Last Song Sung

by David A. Poulsen

  “For example?”

  “For example, Guy Kramer, the fourth person in the alley that night.”

  “The guy who hid behind the garbage cans.”

  “Yeah. He died in 2003.”

  “I remember reading that.”

  “What you may not have read is that Guy Kramer’s wife still lives in Calgary.”

  “And that’s significant because …?”

  “I’m not sure it is. But this is what I’ve learned. The police report Monica Brill had in her file folder was one of the early reports, maybe even the first. Typically as the investigation goes on, the detectives investigating the crime update their notes, add stuff — new evidence, transcripts, or at least notes of conversations and so forth. Monica’s material didn’t have that.”

  “You found something Kramer said later?”

  Cobb shook his head. “I didn’t, or at least nothing helpful. But what was significant is that Wardlow and Carrington talked to him several times over the course of six or seven weeks after the shooting and kidnapping. They logged times and dates of those conversations.”

  I didn’t get it, and my face must have shown it.

  “He was the only eyewitness,” Cobb said. “It makes sense that they’d question him at least a couple of times. But several times? That suggests maybe they thought there was something there — that Kramer was either having trouble remembering or wasn’t being truthful. The note after one of their visits to his house said, ‘Nothing. Again.’ That sounds like frustration.”

  “Or maybe the realization that he really had nothing more to offer.”

  Cobb nodded. “That’s a possibility. But I’d still like to have a chat with Kramer’s widow.”

  I pointed my coffee cup at the file folder. “Anything else?”

  “I think our best course of action is to concentrate on Ellie herself. There were some areas that may have been overlooked. Or if they were looked at, they didn’t make it into the report.”

  “It looked to me like the investigators were pretty damn diligent, at least in that early report I saw.”

  “And I’m not suggesting otherwise. But we can’t assume they didn’t miss something. Even good cops working hard can make a mistake. Or overlook something significant.”

  “I imagine it’s like writing. I can look at something a half dozen times and miss a word I left out every time. It’s why they have something called editors.”

  “And it’s why unsolveds get pulled out of the vaults for years after the first investigation so that more pairs of eyes can look at them. Just in case.”

  We sat in silence for a couple of minutes, both of us staring at the file folder.

  It was Cobb who finally spoke.

  “Okay, let’s talk Ottawa.”

  I brought him up to date on my unsuccessful efforts to learn anything about The Tumbling Mustard, Fayed, or the other partner. I told him about Angie Kettinger, the Maritimes singer who had passed away in 2011.

  He nodded sympathetically — at least that’s what I thought the nod signified. Or maybe like me he was resigned to knowing that so many of the figures we would have liked to talk to were dead.

  “Still, there might be some significance to the place, especially if whatever was going on with Ellie Foster’s mental or psychological state came about during her time there as a performer,” he said.

  “And we’re relying on Armand Beauclair’s recollection on that.”

  “True enough, but let’s not throw that strand onto the scrap heap just yet.”

  “Duly noted,” I said.

  “So like I said, there are a few things I’d like to know. Where did Ellie stay while she was here performing? How did she get to and from The Depression? Who did she hang with, and what did she do when she wasn’t actually performing? And I’d like to apply those same questions to her previous gig, in Ottawa at Le Hibou. And maybe further back than that.”

  I thought about that. “Clearly, there were some things I missed in my chat with Armand Beauclair.”

  Cobb laughed. “If I had a loonie for every time I had to go back to a witness because of something I’d forgotten or not thought of asking, I could buy a yacht and live on the French Riviera. So don’t beat yourself up over that.”

  “Thanks, Coach. By the way, I’m meeting with a guy, Bert Nichol, who used to be a music writer for the Herald. Frequented The Depression. Even wrote some stuff about Ellie, though not for the Herald. I’ll throw a couple of those things at him.”

  “He still have copies of the stuff he wrote about her?”

  I shook my head. “Doesn’t sound like it.”

  “Damn.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Still, he sounds like a guy worth talking to.”

  “Guess I’ll find out.”

  “I’m meeting Monica to get the originals of the old Ellie Foster tapes and the CD. I have an appointment to have some voice analyses done.”

  “I’m betting the voice on the CD Monica received is Ellie Foster.”

  Cobb stood up. “My bet, too. I’d better hit the road.”

  “Thanks for the breakfast,” I said.

  He nodded and headed for the door.

  When he’d gone I made my bed, cleaned up in the kitchen (Kennedy was apparently an inspiration), then put in a couple of hours on surveillance detail.

  Saw not a damn thing.

  Bert and Rose Nichol lived just off 4th Street Northwest, a couple of blocks from James Fowler High School. I was met at the door by Bert’s wife, Rose. She smiled as she ushered me inside the sixties bungalow that was one of the last of the original houses on a block that was almost all infill.

  Rose Nichol’s coiffed grey hair suggested she had recently been to a beauty salon, and her attire — blue pants and patterned top — like the house and yard, bespoke a woman for whom neatness and order were important.

  She shook my hand as we exchanged greetings, then led me into a living room that looked like it hadn’t changed since it was originally furnished. Maroon sofa and easy chair, both old and well worn, but still serviceable and comfortable looking. Both pieces of furniture came with doilies and reminded me most of all of the home of my former mother-in-law. Donna’s mother, Joan, would have liked this room and these people, and for a second there was a grab at my chest, as there always was when I thought of Donna. A glance around the room told me the Nichols loved all things porcelain; figurines of girls in swings, bears with cubs, and horses, a lot of horses, were among the ones that caught my eye.

  I was right. Old was the first word that came to mind in describing Bert Nichol. Old, but not decrepit. Tall and thin, bordering on gaunt, he was wearing pressed dress pants, an orange sweater, and recently shined loafers. I would soon learn he had a sharp mind and eye, and an even sharper tongue.

  He was standing and offered his hand as he said, “You’ve met Rose.”

  “Adam Cullen,” I said, as I shook his hand. I held out the milkshake I’d brought, and he accepted it with a smile.

  “Mother’s milk,” he said with a grin.

  “Tea, Mr. Cullen?” Rose smiled at me.

  “I’d love some, but only if you’ll call me Adam.”

  The smile got bigger. “I think I can manage that.”

  I was having trouble putting an age to Rose. She was clearly younger than her husband, but I couldn’t have said by how much.

  “If you do a bunch of damn swearing in here, as I’ve been known to do from time to time, Rose just might poison your tea.” Bert spoke in a volume generally reserved for people with a hearing impairment.

  “I’ll do my best on that score,” I assured them both, as Bert laughed and Rose shook her head at what I guessed was a long-standing joke — probably more humorous to Bert than to his patient wife.

  “After that, you might wish to change your min
d about the tea, Adam,” Rose said, “but I’d still be happy to bring you some.”

  “And I’m still happy to accept your offer,” I said as she withdrew.

  Bert pointed at the couch, which sat opposite a blue recliner, also old, that I suspected was his chair. We both sat and studied one another.

  “I remember you now,” he said. “And I’ve read some of your stuff.… You’re pretty good.”

  “I appreciate that, Bert, especially coming from someone like you.”

  “The new generation of journalists,” he said, after a swallow of milkshake, “I’m not much impressed with.” Before I could answer, he held up both hands. “I’m sure there are some good ones, some like you, but I’m pretty underwhelmed with the group as a whole.”

  I nodded. “Newsrooms have changed, Bert, and so have the people in them.”

  “What people? There’s nobody in newsrooms any­more, for Christ’s sake. Rival papers share the same news­room, the same writers. What kind of BS is that?”

  “Can’t argue that. Journalism’s different from what it was.”

  “Journalism’s disappearing, that’s what journalism’s doing.”

  I was hoping we’d move on from this topic soon. Bert was right, and normally I’d have loved to discuss the plight of the newspaper industry, but I really wanted to get to Ellie Foster.

  Maybe he sensed my thinking. He started to nod his head but opted for a shake instead. “Let’s talk about something else. You didn’t come here to talk about the good old days. Besides, maybe they weren’t all that goddamned good.” He glanced in the direction of the kitchen. I guessed he was hoping his epithet hadn’t been heard by the matron of the house. I wasn’t sure why this one worried him more than the others.

  “I’d like to hear your thoughts about Ellie Foster.”

  He looked at me, then closed his eyes, and I got the feeling he was hearing her, remembering a song she’d performed so long ago.

  He opened his eyes but didn’t look at me. His gaze cast downwards at the floor. Finally he said, “What a dreadful thing.”

  “Can you tell me about her?”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “What was she like? I mean, I know about the talent, but I’d like to know … her.”

  “Yeah, well, first of all you don’t know about the talent. If you never heard her, never sat close to that tiny stage at The Depression and listened to her sing the world better, then you don’t know squat about her talent.”

  “Fair enough, Bert. You’re right.”

  He waved his hand. “I didn’t mean to sound harsh. I just meant we — all of us — lost so much when she disappeared. Think if there’d never been a Joni Mitchell or a Baez or a Cohen — think how different, how much emptier our world would be without their music. And she would have been right there in the same conversation with them, with Neil Young, with Dylan, with … all of them.”

  I didn’t answer, because clearly I couldn’t contribute to a conversation about a singer Bert Nichol had quite rightly stated I knew nothing about.

  “She was a bit of a heller, you know.” The corners of his mouth turned slightly upward.

  “In what way?”

  “She didn’t mind disturbing a little sh—” He glanced again at the kitchen. “Disturbing things a little,” he amended.

  “What kinds of things?”

  Before he could answer, Rose returned to the room with a tray. Two teacups and saucers, chocolate-covered cookies on a plate, some napkins, and fixings for the tea. She came to me first.

  “Adam?”

  I took a cup, added a little milk, and took a cookie. “Thank you, Rose. See, Adam is so much nicer than Mr. Cullen.”

  She smiled and moved off to serve Bert, who accepted a couple of cookies, then she settled on the couch that sat to my left, Bert’s right. She and I sipped tea while Bert worked the straw in his milkshake for a minute or two. (You don’t sip a Peters’ shake.)

  I didn’t want to rush things or spoil the tranquility of the moment, but I did want to keep moving forward with the interview. “You were saying Ellie Foster was something of a rebel.”

  Bert swallowed a bite of cookie while he dabbed at his mouth with a napkin and nodded.

  “I don’t mean to overstate that,” he answered me. “I guess they were all rebels to be doing what they were doing. She sang songs about war and sex and standing up to the government, taking back the land, you know the stuff.”

  “Protest songs.”

  “Except for the ones about sex. I’m not sure you could classify those as protest songs.”

  I smiled. “Probably not.”

  “Thing is, when you looked at her, what you saw was this innocent-looking, childlike little thing; she was tiny, and yet here were these words coming out of her that, I don’t know, didn’t fit the person she was, you know?”

  “The physical person she was,” I said.

  He looked at me for a while before nodding. “You’re right. Like with a lot of people, the real Ellie was the person inside, and there was nothing tiny about that — the spirit, the talent you talked about, the things she wanted to say.”

  “How did audiences react to her?”

  “Loved her. I mean loved her.” He paused, drank some more shake. “And not just audiences. She was someone everybody wanted to be around. Staff, other performers, people like me … she had a quality about her that others wanted to be a part of.”

  “Even though she was a heller,” I said.

  “Yeah. Even though.”

  “Did she have any close friends … anybody she hung out with out here?”

  Bert picked up the milkshake but didn’t take a drink, just stared at the container while he thought. Finally, he looked up at me and shook his head.

  “I don’t think so. I mean, the reality is I can’t remember. That’s a long time ago. Sorry.”

  “No need to apologize, Bert. I appreciate your trying, and I get that it’s close to impossible to recall some things from that far back.”

  He didn’t respond to that. At least not right away. Sucked on the straw again. “Mighty good shake … thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Chocolate and orange together. You ever try it?”

  I shook my head.

  “Should,” he said, as he set the container down on the carpet next to his chair. “There was a young guy worked in the place, odd jobs kind of guy, sometimes served coffee to the customers. I remember he took quite a shine to Ellie. Don’t know if that’s helpful, though. I remember talking to him at The Depression a few weeks after Ellie disappeared. He still seemed pretty upset about what happened to her.”

  “Upset how, Bert? Angry? Sad? Stunned?”

  “Well, yeah, stunned, for sure. We were all stunned. Two people get shot, another is kidnapped. But I’d say he was also pretty broken up about it. Heartbroken, I guess.”

  “You remember his name?”

  A pause.

  “Just the last name. And that’s because I knew his dad. The old man worked for Calgary Power back when it was called Calgary Power. We both played on the Calgary company fastball team. O’Callaghan. Don’t remember the first name … of the kid, I mean. The dad’s name was Gary. But yeah, the young guy worked at The Depression, and I’m pretty sure he wanted to get something going with Ellie. Maybe he did. I wouldn’t know about that.”

  “You ever talk to him about what happened that night?”

  “Sure. But he couldn’t tell me anything. Didn’t see anything. I remember he said it was really busy … good crowd, a lot of people coming and going.”

  “He mention anyone unusual, anybody who caught his attention?”

  “No, he didn’t. I’d remember that, and I’m sure he didn’t mention anyone.”

  “What was it like in the
club at the time right around the shooting … he say anything about that?”

  “Just that he didn’t hear anything from outside. It was too noisy — they played recorded music between performers. So that was happening when Ellie was outside. Then the other guy who was out there when it happened, the guy who was hiding —”

  “Guy Kramer?”

  “Yeah, him.” Bert Nichol bobbed his head up and down. “He came running in, and he was yelling. O’Callaghan said he was pretty hysterical, and it was a few minutes before anybody figured out what he was hollering about. People went out into the alley to check it out. The O’Callaghan kid said that’s when things got kind of crazy, a little panicky. People running back inside yelling to call the cops and an ambulance. Some customers just left. The kid also said that at first, everybody thought it was just a shooting. Until finally Kramer was able to spit out that there were two guys and that they took Ellie and drove off.”

  Rose Nichol stood and poured me more tea. I held up my hand at half a cup, then nodded thanks. She sat back down and the three of us sat for a while, saying nothing. I finished the tea and set the cup on an end table next to me.

  Bert cleared his throat. “You know she had a kid, right?”

  I nodded. “I do know that, yes.”

  He paused, then nodded and smiled. “Of course you do — you told me about the granddaughter. It’s her that has you looking at it again. Trying to find her grandmother.”

  “She’s hired Mike Cobb and me. She thinks her grandmother might still be alive.”

  Bert digested that for a minute.

  “Damn. A grandkid.” Then he shrugged. “Makes sense, though. Ellie has a kid. That kid has a kid, and now she’s trying to find out what happened to her grandmother. Yeah, that makes total sense. Kind of makes me wish I was still in the game. Be a hell of a story.”

  I noticed he seemed to forget the no-profanity rule of the house as he became more animated. I waited a minute to let his excitement settle.

  “You happen to know where Ellie stayed while she was performing here?”

  Bert thought about that. “I don’t know, but I’d be willing to bet she stayed with some local performers. I remember there were three or four of them that would take in touring acts. Charge a little bit and get some mentoring.”