrop Edison bulbs hung from the rafters. String lights wound their way up the support beams. Christmas-tree lights were tucked into potted evergreens, illuminating the sharp needles. In the far corner of the barn, a string quartet was playing classical music. According to Lori, a DJ would be spinning seventies disco music after dinner. The parquet dance floor was currently occupied by mingling guests and white-jacketed servers who were passing out hors d'oeuvres and prosecco.

  Seating assignment cards were displayed on a misshapen table made of reclaimed wood situated at the front entrance of the barn. Ray Gorman & Susan Ford. Our names expertly calligraphed on the outside of the tented card. I flipped it open—Table 14. Tables 13 through 16 were lined up in the back row. Each round table accommodated six people. If everyone showed up, there would be ninety-six guests in attendance. I moved down to the other end of the card table to see if Scott had picked up his table assignment. Before I had a chance to look, I heard my name.

  “Suzie!”

  When I turned, I came face-to-face with her. “Lori!”

  We hugged fiercely, as though the four awful years in high school never existed.

  “Oh my! You haven’t changed a bit,” Lori said. “Well, maybe a little bit. But, damn, you look wonderful.”

  Lori had changed quite a bit. She’d put on about forty pounds, making her face rounder, more moon-shaped than I remembered. Her auburn hair dyed to frosted blonde. The long curls shorn, and in their place, a face-framing pixie hairdo. Pink eyeglasses, round and large, obscured the upper part of her face. She was tan, with deep wrinkles, the premature kind you get from overexposure to the sun. I had seen the changes on Facebook, but they were more pronounced in real life.

  “You look wonderful too.” I said. That wasn’t a lie. Yes, she had changed, and quite dramatically. But she really did look wonderful. The extra weight, the round face, the blonde hair, the funky glasses, the tan, even the wrinkles—it all worked on her. I suddenly felt Ray’s presence at my side. “Lori, this is Ray. Ray, this is Lori.”

  They shook hands and, in unison, said hi. Ray added, “Happy birthday.”

  “Liam is over by the bar. I can introduce you guys later.” Lori turned to Ray. “Do you mind if I steal Suzie for a bit?”

  “Go ahead. Enjoy, Suzie, I—”

  Before he could finish his sentence, she hooked my arm and led me to the front tables near the string quartet.

  “Look who I found,” Lori said.

  Josh stood up from his seat at Table 1 and stared at me for a few minutes. “Suzie Ford?”

  “This is the surprise guest I was telling you about.”

  “So, you’re the reason Lori and Meryl insisted on being in charge of table seating.”

  Unlike Lori, Josh hadn’t changed all that much since I last saw him, which would probably be when I left for college in the early eighties. He was still slim. He held onto his hair, with slight receding at the temples. Just a few wisps of gray visible. The wire-frame glasses were similar to the ones he wore as a teenager. He was a cute kid; he had grown into quite a handsome man.

  “I’m going to rescue Liam from my mother. If you’ll excuse me for a minute.”

  I watched as Lori made her way to the bar and spotted Rachel talking to an older gentleman, easily twenty years older than us. Liam, I presumed.

  “So, Suzie. What are you up to these days?” Josh asked.

  I decided to let the whole Suzie thing slide. I knew it was bound to happen. On some level, it was actually endearing. “Living in Bethel. I’m a police detective.”

  “Holy shit. Wow. Your dad was a cop, right?”

  “Detective. Will Ford.”

  “Yeah. Yeah. I remember him. Nice guy. Still alive?”

  “Alive and kicking. Enjoying his retirement.”

  “And your mom?”

  “Very much alive. And very much kicking. And you? How’s life?”

  “Crazy, but I love it. I’m living what I dreamed. Can’t wish for anything more than that.”

  “And your family? I heard it’s been a while since you’ve all been together.”

  “Ten and a half years, to be exact—when
Steven and I got married. Those days we were more like the Ewings than the Brady Bunch. I’m not sure things have improved much.”

  “Lori filled me in on some of the family drama. You were living in Massachusetts at the time, right?”

  “Yeah. We were running a small inn in the Berkshires. It’s where we got married. The wedding was a bit of a fiasco. Scott wasn’t speaking to my father. Still isn’t for that matter. Lori wasn’t speaking to Scott. And Meryl was pissed because Scott bolted from the reception before the toast to catch a plane to some dealership conference.” He paused to catch his breath.

  I nodded. This bit of information lined up with what Detective Flannery had told us. Scott couldn’t have stabbed Ed because he was headed to Las Vegas at the time.

  Josh continued, “I was in a bit of a rift with my mother. And my father had not exactly warmed to the idea of a gay wedding. And then Dad got ill. Blamed the food—although no one else got sick. But it might have been a blessing in disguise. Steven insisted on taking care of him that day, and they bonded a bit. Over baseball, no less. Red Sox versus Mariners. Still fresh in my mind, I guess.”

  “This happened the day after the wedding?”

  “Yeah. July twentieth.”

  “So your dad was stuck at the inn that entire day?”

  “With his head in the toilet.”

  “And your mom. Did she help out?”

  Josh snorted. “Claimed she had to meet a friend in Boston. Left early that morning and we didn’t see her again until later that night.”

  I scanned the bar area looking for Rachel. Instead, I saw Lori talking to Ray. Rachel had lied about her husband having gone to see Ed that day. And with such conviction. I was still kicking for myself for not pushing her harder when we had the chance. I had to keep reminding myself I wasn't thirteen years old and she no longer had enormous power over me—but it somehow still felt that way. I had a few more questions for Josh, but thought better of conducting an inquisition while guests milled around us. There would be time for that.