Last Song Sung

by David A. Poulsen

  The eyes that were normally as intense as any I’d ever seen were softer as he spoke of his ex-wife.

  “She moved to Nanaimo maybe ten years ago. Her sister called a couple of days ago. Meg hasn’t got long,” he said. “She kept it from me until now. But they told her it’s only days now until …” The voice trailed off, and the eyes looked down.

  “I’m sorry, Marlon, I really am,” I said. “I know what you must be feeling.”

  He raised his head, and the look he gave me was cold enough to force me to look away. “What the fuck do you know about —” A couple of heads turned our way.

  That was as far as he got. Cobb leaned his elbow on Kennedy’s arm and pressed down. Kennedy tried to pull it free, but Cobb pressed harder and spoke in a low voice: “I don’t want you making a scene in here, Marlon, do you understand? And just for the record, Adam knows exactly what it’s like. Except that they were still together when he lost his wife.”

  I could see Kennedy’s face beginning to contort from the pain in his arm, and I thought he might try to hit Cobb with his free hand. But he didn’t. Instead, he held up that hand.

  “I didn’t know,” he said, looking at me. “That was way out of line. Sorry.”

  I nodded, and Cobb moved off his arm. Kennedy flexed it a couple of times and smiled. “I forgot how tough cops are — even former cops.”

  “When are you leaving?” I asked him.

  “As soon as I can get packed and gone. Later tonight. There’s a twelve-thirty flight.”

  I looked at Cobb. “I know you want to stay on the Foster case. I can do some work on the research side from Marlon’s place while I’m tending video cameras and checking film.”

  “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone,” Kennedy said. “Might be a week; might be longer. I’ll check in with you once I’m out there and I know more.”

  I nodded.

  “I know I’m asking a lot here and —”

  I held up my hand. “We’ll make it work.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  For a few minutes we turned our attention back to our breakfast. After a few minutes, Kennedy laid down his fork and looked again at me.

  “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but your wife … what —”

  “She died in a fire,” I said. “The fire was deliberately set.”

  He looked at me for a time, then nodded slowly. “You’re that guy. I remember now. You finally got the bitch who did it. I read about it.”

  “Yeah.” I looked down at the breakfast I was losing interest in. “Yeah, I’m that guy.”

  “Jesus, man. I’m sorry I was such an asshole before.” He held out his hand across the table.

  I shook it. “No apology needed.”

  “Yeah, there is.” He turned to Cobb. “To you, too.”

  Cobb nodded as the waitress came by and topped up coffee cups one more time.

  We ate in silence for a while. Kennedy looked up again and spoke in an even more hushed tone than before. “Something I want to say … or maybe ask is a better way of putting it.”

  Cobb finished spreading jam on a slice of toast, set it down and turned to face Kennedy. “Yeah?”

  “Does this thing seem, I don’t know … off to you? I’ve read the homicide file probably a hundred times. We should have nailed this bastard in no time. It should never have been this hard. Don’t you think that’s weird?”

  “I don’t know if weird is the word I’d use,” Cobb said. “Frustrating, for damn sure.”

  “Yeah, well, here’s the thing I’ve been wondering — and maybe it’s that frustration you mentioned, or maybe it’s the obsession I have with this case that cost me my family — but lately I’ve been thinking, what if it was a cop? I mean, I get that it’s out of left field, but sometimes I think, why didn’t this piece of evidence happen? Or, why didn’t that turn out to be a match? Stuff like that. An investigation that should have been a twenty-four-hour slam dunk is a twenty-four-year-old cold case. And I’ve been asking myself if it was maybe possible that somebody was on the inside making things a lot more difficult than they should have been.”

  “You think it could have been Hansel or Gretel?”

  Cobb had told me earlier that one of the lead investigators was a guy named Hansel, which meant that his partners tended to get saddled with Gretel. This Gretel was actually Tony Gaspari.

  Kennedy shook his head. “Not them. At least, I don’t think so.… I knew those guys. So did you. Looked to me like they busted their asses on this. Look, I know this sounds like I’m even crazier than you already think I am, but Christ, just think about it, Mike.”

  Cobb waited a long moment before answering. “All right, I’ll think about it. I doubt like hell that there’s anything there, but I’ll take a look. And I want you to write down anything you think might be a little off with the investigation.”

  “Fair enough. I’ve already jotted down a few notes. When I get back from the island, I’ll put some thoughts together and send them along.”

  “Sure. I’ll look at them, but it might not be for a while. We’re working on something right now that’s going to keep us busy.”

  “I’m okay with that. It’s not like this thing is going to get any colder if we don’t get right at it. But listen, if you guys are tied up with something, maybe you don’t have time to take over the surveillance at my place right now. I’ll totally understand if —”

  I held up a hand to stop him. “The things I’m doing on this other case I can work around helping you out. It’s fine.”

  He looked at Cobb, then back at me. “If you’re sure.”

  “I’m sure. When do I start?”

  “When can you start?”

  I shrugged. “Right away, I guess.”

  “Why don’t you come by around ten tonight? I can show you the setup before I have to leave to catch my flight.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  He stood up as if to leave, then put his hands on the table and bent down.

  “I’m not expecting you to do this for nothing.”

  I held up a hand and shook my head. “Why don’t we talk about that later? For now, let’s just get it done.”

  He straightened, looked like he wanted to argue, then changed his mind.

  “See you later tonight,” I said.

  “I got breakfast,” Kennedy said.

  “Not necessary,” Cobb said.

  “Actually, it is.” Kennedy turned and headed for the counter.

  Our server came by and collected plates and cutlery from our table, giving Cobb and me time to think a little about the points Kennedy had raised during breakfast.

  When she’d gone, I sipped coffee and said, “Well?”

  “Interesting,” Cobb said.

  “The thing that I come away with from that meeting is that the guy is not a crazy person.”

  Cobb took some time before answering. “I think you’re right. He was pretty lucid today. But let’s not forget this is the same guy who’s been living in a house staring out at a crime scene for twenty-four years, and when he’s not staring at it he’s videoing the area. And this is also the same guy who took you down, and we don’t know how close he was to taking you out.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. So do you think I was stupid to offer to watch over things while he’s away?”

  “No, I can’t say that. But one thing I want to make really clear: You see something or you spot something on a tape that seems a little off, you don’t go jumping in your car and racing off after somebody. You call me.”

  “I’m totally onside with that. The life of the swashbuckling crime fighter is not for me.”

  “Swashbuckling?”

  “Think Errol Flynn.”

  “Right.”

  “What did you think about his idea that we should be loo
king at the cops for this?”

  “Like I told him, I have to think about that.”

  “Interesting premise, though. Might explain why the investigation went sideways.”

  “That would be one possible explanation.” Cobb nodded slowly. “I’m not sure it’s the most logical one. Anyway, let’s talk about things more current — the Ellie Foster case.” Cobb tapped the Brill file folder.

  “Right.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out the story I’d written, handed it across the table.

  He unfolded the paper and read for a few minutes while I checked my phone. I remembered how much I hated seeing people do that in restaurants and put the phone away, signalled the waitress for more coffee. She came over and topped up my cup. Cobb looked up just long enough to shake his head.

  “Your friend is a generous tipper,” said the waitress, whose name tag indicated her name was Betty.

  Cobb looked up again. “Really?”

  “That surprise you?” Betty asked.

  “No, I guess not,” Cobb said.

  I shrugged to show I didn’t have an opinion, and Betty headed off in the direction of a table of elderly women who, judging from their loud and never-ending laughter, were having a quite wonderful time.

  Cobb read for another minute or two, folded the paper, and handed it back to me. “I like it. I’m not sure it will net us any results, but I can’t see a downside.”

  “Okay, I’ll talk to a couple of editors I know, see what we can get going on it.”

  “You adding a tip line?”

  “What?”

  “A number people can call. You going to put contact information in there?”

  “Oh, right. Yeah, I thought I’d put in our cell numbers.”

  Cobb shook his head. “Correction. Your cell number. This stuff usually nets a couple hundred crackpot calls for every legitimate tip. I’d get yourself a disposable phone just for this. That way, you can throw the damn thing away if you’re overwhelmed with idiots.”

  “Disposable phone it is.”

  “And I think we should maybe divide up the chase a little bit,” Cobb said. “You’re the music guy. How about you tackle that side? Former agents, club owners, other musicians, anybody you think might be useful — realizing, of course, that a lot of those people may have passed on or could be damn hard to find.”

  “That’s stuff I can do while I’m tending Kennedy’s surveillance stuff. I mean, he has a job, so obviously he isn’t sitting at the monitors twenty-four seven. I’m sure if I need to leave to talk to people face to face, I can do that and then check the tapes later to make sure I didn’t miss anything.”

  Cobb nodded. “He works in a couple of parks or something, isn’t that what he told us?”

  “Grounds maintenance. Works a few hours a day to bring in some money.”

  Cobb nodded, then rubbed his chin with the back of his hand. “Okay, you concentrate on the music; I’ll work the other side — family, friends, cops who might have been part of the investigation — anyone I can find. Let’s talk again in a couple of days.”

  “Here’s something else.” I pulled out a second piece of paper, this one with the lyrics of the song Monica Brill had received in the mail, and passed them to Cobb. “In your spare time maybe you can take a look, see if there’s anything there that might point us in the right direction … or any direction at all.”

  “Thanks.” He glanced down at the lyrics, and then looked back up at me. “You see anything in them?”

  I shook my head. “I read them so many times, I’ve pretty well got the thing memorized. But I’m not seeing anything that jumps off the page and says ‘Yeah, better check this out.’”

  “I’ll look them over tonight. Maybe have the family take a peek too. They’re probably smarter than me on this kind of stuff.”

  “Not a bad idea.” I nodded. “I’m having Jill and Kyla do the same thing.”

  “When will the story hit the paper?”

  I shrugged. “Newsrooms have been gutted in recent years. A lot of my former contacts are gone. But there are still a few people around that I can talk to. I should be able to get something happening in the next few days.”

  Cobb started making moves like he was leaving, then stopped and looked at me. “You sure you’re okay with going to Kennedy’s place tonight?”

  “You think I shouldn’t be?”

  “Hard to say. Like I said, he seemed pretty with it this morning, but I keep reminding myself that this is a guy who jumped you in a back alley and threatened to kill you.”

  “I think if he wanted me dead, I’d already be dead.”

  “Probably right. I think the story about his wife is legit. But once he leaves the house for the airport tonight, you call me.” He stood up.

  “Will do. And thanks for the concern.”

  I expected a joking reply but got a slight nod as I stood and joined him in the walk to the door of the restaurant. On the street, Cobb said again, “I’ll be waiting for your call tonight.”

  “Got it,” I said, watching as he headed off in the direction of his Jeep Cherokee.

  Before I climbed into the Accord, I pulled out my phone and keyed in Jill’s number.

  “Hey, handsome,” came her throaty voice seconds later.

  “How’s the woman I love?”

  “Better now. How’s your day?”

  “Interesting. What have you guys got on later? I’d kind of like to get together, fill you in on some stuff.”

  “Well, my daughter attends school, as do a lot of nine-year-olds, and I’m hunched over books and calculators like Ebenezer Scrooge in the counting house.”

  “I doubt Scrooge had a calculator.”

  “Good point. So much for my literary allusions. Anyway, why don’t you come for dinner? Or do we need to talk sooner?”

  “Dinner’s great. How about I pick up Chinese?”

  “Sounds good. Just make sure it’s not all deep fried.”

  “Check. How is Kyla?”

  “Pretty good. Scale of one to ten, I’d say seven.”

  “I’d prefer a nine.”

  “Me too, but compared to what we went through in the summer, we’re doing pretty well.”

  There had been a few weeks that summer that had been damned stressful until the doctors determined what was causing the intense intestinal issues that had knocked a tough kid flat on her back. We were eventually informed about Kyla’s Crohn’s disease and that lifestyle changes would be necessary to help her cope with the illness. Kyla was the strongest of the three of us and had made it clear that she would tolerate no feeling-sorry-for-Kyla behaviours from anyone. And with that as our mission statement, we were all doing okay.

  “Okay, lots of veggies it is. See you around six. Love you, babe.”

  “I love you too. I’ve got wine, so we’re good on that score.”

  “Perfect. See you then.”

  I rang off and decided to grab my computer out of the car and get a little work done. I needed some kind of a gateway into the life and times of Ellie Foster. Cobb had mentioned agents, club owners, musicians. That was a good starting place.

  I spent the next few hours drinking coffee in the Phil & Sebastian Coffee Roasters on 4th Street and googling everything I could think of that might open a door to the coffee house music scene of the sixties. And finally, at around 3:30, I had my first positive result.

  There was a book about Le Hibou, the folk club in Ottawa Ellie Foster had played a few weeks before her Depression gig. I found excerpts of the book online and they were interesting, but the part I thought might be helpful was the list of people — performers, owners, staff, and volunteers — who were part of the history of the club at that time. I googled several of the names and found what appeared to be something fairly current relating to a guy who’d been the assistant manag
er at the time of Ellie’s disappearance, a guy named Armand Beauclaire.

  I googled the name and tracked a phone number for an Armand Beauclaire who lived just across the river from Ottawa, in what was Hull and is now Gatineau. I punched in the number and was greeted three rings later by a cough, a clearing of a throat, and a rumbled “Hello.”

  “Mr. Beauclaire?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name’s Adam Cullen. I’m a freelance journalist, and I’m researching a piece I hope to write on the life of Ellie Foster. She was a folksinger in the sixties who disappeared while performing out here in Calgary. That’s where I’m calling fr—”

  “The Depression.”

  I paused before replying. “Yes, that’s where she was performing at the time of her abduction. I was wondering if you knew her at all.”

  “Of course I knew her. In fact, I booked her. She’d performed twice at Le Hibou, and she was scheduled to come back a few months after her last appearance. But then she … she … ” There was a hint of a French-Canadian accent, but the guy was clearly bilingual. I wouldn’t need Cobb and his fluency in French — at least not yet.

  “Mr. Beauclaire, I —”

  “Armand, just make it Armand.”

  “Okay, Armand. Listen, I’m sure you’ve probably thought about it a lot, especially at the time of her disappearance, but do you have any ideas at all as to what might have happened, who might have had a reason to want to kidnap Ellie Foster?”

  There was silence on the other end of the line for a time. “You’re damn right I’ve thought about it. We all did. Denis Faulkner was the co-owner and ran the place. It hit him really hard. Ellie was a sweetheart. I can’t say I knew her that well, but audiences loved her. Everybody loved her. There was absolutely no reason in the world for that to happen. Unless the kidnappers got the wrong person — one of those mistaken identity things, you know?”

  “When you hired Ellie for Le Hibou, did you deal directly with her or did she have an agent?”

  Another pause. “There was a guy. Not a booking agent, nothing like that. He called himself her business manager, I remember that much. It was him I talked to.”

  “You remember his name?”