Last Song Sung

by David A. Poulsen

  “Monica?”

  “You’ll remember I agreed to take the case for a week only and then let her know at that time whether we would stay with it.”

  “I remember, but I’d lost track of time. You have to let her know today?”

  “I’d like to,” he said, nodding. “What do you think?”

  I thought for a while before answering. “Tough call. I feel like we’ve made some progress, but my God, Mike, this thing took place before either of us was born. So much of what evidence there was is gone, just like so many of the people who might actually provide that evidence. Still, there’s a part of me that wants to keep trying. I hate to lose, and I hate giving up even more.”

  I could see Cobb’s hands gripping the steering wheel a little tighter than they had previously.

  “I feel the same way.” His voice was tight. “But I also don’t like the thought of taking that girl’s money and not being able to deliver. And the truth is, I don’t know if we can do this.”

  We drove in silence for a while. As we pulled up in front of a small, older bungalow just off Bowness Road, I turned to him.

  “Just so you know, I’m okay with whatever you decide. But can you hold off on a definite answer until after I’ve talked to Lois Beeston and Roosevelt Park? And maybe this O’Callaghan guy, if I can find him? If none of them gives us something we can use, we’re running out of people to talk to.”

  He nodded. “The week isn’t up until tomorrow. I just wanted to give her an update so she doesn’t think we’re stringing her along.”

  We stepped out of the car, and as he came around to join me on the sidewalk leading to Mrs. Kramer’s front door, I clapped a hand on his shoulder.

  “I doubt if Monica Brill or anybody else will ever accuse you of stringing them along.”

  Before he could press the doorbell, the front door opened and a short, stoutish woman with hair the colour of weathered brick stood looking at us, a near-smile playing at her lips.

  “Mrs. Kramer?”

  “Yes.”

  “We spoke on the phone. I’m Mike Cobb, and this is my associate, Adam Cullen.”

  She nodded and stepped back to allow us in. Cobb held out his hand as he went by, and she shook it.

  We stepped into the room, and Mrs. Kramer closed the door behind us. She gestured toward a brown leather chesterfield.

  “Can I offer you something to drink? I have beer, juice, and water. Not a terrific selection.”

  “I think we’re fine, Mrs Kramer.” Cobb smiled at her. “But thank you. We don’t want to take a lot of your time.”

  All of us sat, Cobb and me on the chesterfield, Mrs. Kramer on a rocker. “Well, this feels a little like Dragnet, doesn’t it?” The smile grew larger on a face that looked like it smiled a lot.

  “Dum de-dum dum,” I sang.

  Cobb looked at me, then back at Mrs. Kramer, electing apparently to let the Dragnet conversation end. “We appreciate your taking the time to talk to us.”

  She nodded, the smile still in place. “I’m happy to help … if I can.”

  “Your husband, Mrs. Kramer …”

  “Guy,” she said.

  “Yes.” Cobb nodded. “Guy. Did he go to The Depression often?”

  “No more so than the other clubs he went to.”

  “Was he with anyone that night?”

  “He told me he went there with a customer, but the customer only stayed for one cup of coffee. Other than that, if he wasn’t with someone, it wasn’t for lack of trying.”

  “Are you saying your husband went to The Depression and other places to meet people?”

  “Only certain people, Mr. Cobb.”

  “He liked to try to pick up women. That’s what you’re telling us.”

  Mrs. Kramer nodded. “That’s exactly what I’m saying, Mr. Cobb. Except that trying might be a bit inaccurate. Most of the time, he succeeded. Guy was a good-looking man. And charming. Women liked him. And he liked that they liked him.”

  “And that night?”

  She shook her head. “That night, he came home. I guess maybe people getting shot and kidnapped put him off his game.”

  “Did you talk about what happened that night in the alley? What he saw?”

  “Not at first. I brought it up a few times, but he was reluctant to talk about it. What he saw scared him. And changed him. He stayed home a lot more after that. I was pregnant with our first, and the baby was born a couple of months after that terrible night. He actually became a pretty good dad and a better husband than he had been.”

  “But eventually you talked about that night at The Depression.”

  “Guy talked. I listened.”

  “I know it was a long time ago, but if you can remember what he said, it could be very helpful. And I know you’ve probably repeated it dozens of times, but if you’ve got one more telling in you, we’d really appreciate it.”

  “He told me he got there sometime after nine. Guy was a salesman with a company called Kleen Limited — they sold janitorial supplies. He’d met with a customer after work, then they’d gone to The Depression. To answer your earlier question, he hadn’t been there more than a couple of times. For one thing, the place was a coffee house, didn’t sell booze. I think the whole picking-up thing probably works a little better if there’s liquor involved.”

  “I’m guessing you’re right, Mrs. Kramer. Did he say why he went into the alley? A cigarette?”

  She paused for the first time. “He said it was for air. He wasn’t a smoker.”

  “And did you believe him?”

  “I suspect the club was smoky, so maybe he was telling the truth. Or …”

  “Or?”

  “There was only one person in that alley who would have been of interest to him.”

  “You’re saying he was hoping to talk to Ellie Foster?”

  “He never admitted that, but I’m saying it’s possible.”

  “And do you know if he did talk to her … before the car showed up?”

  “I don’t know that. He never ever said one way or the other. Like I said, he never admitted that that was his reason for being out there.”

  “What did Guy see that night?”

  She paused again; this time it looked like she was gathering her thoughts. Remembering long-ago conversations.

  “He said the other three people, Ellie and the two guys in the band, had been out there for a few minutes. He told me he went up some stairs to the main level, opened the back door of The Depression, stepped out, and saw the three of them. Ellie was off to one side a bit. The two guys were smoking. And the three of them were talking. He’d been out there for only a minute or two when the car came roaring up the alley and stopped. Two men jumped out of the car and shot the band guys. Then they grabbed Ellie and dragged her into the car, and drove off. He said it happened really fast.”

  “Did he say what Ellie and the two men were talking about in the moments before the car arrived?”

  “He didn’t hear much, but he did say it sounded like they were talking about some other club they’d played recently. He didn’t get much more than that; at least, that’s what he told me.”

  “Okay, so the car pulls up and the two guys jump out. What did he say about that?”

  “He said he knew right away that something bad was happening. He saw that one of the men was carrying a gun. He didn’t know if the other one had a gun. He thought so, but he wasn’t sure.”

  “Which one was he sure had a gun?”

  “The one who got out of the passenger side. He said he couldn’t see the driver at first because he was blocked by the car. The driver was on the far side. By the time he got around the car, the first man had started shooting. Guy remembered seeing one of the guys in the band fall to the ground. There was more shooting after that, but by then he’d taken c
over behind the garbage cans and he didn’t see anything more.”

  “Could he tell anything about the gun?”

  “Only that it was a handgun … a pistol or revolver of some kind. My husband knew nothing about guns, so he wouldn’t have been much help there.”

  “Did he describe the men at all, what they looked like? What they were wearing?”

  “He said the passenger was the taller of the two. He couldn’t say what they were wearing or how old they were … nothing. Either he didn’t see much at all or he was in shock or something and never remembered.”

  “Okay, what about what he heard?”

  “He said the men in the car didn’t say anything until after the shooting stopped. Then he heard them say, ‘Get in the car,’ and he heard Ellie Foster scream and yell ‘No!’ — stuff like that. Then all he heard was car doors slamming and the car racing off.”

  Cobb paused for a minute, looked at me.

  I said, “Did your husband say if he looked out from where he was hiding? Did he peek out while the kidnapping was happening? See how the men got Ellie into the car?”

  She took some time before answering. “Something you have to understand: My husband felt very guilty about his role in what happened that night. He thought of himself as a coward and was convinced that other people saw him that way too. He didn’t look out until well after the car was gone. He didn’t do anything to help that girl or to try to stop what was happening. He was convinced that if the two men had known he was there, he’d have been killed. I think he was right.”

  “I think he was right too, Mrs. Kramer,” Cobb said. “And we don’t think your husband was a coward. He did what most of us would have done, and if he’d done otherwise we would not likely be having this conversation. And we’re sorry to cause you the pain of going through this again. These are things we have to ask.”

  “I understand.”

  “What did he do then?”

  “He finally came out from behind the garbage cans and looked at the two men who were shot, in case he should do something. But he said he was sure they were both dead, so he ran inside the club. He said it was crazy at first. He just grabbed anybody he saw and said, ‘Call the cops, there’s been some shooting outside behind the building.’ At first he said people laughed or pushed him away, thinking he was drunk or on something. But finally he found the manager, or at least the person who was in charge that night, and that guy went out into the alley. Guy was never sure what happened after that, who actually called the police. He said he just sat down and drank some coffee and waited for the police to come, because he knew they’d want to talk to him.”

  “And while he was waiting for the police to arrive, did he see anything unusual, anybody behaving in a manner that seemed … I don’t know … suspicious?”

  “He said quite a few people left even though the manager was telling everyone to stay and wait for the police. But he couldn’t make people stay, and Guy said several people just got the hell out of there. I guess not wanting to be involved. Or maybe they were scared.”

  “Did Guy say anything else, no matter how insignificant he may have thought it at the time, anything at all?”

  “The only other thing he said was that he thought he had heard Ellie yell something like ‘You bastard!’ and just the way she said it, he wondered if she actually might have known the men in the car. He wasn’t at all sure, and didn’t ever say that to the police because he was afraid it might send them off on the wrong track. But he said it to me. A few times.”

  I looked at Cobb and could tell he wanted to yell something like, He should have told the investigators and let them decide how to deal with the information! He stayed composed, however, and leaned forward on the couch.

  “Your husband heard Ellie say ‘You bastard’ — not bastards, plural?”

  “No, it was bastard. I remember thinking about that at the time. Wouldn’t you have called them both bastards?”

  Cobb nodded but didn’t comment. After a few seconds, he asked, “And Guy was fairly certain that Ellie had said ‘You bastard,’ not just ‘Bastard’?

  She paused before answering. “I wouldn’t swear on a stack of bibles or anything, but I’m pretty sure that’s what he said — ‘You bastard.’”

  Cobb appeared to consider that before continuing. “Is there anything else you can recall him saying?”

  “I’ve been over this so many times … I haven’t left anything out.”

  “One last thing — you mentioned your husband had gone there that night with a customer. He say who the customer was?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so, but if he did, I don’t remember who it was.”

  Cobb stood up. “We’re grateful to you for taking the time and for being so forthcoming with us. Very grateful.”

  Mrs. Kramer got to her feet, and I followed suit.

  “I can’t imagine that you’re going to be successful after all this time, but I wish you well.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Kramer.” Cobb pulled a business card from his pocket and handed it to her. “If you’ve seen any crime shows on TV, you know this is the moment when the investigator says, ‘If you think of anything else, please give us a call.’”

  Mrs. Kramer managed a half smile and nodded. “I’ve seen those shows.” Her voice had settled to the monotone that is often a sign of stress or exhaustion. She looked like she was struggling with both at that moment. Remembering had been difficult.

  Cobb opened the door and stepped out onto the front step. As I passed Mrs. Kramer, I touched her shoulder and said, “Thank you. You were terrific.”

  She managed a second small smile and closed the door behind us.

  Neither Cobb nor I spoke, even after we were back in the Cherokee. Finally, at a red light, Cobb slammed the steering wheel. “Jesus, there’s a possibility that Ellie Foster knew her abductors, or at least one of them, and Kramer didn’t think he should tell the cops.”

  “In fairness, there’s also a possibility she didn’t know her abductors. But you’re right — the only eyewitness, and not only does he not see much, but he also holds back something that could have helped.”

  We were both quiet the rest of the way back to Kennedy’s house, both of us seeing, or at least trying to see, the scene that had unfolded in the alley behind The Depression that night. As we pulled up in front of the house, Cobb glanced at his watch.

  “That took longer than I thought it would. You’ll have to move fairly quickly to make your next meeting.”

  “Our talk with Mrs. Kramer impact how you’re going to approach your chat with Monica?”

  “Not sure. I’m thinking about that. What do you think?”

  I shook my head. “Can’t see why it should. She didn’t give us anything earth-shaking, even with the ‘you bastard’ thing.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Like I said, I’ll think abut it.”

  “Fair enough. And maybe Ms. Beeston will be the breakthrough.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” He didn’t sound convinced. “Anyway, you better get moving.”

  “Right. Later.” I jumped out of the Jeep and ran for the house.

  A decent break in traffic and an Escalade pulling out of a parking spot right in front of the Chopped Leaf reduced how late I was for my appointment with Lois Beeston. When I stepped inside at five minutes after three, I spotted her right away, in a back booth along the right-hand wall, which wasn’t so much wall as windows.

  Pages of notes were spread over most of the table in the booth. She had a coffee in front of her, and she was tapping her teeth with the eraser end of a pencil while staring intently at one of the pages.

  I stopped at the side of the booth and cleared my throat. When she looked up at me, I was looking into an ever more pleasant face than I had anticipated. Lois Beeston’s face expressed curiosity, friendliness, and warmth.

&nb
sp; She was wearing a baggy brown sweater and some kind of headband thing that might have earned her the title “old hippie” with some.

  “I’m Adam, Ms. Beeston,” I said.

  “And I’m Lois, Adam.”

  I nodded, and we shook hands as I slid into the booth opposite her. In seconds she had pushed, gathered, and piled paper until there were clear areas in front of us. She passed me a menu.

  “I got two when the server came by,” she told me. “And for the record, you don’t have to buy me lunch.”

  I smiled at her. “For the record, I want to buy you lunch.”

  She returned the smile, and for the next few minutes we talked about Bert and she explained the menu to me, ending with a recommendation for something called Whole Bowl No. 1.

  I took her advice, and later, when the food arrived, I was glad I did. Until then we talked in general terms about The Depression. She talked about her time there, mentioning several of the performers; she was a big fan of Gordon Lightfoot, adored Joni Mitchell, and didn’t particularly like Ellie Foster.

  “Why was that?”

  “She was … different,” she said slowly. “Today I guess we’d use the word entitled — back then she just seemed a little too sure of herself. At least to me. I know most people thought she was wonderful. But for me it was like she knew she was going to be a big deal and the rest of us had better start getting used to the idea. At least that was the way she was around the people who worked there. Never with the audience; when she stepped up to the microphone, it was magic.”

  Our lunch came, and for the next several minutes we devoted ourselves to the food, which was easy — Whole Bowl No. 1 was a nice mix of black bean corn salsa, avocado, cheddar, cilantro, pita chips, and sour cream, all served on a bowl of warm brown basmati rice. As Lois Beeston had said on the phone, healthy.

  When I thought it was appropriate, I set my fork down, took a drink of Five Alive, and looked across the table at her. “You were right, Lois, this place is excellent. Thanks for suggesting it.”

  She smiled and picked up her napkin.