The Disappearance of Trudy Solomon

by Marcy McCreary

  I nodded.

  “That’s hers. Her initials are on the bottom right.”

  “Did you know Ed was extorting money from Stanley and was murdered because of it? That Trudy ended up in a mental hospital with early-onset Alzheimer's?”

  “I never knew about the money thing.” She picked up on my skepticism and quickly added, “Cross my heart. I mean, I knew Ed was murdered, but had no idea about the extortion scheme. When I didn’t hear from them for a while, I called a neighbor Trudy had mentioned in one of her letters—luckily back then everyone had a landline and a telephone listing. Anyway, this neighbor told me of the murder. But she didn't know what happened to Trudy. So I called Ed's sister, Naomi. Told her I was an old friend of Ed's and Trudy’s and she filled me in.”

  “Why did you keep this from Dad?” I threw up my hands and they landed with a crash on the table.

  She jolted back slightly, and brought her hand to her heart. “For a whole host of reasons. One of them being that I didn't think he would have been all that keen on me giving five grand to a couple on the run forty years ago. Especially because I kept complaining I needed more child support.”

  “I think you're wrong about that.”

  “Do you, now? What makes you an authority on that subject?”

  “Something he said to me recently. One of the things he admired about you was your generosity.”

  She chortled. “Yeah? He said that? Well, it would have been nice if he said these things to me once in a while.”

  “Maybe he did. You have to admit you were out of it quite a bit those days.”

  “Well, it wasn't just the money. I know your Dad. He would have pressured Trudy to pursue a rape charge. He would have loved to have nailed Stanley, but at whose expense? She would have suffered more.”

  “So why keep up the charade? Why didn’t you say anything after Ed’s death? Why didn't you say anything when we reopened the case?” With each question, my voice boomed louder and my palms got wetter. “Do you really think he would still be miffed over the five thousand dollars you gave them? And Trudy probably . . . hopefully, has no recollection of the rape.”

  She reached for the pack of cigarettes, opened the lid, and pulled one out. “I was afraid your father would never speak to me again.”

  I could certainly understand her thinking that. Some part of me entertained the idea of keeping this from him. He was helping Mom again. She was going to AA meetings. And they were getting up there in age. They would need each other. It was not far-fetched to believe he wouldn’t speak to her again. He might never forgive her. This case consumed him back then. And it had made him feel like a failure.

  “So, how exactly did this plan work?”

  “It was all pretty simple.” Mom gazed down at the kerchief. “A week or so before they left, I paid a visit to Trudy to give her the cash.”

  “A neighbor saw you. She described the blue-and-white headscarf,” I said, pointing at it.

  “The woman with the parrots?”

  “Budgies.”

  “Budgies?”

  “They're called budgies.”

  “If you say so. Anyway, a guy Ed worked for, this George Campbell fellow, waited for Trudy to get out of Ben’s car. Once Ben was gone, he made sure no one else was around, and picked up Trudy. He later reported to me that Max Whittier, y’know, the old postmaster, was in the parking lot at the time, but he was pretty sure Max didn't spot him.”

  “He didn’t. He was interviewed in 1978—claimed to have seen Ben drop Trudy off and drive away. But he didn't see anyone else lurking about.”

  “George worked at the hospital, in maintenance, so even if someone saw him there it wouldn’t be odd. Anyway, she got in his car, and the rest—as they say—is history.” She brought the cigarette to her lips, lit it, and inhaled deeply. “Are you going to tell him?”

  “Dad?” I paused, then put my hand on hers. “No. You are.”

  Epilogue

  June 10, 2019

  EVELYN WORE her dark curly hair short. Vivian wore her dark curly hair long. This was the only way to tell them apart. Trudy sat at the head of the picnic table, flanked by the twins. Scott and Meryl were seated beside Evelyn. Lori and Josh facing them. Dad, Jake, and I sat in white Adirondack chairs surrounding them.

  Meryl arranged this gathering after I had found the twins, which turned out to be surprisingly easy. I ran both Trudy’s and Stanley’s DNA through our system and got a match. The girls were part of a New York State police DNA project to help forensic experts discern differences in DNA should a twin get nabbed for a crime and try to pin it on their sibling (or fog the courtroom with an argument of reasonable doubt). They claimed they did it for the money, but also thought it would be fun.

  They grew up on Long Island. Their mother was an elementary school teacher. Their father a sales executive at a printing press. (“A pretty ordinary life,” Evelyn said.) They knew they were adopted from an early age. (“We had each other,” Vivian said. “I think that had a role in curtailing our desire to find our birth parents.”) When I contacted them, they were immediately curious but a bit reticent. Clearly, they weren’t going to do this unless they both agreed. (“I’m game if Vivian is game,” Evelyn said.)

  It was Scott who suggested this reunion to Meryl. Which definitely surprised me. Meryl told me that after Scott finally confessed at the party, he yearned for the family to find a way to heal. At first, it was simply going to be a gathering of the siblings—whole and half—at a restaurant in the city. But when the twins mentioned to Meryl they were curious about Trudy, she contacted the memory care facility to see if there was a way to have a get-together on their grounds. (“We have picnic tables on the back lawn,” the director informed her.) Lori was the only holdout, until her daughter persuaded her to come. Lori said she would only come if I made an appearance.

  So here I sat with the Roth and Solomon clan, listening to them catch each other up on their lives. Trudy didn’t speak. But she was nodding and smiling and laughing.

  My phone, facedown on the arm of the Adirondack chair, vibrated. I flipped it to face me. The word “Mom” splashed across the screen as it continued to vibrate. I let it go to voice mail, although I was pretty sure she wouldn’t leave a message. Who did these days? Besides, if it was urgent she would text me. I glanced over at Dad and smiled. He still had no idea. Once in a while, Ray brought it up. (“I don’t know, Susan, this secret can explode in your face,” he warned.) Mom said she needed more time. She promised she would tell Dad everything once she hit her six-month sobriety mark—her self-imposed deadline shortly approaching. She had stuck to her promise to attend AA meetings, and although I couldn’t be with her twenty-four seven, I was well versed enough in the signs to know she was on a path to sobriety. Whether that path was smoothly paved or littered with rocks was hard to tell, but at least she was on it.

  Trudy

  The air smells sweet, Trudy thought. Blades of cut grass carpeted the lawn around the picnic table. She breathed in deeply. And smiled. She looked around the table at the guests assembled before her.

  “Hello,” she muttered, mostly to herself.

  The women on either side of her looked alike. But different. As they spoke, Trudy moved her head as if she was watching a tennis match. They finished each other’s sentences.

  She stared at Scott. I know him, she thought. She squeezed her eyes tight trying to surface a memory, but all she got was a good feeling. She decided that was good enough.

  The other two women and the younger man sitting at the table were complete strangers, but they all seemed to resemble each other in some way. She couldn’t even conjure up a feeling about them. But she loved listening to them chatter. Chatter. Chatter. What a lovely day!

  The very tall gentleman perched on the edge of the Adirondack chair looked vaguely familiar. He said his name was Jake. Or was it Jack? She knew she should keep a secret about him. Something about bowling. Maybe.

  When the older man in th
e white chair spoke, everyone turned toward him. Then laughed. The dark-haired woman sitting next to him slapped him playfully on the arm.

  Oh what a day! She clapped her hands together. The guests turned their attention back to her. She tried to speak, but the words sat still on her tongue. This is best day of my life, she thought.

  Acknowledgments

  There are so many wonderful people who helped me bring The Disappearance of Trudy Solomon to life.

  This book might have never seen the light of day if it wasn’t for PitMad, a quarterly Twitter contest for authors to pitch their novels to agents and editors. Helga Schier, editor at CamCat Publishing, “liked” my 280-character query and requested the manuscript. I knew from our first correspondence that Helga totally got my story and would push me to make it as good as it could possibly be. She suggested ways to vastly improve the plot lines, encouraging me to ratchet up the fraught dynamics of a dysfunctional family. I couldn’t have asked for a more insightful and imaginative editor.

  The folks at CamCat Publishing are a dedicated bunch, who are deeply invested in their authors’ success. Thank you to Sue Arroyo and Laura Wooffitt for your tireless effort in getting my novel into libraries, on bookstore shelves and e-commerce platforms. Thank you Maryann Appel for wrapping my words in your artful design of a time-worn hotel hallway at the fictional Cuttman Hotel.

  Thank you to my early readers and beta readers: Patti Daboosh, Shelly Strickler, Sari Breuer, Peter Dill, Vickie Baumwald, Mia Rosenberg, Jade Rosenberg, Louise Smith, Arlene Weinstock, Stacie Spencer, Lauri Kahleifeh, Alissa Locke, Marie Joyce, and Karyn Anastasio. Your critiques were invaluable, many of which you will find incorporated into the novel.

  2020 was a tough year to write and edit a book. There were plenty of distractions: a global pandemic, the presidential election, social unrest and protests. It’s hard to stay focused when you are doom scrolling on Twitter between chapters. But that’s where my family comes in. When the world around you feels like it’s coming apart at the seams, these are the people I can count on to make me feel secure and loved: my parents, Larry and Shelly Strickler, my sisters, Karyn Anastasio and Sari Breuer, my daughters and stepdaughters, Hayley Dill, Taylor Dill, Molly McCreary, and Hannah McCreary. (So thank you Zoom and FaceTime).

  I dedicated this book to my dad, Larry Strickler. He was the consummate tummler at both the Hotel Brickman (1965–1986) and Kutsher’s Country Club (1987–2013). The Hotel Brickman was my summer home away from home from 1965 until 1982. It truly was “the time of my life.” I knew I wanted to write a story in this setting, but the question became . . . what story/what era . . . A coming of age? A romance? A memoir? Then, in 2017, I came across an article about a woman (a coffee-shop waitress at one of the hotels) who disappeared from the area in the midseventies and was found forty years later in an Alzheimer’s facility (in Massachusetts) through the fluke of a social security number search by a detective. She was unable to tell the detective what had happened to her in the intervening years. That was my eureka moment. I was intrigued by the idea of fictionalizing this woman’s story—filling in the forty-year gap between disappearing and being found. Throw in a father-daughter detective team and I knew I had my story.

  My husband, Lew McCreary, a brilliant writer and editor in his own right, was my mentor and writing coach. Whenever I read a passage out loud to him, his response would inevitably be, “There’s a way to make that sharper.” And of course, he was right. Lew, there is not enough space in the acknowledgments section to describe how much I love you. So I will not gush all over these pages but simply let you know that you are the best husband in the world (“Is that too cliché?” I would ask. He would say, “Yes, you can do better.” My response, this time: “Well, too bad, I’m keeping it in.”)

  For Further Discussion

  This novel plays on the changes that afflicted a rather distinct geographical area. Do you think the demise of the Catskill resort area affected the characters and story? How?

  Did the socioeconomic divide between hotel owners and workers (and townspeople) play a role in Trudy’s disappearance?

  Was Susan justified in using deadly force during the drug deal? Does unconscious bias play a role in behavior toward minorities/POC?

  How did Susan and Lori perceive each other’s lives and how did that make them feel about their own lives? How did it affect their relationship?

  For someone who has lived a traumatic life, is Alzheimer’s a blessing or a curse?

  How do you feel about Vera’s betrayal of Will? Should Will forgive her? Or are some things unforgivable?

  Is it possible to recover from a no-holds-barred outing of secrets in which the dereliction of family duties is exposed for all its ugliness?

  Susan flirted with disappearing and it was a secret desire of her mother’s as well. Were they jealous of what Trudy actually did? Do you ever think of just disappearing, starting a new life where no one knows you and you get a clean slate? Do you think that there are quite a few people who harbor fantasies about running away and becoming someone else?

  Even though Susan perceived Ray’s family as “perfect,” it was filled with eccentricities. Is there really a “perfect” or “ideal” family?

  Susan is a procrastinator, putting off the inevitable in both small ways (repairs needed around the house) and big ways (talking with Thomas, meeting with Rachel/Stanley). How does this character trait get in the way of the investigation?

  About the Author

  Marcy McCreary grew up in Brooklyn, New York, and moved to the Boston area after graduating from George Washington University with a B.A. in American Literature and Political Science. With little interest in pursuing a career in politics, Marcy stumbled into the marketing communications field. For twenty-five years, she occupied marketing and sales roles at various magazine publishing companies (Cook's Illustrated, Sky & Telescope, CIO, Technology Review) and content marketing agencies.

  When laid off from a job in 2016 and looking for something to do to keep busy and challenged, Marcy decided to write a novel, something she had been itching to do for years. Marcy’s novel The Deeper You Dig was self-published in April 2020 after relentless badgering from friends and family to make it available in book form. Soon after typing The End on that book, she started writing The Disappearance of Trudy Solomon.

  With two daughters and two stepdaughters living in four different cities (Los Angeles, Nashville, Madison, Seattle), Marcy spends a lot of time on airplanes crisscrossing the country. The ocean is her happy place, so she lives at the seaside in Hull and Nantucket, Massachusetts, with her husband, Lew, and black lab, Chloe.

  If you enjoyed Marcy McCreary’s

  The Disappearance of Trudy Solomon,

  you’ll enjoy

  The Ghosts of Thorwald Place

  by Helen Power

  * * *

  The Ghosts of Thorwald Place

  by Helen Power

  “I think he’s going to kill me.” The voice is barely above a whisper.

  I grip the telephone and take a deep breath. My eyes skim across the page in front of me. I know I should use open-ended questions, but I already find myself going off-script.

  “If you believe your life is in danger, you need to call the police.”

  “No! I mean, no. I don’t think my life is in danger.”

  I frown. It’s not uncommon for callers to make grand, sweeping statements about murder or conspiracies and then recant moments later. But there’s something different about this caller. There’s something in her voice that makes me think she might have been telling the truth the first time.

  “You can be honest with me,” I say. “Tell me about your husband.”

  She pauses. “Well, he’s really sweet. He’s handsome. Generous. He buys me everything I could ever want . . .”

  “But?”

  “He gets horrible mood swings. He gets so . . . mad for no reason. I never know when he’s going to snap. I think he’s been having tro
uble at work, but he won’t talk to me about it.”

  I bite my lip. “Has he ever hit you?”

  The silence stretches like a yawning chasm as I wait for her next words to either topple me over the precipice or guide me safely away from the edge.

  “No.”

  My heart skips a beat. I don’t believe her.

  “I wouldn’t even consider leaving him if it weren’t for . . .”

  “If it weren’t for . . .?”

  “If it weren’t for Shane.”

  “Who’s Shane?”

  She doesn’t respond.

  “Is Shane your son?”

  I worry that she might hang up, but she finally answers.

  “Yes.”

  “Has he ever hurt your son?”

  “No.”

  My frown deepens. Is she lying? “Listen . . .” I falter. Normally I would use a caller’s name here, to cement the trust I’m trying to build, but she refused to give it. “I think you should call the police.”

  “I—can’t. I won’t.”

  I want to push her—this might be my only chance to convince her to get help—but instead, I give her a list of places she can go, emphasizing the discretion of the different women’s shelters that are strategically located around downtown Toronto, where she has alluded to living.

  “You can call any time you need to talk. Ask for Rachel, and they’ll connect us if I’m working,” I say. “I usually work a little later than this—from twelve to four.”