“There’s another possibility,” Dad chimed in. “Perhaps it was Rachel pulling the strings. Especially if she knew Stanley had a child with another woman.”
I was leaning toward Dad’s theory. “Rachel could have convinced David to help her get rid of this problem. A kid who would one day want a share of the inheritance. A kid that wasn’t hers.”
“Also, we shouldn’t rule out that it might have been both of them, together, pressuring David,” Ray added.
“Too bad Renee’s landlord isn’t still alive,” I said. “We could have asked her if she’d seen any of the Roths in Renee’s orbit.”
“There might be another avenue we haven’t explored,” Dad said. “Renee lived on the first floor of a duplex and the landlord lived upstairs. She had a son, who I believe was living with her at the time. He might have seen the Roths lurking about. He was late teens, early twenties back in seventy-seven, so he would be in his late sixties, early seventies now.” Dad tapped his right cheekbone. A habit when he was trying to remember something. “Karl. Karl Houser.”
“I’ll run that down,” Ray said.
“That’s the problem with really old cold cases,” I said. “Everyone is dead. Or too old to remember anything. Like, I wish we could talk to your dad.”
“Go ahead. Talk to him,” Meryl said. “I’m not interfering in your investigation anymore.”
“This has nothing to do with you granting permission. I’m not sure how much he can tell us based on his limited mental capacity.”
“His limited mental capacity?”
“Your mom said he had a stroke and his memory is shot to hell.”
Meryl and Lori squinted at each other, eyebrows knit.
“Jesus Christ.” Lori snorted. “What a bunch of malarkey.”
“He had a small stroke a few years ago. He slurs a bit. Hard of hearing too. But his memory is just fine,” Meryl said.
“Why is he in a wheelchair?” Dad asked.
“He fractured his ankle a few weeks ago,” Meryl said. “He’s milking it to get my mother to do his bidding.”
Dad twisted around to face me and raised an eyebrow. He was definitely thinking the same thing I was: it was time to have another chat with the Roths.
But this time . . . the kid gloves were coming off.
36
Tuesday, December 11, 2018
Ray swaggered over to my desk. “Got a line on Karl Houser. Get this . . . he was a narcotics officer on Long Island.”
“Was? Is he dead?”
“Retired. Agreed to a phone call with us in fifteen minutes. We’re just emailing him some photographs of Rachel, Stanley, David, Ben, Lenny, and Panda. We’ll see if he recognizes any of them. You’re welcome to join us.”
Just try and stop me.
After introductions, Ray briefed Karl on the Renee Carter case.
“Did you get my email?” Ray asked. “The pictures?”
“Got ’em. I’m lookin’ at ’em now.”
“Do you remember seeing any of these people visiting Renee?”
“The guy with the long hair, definitely,” Karl said, referring to Lenny. “I think he was a customer of hers. Although, you rarely saw johns around. I think she used one of the motels up on Route seventeen. So maybe they were just friends. Those four other guys don’t look familiar.”
“How about the woman?”
“I’ve never seen her,” Karl said, referring to Rachel. “And I’m pretty sure I would remember someone who looked like her. But there was another woman who came by quite a few times.”
“Hold on,” Ray said. “Emailing you another photo now.” He sent Karl a picture of Trudy.
“No. Not her. The woman I remember was kinda heavy. Probably midthirties. Not too attractive. Had a mole on her chin. The kind where hair grows out of it. Like I said, not too attractive.”
“Do you remember when you saw them together?”
“Renee went missing in seventy-seven, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I was taking classes at Orange County Community that year. I would have to say around spring break, when I was home.”
“You said you saw the woman with the mole a few times. Can you be more specific?”
“I would say three or four times over a two-week period.”
“Were you interviewed by the cops back then? After Renee disappeared?”
“No, but the cops spoke to my mom. Everyone was under the impression she just up and moved away. Not exactly stellar police work, huh?”
Good thing Dad wasn’t on this call to hear that remark. Ray ignored the barb and asked, “Did it strike you odd that she just left without telling a soul?”
“Not really. She told me she was coming into some money—an inheritance she said—and couldn’t get out of this town fast enough.”
Ray asked Karl to contact him if he thought of anything else. And like that, we were back to square one.
“A woman with a mole. Well, that narrows it down,” I said sarcastically. “Think she has something to do with Renee’s murder?”
“Could be a woman who was buying or selling a baby. Perhaps a friend or fellow prostitute.” Ray said. “I’ll have that rookie page through prostitute mug shots from back then. See if he can find a woman with a hairy mole on her chin.”
“THE SILVER lining in all this is that it’s given us a chance to get reacquainted,” Lori said as she rearranged the pillow on my sofa to better support her back. She had texted me around 3:00, shortly after the phone call with Karl Houser, and asked if I would be interested in getting together. Just the two of us, to “talk things through.”
I handed Lori a glass of chardonnay and sat next to her.
“Cheers!” Lori exclaimed, clinking her glass to mine. “To renewed friendships.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
We sat quietly for a few minutes, each nearly daring the other to speak first about the revelations of the last few days. As a trained interrogator I had a tendency to remain silent, create an air of discomfort that occurs in the silence, forcing the other person to blurt something out when the quiet becomes unbearable. But in this instance, I was just trying to think of the right thing to say . . . to sound more like a friend with a shoulder to lean on than a cop with an itch to solve a case.
“What will happen to my parents if they are involved in either Ed’s or Renee’s murders?”
“Well, we are not even sure they had a hand in Renee’s murder. David, your uncle, certainly could have acted on his own for reasons unknown. As for Ed’s murder: well, there is certainly a lot of circumstantial evidence implicating your mother. But without hard evidence and witnesses, it will be awfully hard to mount a case against her.”
“What about Trudy’s rape?”
“Even if your brother is willing to provide testimony against your father, without Trudy’s statement and evidence of assault, your dad could assert consent. He can even claim that someone else raped her and he was merely comforting Trudy when Scott saw him leave the room. Now, if we found the twins, we could, at the very least, prove he did indeed have . . . have sex with her. But those records are sealed. Which was a pretty common practice back then.”
“So now what? You’re going to confront my parents with what you know? See if you can get some answers? Goad them into a confession?”
I downed the rest of my wine. I thought about refilling it, but instead put my empty glass on the coaster in front of me. “It’s a long shot, but yeah. And I’m probably the last person who should be interrogating your mom. Every time I talk to her I feel like my thirteen-year-old self. Rachel—the glamorous and wealthy matriarch of the Roth clan—honoring me with a word or two. At least that’s how I perceived things when we were growing up.”
“And that’s exactly what she wanted you to see. What she wanted the world to see. But there were two Rachel Roths. The public-facing Rachel—poised, gregarious, generous. And the private-facing Rachel—manipulative, duplicitous, selfish.” L
ori’s lower lip quivered. She gnawed at it gently. “The one thing both Rachels had in common was that they were intimidating.”
“Yeah, to say I felt like a tiny gnat in her presence is not an exaggeration. You just respected someone like her. Like, she could do no wrong.”
“Oh, she did plenty wrong. But I was blind to it myself until my freshman year in college, when I was no longer in her orbit. Not being around her opened my eyes. And Meryl was kind of right . . . I chose not to see. It made life easier.”
“I just had it in my head that Rachel was this doting, attentive mom—obviously, I had no idea what was going on behind the scenes.”
“No one did.” Lori scooted forward and set her now empty wineglass on the coffee table next to mine. We sat silently for a few minutes.
Lori slapped her palms on her thighs. “Hey! Before I forget . . . I have the photos you gave Meryl for her trip-down-memory-lane display—they’re in the car. Besides, I could use some air. I’m not much of a drinker these days, and that tall glass of wine went right to my head.”
As we walked over to the car, Lori linked her arm in mine. I was barely inebriated, but felt light and giddy. We broke into a skip and giggled like preteens. She flung open the rear door and the dome light illuminated the posters leaning against the backseat.
“Are those Meryl’s ancestry posters from the party?”
“Yeah. She was going to bring them to the inn and give them to my parents.”
“I never did get to look at them. Mind if I take a peek?”
“Be my guest.”
I leaned into the car and pulled one out. Lori activated the flashlight on her phone and illuminated the poster.
“I remember these boys. Your cousins, right?”
“Yup. My mother’s sister’s kids, Matt and Andrew. My aunt died a few years ago, but they came to the party.”
“Oh my, who is this character with the handlebar mustache and monocle?”
“Ha! He was a character all right. That’s my grandfather’s brother, Isaac Cuttman.
“When was this one taken, the four of you by the pool?”
“Hmmm, probably seventy-eight . . . before my boobs exploded.”
I scanned the pictures. “Meryl did such a great job with—” I leaned in closer and pointed at a woman on the poster. “Who is this?”
Lori shone the flashlight directly where my finger was pointing. She squinted, then said, “My Aunt Diane, David’s wife. Why?”
37
Wednesday, December 12, 2018
DIANE ROTH was still alive, living in Goshen, New York. Just thirty miles south of Monticello. As this was Ray and Marty’s case, my presence was simply to observe, listen, and ascertain whether Renee’s murder was connected to Trudy’s disappearance.
Diane led us into her living room. The room was sparse with cheap Scandinavian furniture positioned willy-nilly, as though we had interrupted her while she was rearranging the pieces. The blinds were nearly drawn, forcing the intruding sunlight downward onto the cream-colored carpet and creating a lined pattern—a stark contrast between shadow and light, reminiscent of the art direction in an Alfred Hitchcock film.
“Man, I was wondering when you’d be knocking at my door. Took you this long, heh?” Diane slid out from her forearm crutches and slowly lowered herself onto a glider recliner. “MS. A bitch of a disease.” She stretched out her legs and moaned. “Sit. Sit. Over there,” she said pointing toward the couch.
“So you know why we’re here?” Ray asked as he lowered himself onto one corner of the couch. Marty and I squeezed in next to him. The futon couch felt as though it would collapse under our combined weight.
“I read you found Renee’s body. I figured it was only a matter of time until you came to question me.”
“Renee’s landlord’s son mentioned you hanging around the duplex,” Ray said. “We came here hoping you had some information that could help us with our investigation. Were you friends with her?”
Both of her unplucked eyebrows rose in unison and her thin lips parted, forming a little o. I couldn’t quite discern if her facial expression was a sign of confusion or surprise. “Friends . . . with her? Is that what the landlord’s son said?”
“He simply mentioned you came around a few times,” Ray said. “Well, he didn’t actually know who you were. He described you and we found a picture of you among the Roths’ family pictures.”
“Ha! I bet the mole gave me away. Shoulda had it removed years ago. So three of ya here to question me. Seems overkill. I ain’t running nowhere, that’s for sure.” Diane patted her crutches. “Well, you caught me at a grand time. I’m in a confessing mood. I’m not long for this earth, and it’s time for a cleanse, so they say. Right? I was even thinking of coming to see you when I heard about Renee’s body surfacing. You just saved me a trip up to Monticello. So where to start?”
“The beginning is always a good place,” Marty said with a wink and a quick smile. “Just lay it out for us.”
“My husband was a bastard. B-A-S-T-A-R-D. His brother, Stanley, even worse. Peas in a fucking pod, those two. But you know who I really couldn’t stand? Rachel. The high and mighty, Rachel Cuttman. Ha! Y’know what I called her? Rachel Cuntman.” She snickered. “I’m sorry, am I offending you?”
Ray shifted and knocked my shoulder. “It’ll take a lot more than swear words to offend us,” Ray said with a forced laugh.
“A little color commentary never hurts, am I right?”
“Right, you just tell it like you want to,” I chimed in. “All we want to know is how Renee ended up with Stanley's baby.”
“Stanley’s baby?”
Ray and I exchanged glances.
“That screaming bundle of joy wasn’t Stanley's baby.” She stared at us as if we were crazy. “I thought that’s why you were here. Cuz you figured out that it was my deadbeat hubby who spawned that kid.”
“David’s child? How can that—” I clapped my hands, turned to Ray, and saw an expression I can only imagine was similar to mine.
38
Thursday, December 13, 2018
DAD, RAY, and I formed a semicircle around the fireplace in the parlor of the Blueberry Hill Inn. I was not sure if my hands were sweating from the roaring fire or the looming inquisition.
Josh emerged from the dining room. “They’re seated. Meryl said you should go in.” Josh hastily retreated to the kitchen. Last night he told Meryl he didn’t have the stomach to be part of this confrontation.
Stanley was at the head of the table, slumped in his wheelchair. His outdated necktie was askew and mismatched with his shirt, a poor choice perhaps made by Rachel to humiliate him. He lifted his head slightly and scowled as we entered the room. Lori twisted around in her chair and gave a subtle nod. Meryl wore a Zen-like calm, perhaps resigned to the fact that her parents were due for a reckoning. Rachel chewed at her lower lip and fingered the silverware. Her expression changed from surprised to pissed in a matter of seconds.
“What’s going on?” she said, removing the napkin from her lap and tossing it on the plate. She moved forward in her seat, about to stand.
Meryl put her hand on her mother’s forearm and, in a tone that would freeze water, said, “No one is going anywhere until we get some issues cleared up. Please sit, Mother.” Rachel settled back into her chair.
Stanley tried to roll back, but he failed to release the brake, and remained motionless. “What in cra-sha is gowin on here?”
“It’s cre-a-tion, Stanley. Cre. A. Tion,” Rachel admonished. “Jesus Christ, Meryl. Can’t you see you are upsetting your father?” Rachel picked up the linen napkin, smoothed it out, and placed it back on her lap. She leaned forward and whispered to Dad, “Stanley had a stroke recently. He slurs his words when he is upset.”
Dad leaned forward in his chair. “Rachel, why did you tell us that Stanley was incapacitated?”
“Are we actually going to be served lunch or is the idea to starve us until we answer your inane qu
estions?”
“Mom, Josh prepared sandwiches. We all have a few questions we want answered, that’s all.”
“What is this? Gang-up-on-your-parents day?” Rachel looked around. “Where is Josh? I’m feeling lightheaded. I need to eat.”
“Mom, answer Will’s question. Why did you tell them Dad was mentally impaired?”
“Well, he is. Look at him, for goodness sake.”
All heads swiveled toward Stanley.
“For the wuv of gawd, Rachel. What the hell is gowin on here?”
A waiter entered the dining room with a platter of sandwiches and set it down in the center of the table. A waitress, carrying bowls of potato salad and coleslaw, squeezed between Dad and Ray and placed the side dishes in front of them.
“Can I have an iced tea, dear?” Rachel said to the waitress.
“I’ll bring out a pitcher, ma’am.”
“Well, isn’t this lovely,” Rachel said, examining the sandwiches. She picked up a roast beef sandwich. “Dig in everyone. This might be our last meal together for a while,” she mused without a hint of irony.
“Does this have to do with what happened at the parhy?” Stanley shouted. “Scott’s outbursht?” He shooed away the server hovering over his shoulder, nearly knocking the pitcher of iced tea out of her hand. She retreated to the corner of the room.
“Now, now, Stanley. Settle down. You know what the doctor said about your blood pressure. Do you want the roast beef or the turkey?” Without waiting for a reply, Rachel placed a turkey sandwich on his plate. She picked up the spoon buried in the potato salad and plopped a dollop on Stanley’s plate. “No coleslaw for you. You know it won’t agree with you later.”
“Mr. Roth, we are investigating several—”
“Who the hell are you?” Spittle formed in the corner crease between Stanley’s upper and lower lips.
The Disappearance of Trudy Solomon Page 27