Last Song Sung

by David A. Poulsen

  “You mean like music lessons?”

  “I guess you could call it that. I mean, think about it: You’re just starting out and first of all, you’ve got some big-name performer staying in the room down the hall. And then you get to sit down with that person and absorb some of what they know … jam a little bit, learn some stuff. I’d call that a win-win.”

  “Remember anybody who did that — who took in touring performers?”

  I could see Bert was tiring. I needed to wrap this up. A glance at Rose told me she was thinking the same thing.

  “There was a guy back then, played house parties, did the Will Millar thing too … you know who Will Millar is, right?”

  I nodded. “Irish Rovers. Started out playing at a pancake house here in Calgary, I think. The Rovers played The Depression too, as I recall.”

  Bert smiled. “By God, you do know a few things. Good, I hate talking to somebody who has no idea what I’m talking about. Anyway, this guy, he played in local eateries, probably played for burgers and fries. He did everything he could to break in to the business, including, if I’m not mistaken, providing accommodation for a few people. Don’t know if Ellie was one of them, but I guess you could ask.”

  “You have a name?”

  Bert’s smile became a grin. “Two names this time. First and last. Roosevelt Park. Black guy. Back at a time when the only black people in Calgary either played for the Stampeders or were entertainers. I’m exaggerating, but you know what I mean. Anyway, Roosevelt still lives here, or at least he did. I saw him a couple of years ago. I think he was working at the university, in shipping and receiving or something. He might be retired by now, but maybe you can track him down.”

  “He didn’t make it in the music business, then?”

  “There wasn’t anybody who tried harder. But there also wasn’t anybody who sang worse. Played an okay guitar and some harmonica, but his voice? Fingernails on a chalkboard.”

  Bert chuckled at his word choice, and I smiled. Glanced again at Rose, then back at Bert.

  “I know you’ve probably thought about it, Bert, maybe thought about it a lot. You have any ideas as to who the two people were who shot those guys and took Ellie Foster?”

  He didn’t answer right away. Finally, he shook his head slowly. “You’re right. I’ve thought about it and thought about it. Not as much in recent years, but after it happened — for a long time that was all I thought about. And I’ve got no more idea today than I did the day after that night in that alley. Who they were, why they did what they did … where they took Ellie. Nothing. I’ve got exactly nothing.”

  I started to stand up. Hesitated, then sat back down. “One last thing.”

  “Sure,” Bert said, but I could tell he was close to spent. I didn’t want to cause the man to have a heart attack or stroke. “Don’t feel you need to answer this right now … we can chat again another time, but I was wondering if you noticed anything different about her in the days before she was taken. Like, maybe she was worried about something. Like something or someone was bothering her.”

  A pause, then a slow head shake. “Thing is, I didn’t know her well enough to be able to say if she was behaving any differently than any other time. I’d interviewed her a few times, but I can’t say that I knew her. Not like that, you know?”

  This time I got all the way to my feet. “I don’t want to take any more of your time. I appreciate the conversation,” I turned to Rose, “and the hospitality.”

  She stood up. “I’ll walk you to the door, Mr. Cullen.”

  I turned back to Bert and nodded my appreciation again. He held out a hand, and I stepped forward and shook it.

  “Thanks, Bert. It was great to meet you.”

  He nodded. “Likewise.”

  Rose and I started for the front door.

  “One thing I do know,” Bert’s voice boomed a little louder. One last burst of energy.

  I turned back to him. “What’s that, Bert?”

  “The grandkid’s right. You’re going to find her.”

  I took a step back toward him. “How do you know that?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t have any proof, and I don’t know where she is. But she’s out there. I can feel it. I don’t know if somebody has kept her captive all this time, or just what, but it’s like that TV show from a few years ago. The truth is out there. You will find her.”

  He pronounced those final words like a judge reading a sentence.

  I managed a half smile. “We’re going to try.”

  Forty minutes later, I was back in Kennedy’s house alternating between upstairs and down, checking tapes and looking through camera lenses and binoculars. And thinking about what Bert Nichol had told me. And how confident he was that we’d find Ellie Foster. Probably a lot more confident than I was.

  It had been a long day, slow-moving, with tenuous progress at best. I made a set of notes based on my conversation with Bert, emailed them to Cobb, and kept a set in the folder I’d labelled “Ellie Foster.”

  I looked at my watch. It read 9:30. I called Jill and felt bad that I’d just missed Kyla. Last night had been an exception. I’d have to call earlier.

  “Just wanted you to know that I love you to Alaska and back,” I said.

  “Alaska?”

  “Hey, I’m a writer. I can’t use the same words as everybody else.”

  “But Alaska?”

  I laughed. “Okay, I’ll work on it for next time. How are things at the food bank?”

  “Food bank, good; shelter, not so much.”

  I’d always thought Let the Sunshine Inn was a hokey name for a shelter, but hadn’t told Jill in case she was the one who had named it.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “It looks like we’re going to lose a lot of our funding,” she said. “A letter from Social Services came to the shelter a couple of months ago. I just found out about it yesterday. Our fiscal year-end is the end of October. We’ve got just over a month to find alternate funding for at least 70 percent of next year’s budget.”

  “Social Services give a reason?”

  “Lots of reasons, but none of them alter the fact that we can’t operate after a 70 percent funding cut. Celia told me she thought this might be coming. She’d kept it from me and the other volunteers so that we wouldn’t worry.”

  I’d met Celia previously. Crusty but dedicated. I could see her wanting to bear the burden of impending bad news by herself — not wanting to stress out the Inn’s volunteers.

  “Any chance of finding some magic alternate sources?”

  “In a month? In this economy? I don’t like our chances. Celia’s been working on it but hasn’t had any luck so far.”

  I’d known the answer before I asked the question. “Well, we’ve got a little time. As soon as I’m wrapped up here, we’ll sit down and do some brainstorming.”

  “That’s not all we’re going to do when you’ve wrapped up there.”

  I knew she was trying to convey that all was normal, all was fine. I also knew it wasn’t, but I played along. “I like the way you think.”

  We ended the call with both of us missing the hell out of each other.

  I looked at my watch again and decided it wasn’t too late to make one more call. It turned into seven calls — there were several R. Parks in the directory, but on call seven I got the voice mail of Roosevelt Park. The message said he was out of town. I identified myself and said I was looking into the disappearance of Ellie Foster from fifty years before. I fell back on the writing-a-story-for-the-Herald explanation, which was becoming less and less far-fetched as I went along. The idea of actually freelancing a piece to the Herald — something more than the Crime Stoppers update I’d already written — was becoming more appealing by the day. I left my number and expressed the hope that he’d be willing to chat with me.

&
nbsp; I hadn’t yet contacted any of my friends from the editorial brotherhood, mostly because every time I looked at the piece I’d written on Ellie’s disappearance, I saw something — or several somethings — I wanted to change. The curse of the writer: the reluctance to let the damned thing go.

  Uneventful days slogged by. Next to no progress on Ellie Foster, and no more shadows in the laneway across the street. I spent some time editing proofs for my new book, the follow-up to my kids’ book, The Spoofaloof Rally. I’d been surprised a few months earlier when my publisher (I do love those two words) called to say that sales of Spoofaloof had suddenly taken off after a year and a half of it being on the top-ten list of non-sellers. And they wanted a follow-up book, if I was interested. Now that second book was nearing completion, and I was still coming to grips with the fact that I was an actual writer.

  And I finally had the Ellie Foster update piece completed to my satisfaction. I’d fired it off to four people I knew and a couple I didn’t. I heard back from three right away — the Calgary Herald, Edmonton Journal, and Ottawa Citizen would all run it the following week. The Saskatoon StarPhoenix replied to say they would take it to their next editorial meeting. I hadn’t heard back from either the Vancouver Sun or the Globe and Mail, but was confident I’d receive a favourable response from the Globe. A guy I’d worked with and liked a lot was on the city desk there, and I liked my chances. I wasn’t as sure about the Sun, only because I had no personal contact there and would have to rely on someone having an interest in a case that hadn’t had the same impact on that city that it had on Calgary, even though Ellie Foster had been scheduled to play Vancouver’s Bunkhouse not long after her Depression gig.

  Kennedy called on Friday morning just after seven. I had just poured a cup of coffee and started up the stairs; I had to turn back to pick up the landline phone.

  We exchanged hellos, then he said in a voice soft and full of pain, “She passed last night.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, and meant it.

  “The funeral’s on Monday. I’ll be home Tuesday. You okay there till then?”

  “Take as much time as you need. I’ve got things under control here.”

  “Okay,” he said. Several seconds passed before he added, “Thanks,” then hung up.

  Twenty minutes later, Cobb called.

  “I finally got to your email. Looks like we’ve got a few more people to talk to. Any luck coming up with a first name for O’Callaghan?”

  “Not yet. Still working on it,” I told him. “I had better luck with Roosevelt Park. I have an address and a phone number. I called, but his message said he’d be away until the end of the week. Thought I’d call him again today, see if he’s back.”

  “Good,” Cobb said. “That’s good. And no surprise — the voice on the CD Monica Brill found in her car is almost certainly that of Ellie Foster.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “No surprise.”

  “I’ve got a meeting this afternoon with Guy Kramer’s widow. Wondered if you wanted to be there. She lives in Bowness. I can pick you up if you feel like coming along.”

  “Yeah, I’d definitely like to tag along. What time?”

  “I’ll come by at one thirty.”

  After ending the call with Cobb, I tried Roosevelt Park’s number again. Same message.

  Over the next few hours, I alternated between watching tapes, checking the two houses, and cleaning up the place. I hadn’t been comfortable with eating all of Kennedy’s food, so I’d taken to either picking up food or having it delivered, with a clear preference for pizza and Chinese, which meant that a fair amount of cardboard and Styrofoam needed to be sorted and packaged up for the recycling and garbage bins.

  I was having no luck tracking the O’Callaghan Bert Nichol had mentioned. I’d googled, called information, checked the phone book, and tried the Henderson’s Directories at the closest library branch — all to no avail. Hadn’t found a Gary O’Callaghan at all, and no leads on his son’s first name.

  Back at my computer I googled O’Callaghan again, with the same non-result. Finally I gave up and made myself two sandwiches and poured a glass of milk for accompaniment. Which was stupid, since I hate milk except in coffee or on cereal. But I felt as uneasy about drinking Kennedy’s beer as I did about raiding his refrigerator and had forgotten to pick up a case, not once but three times.

  The sandwiches were okay, the milk less so, but I reminded myself that I was taking in calcium, surely a good thing. The opening guitar riff from “Taking Care of Business” — I’d changed my ringtone that morning — announced that I had a call, and I swallowed the last of the second sandwich as I reached for my cellphone.

  Bert Nichol’s voice crackled a garbled greeting.

  “Hello, Bert, how are you today?”

  “Something I thought of after you left.” A hacking cough followed.

  “What’s that, Bert?”

  “There was a woman. She did little things around The Depression — printed up the programs, made posters. Like a lot of them, she was dedicated to the music, willing to do whatever just to be there. Anyway, she tried to write a book a few years ago, maybe ten or twelve, even.”

  “A book on The Depression?”

  “Yeah, but she discovered the same thing a lot of people do who think they’re going to write a book. It isn’t nearly as easy as they think. So no book. But I had a drink with her back when she was working on it, and she showed me some of her notes.”

  “Her research.”

  “Yeah. She’d done a pretty good job, had a lot of stuff I didn’t even know. And I’m pretty sure she planned to devote a chapter or maybe more to the shooting and Ellie being kidnapped. I can’t remember her notes for that part, but I’m guessing she’d done at least some background work on it. Might be worth a call.”

  “Great, Bert, I appreciate this. You recall her name?”

  “Lois. Lois Beeston. She owns a fabric store or something like that, gives classes in knitting and some of the other stuff people do with fabrics. Store’s on 17th — Fabric Magic or something like that, I’m not sure on the name. I had coffee with her in there once. Does a pretty nice little business … or at least she did back then. Haven’t seen her for maybe three years, so I can’t say for sure what’s going on with her, but I thought, hey, maybe she’s got something you could use.”

  “This is great, Bert. Thanks.”

  “Listen, do me a favour. You find Ellie, or you find out what happened to her, I’d like to know.”

  “I’ll make sure that happens, Bert,” I said.

  I decided to waste no time in calling Lois Beeston. I got the number for Fabrics Sew Magic (seriously, that was the name) and placed the call. A woman’s voice answered.

  “I wonder if I could speak to Lois Beeston,” I said.

  “She’s just away for lunch, but she should be back any … whoa, nice timing, she just walked in.”

  I could hear muffled voices as the woman on the phone and presumably Lois Beeston conversed. And a few seconds later, a new voice was on the line.

  “This is Lois Beeston. How can I help you?”

  “Ms. Beeston, my name’s Adam Cullen. A mutual acquaintance suggested I should call you. Bert Nichol.”

  “Oh, Bert — my God, I love that man to death. Haven’t seen him in way too long. How is he?” The voice I was listening to was two-thirds Georgia plantation owner and one-third junior high school teacher. Both parts exuded a warmth that made me like her, despite our being less than fifty words into knowing each other.

  “Bert’s doing pretty well, I think,” I told her. “He mentioned your name in connection with the disappearance of Ellie Foster back in ’65.”

  “The Depression,” she said slowly.

  “Bert indicated that you had worked on a book for a time and may have some information that could help my partner and me to find
Ellie.”

  “Find Ellie.” She repeated the words the way people repeat things that don’t make sense to them.

  “Sounds crazy, I know, but her granddaughter approach­ed us to see what we could do about locating her, or at least finding out what happened to her after that night. My partner’s Mike Cobb — he’s a private detective and former cop. I was a crime writer with the Herald for a number of years, and now I work with Cobb on some of his cases.”

  “And you want to see how much I can remember, and if I have any clues to help you with this investigation.”

  “Pretty well sums it up,” I admitted.

  “Well, I’m certainly willing to do whatever I can to help find Ellie, but do you seriously think you’ll be able to do much after all this time? So many people will have died or won’t remember what they had for breakfast, let alone something that took place fifty years ago.…”

  “You’re right, of course,” I replied. “But we’re going to do what we can. I guess we’ll see where that takes us.”

  “Well, I admire that sentiment, I suppose. And yes, I’m happy to share what I did for the book, although I’m not sure there’s anything there that will help.”

  “Understood,” I said. “I’m wondering what your time is like later today. Cobb and I have an appointment at one thirty, and maybe we could meet you after that, if it’s convenient.”

  “I suppose I could make that work. The good part is I have all my research notes in my office here at the store.”

  “I’d be happy to take you for a late lunch, if that works for you.”

  “There’s a Chopped Leaf in the Deerfoot Meadows Mall. It’s not that far from the store. You okay with healthy?”

  “More than okay,” I told her. “How about three o’clock?”

  “I’ll see you then. I’ll bring my notes.”

  Cobb arrived a couple of minutes ahead of 1:30. Once we’d settled into his Grand Cherokee, I told him about the upcoming meeting with Lois Beeston.

  “Good work, but I’ll have to drop you back here so that you can go on your own,” Cobb replied. “I’m getting together with our client.”