“Mr. Cullen. You have just stolen an old lady’s heart. I realize that you probably just googled it or whatever it is you do, but I am flattered that there is anyone at all who knows of that record.”
“The album cover is sitting here on my desk, and I just finished listening to the album a few minutes ago.”
“My goodness,” she said, with another chuckle. “I finally have a groupie.”
I laughed with her. “Yes, you do, Ms. Pendergast. I’m wondering if this is an okay time to chat a little more about the club,” I repeated.
“I think so,” she said. “I suppose that will depend on what you want to ask me. And I’ll answer only if you promise never to call me Ms. Pendergast again.”
“Deal,” I said. “Paula, what can you tell me about The Tumbling Mustard?”
She thought for a while, and when she answered, she began slowly, as if wanting to choose her words carefully. “It wasn’t like Le Hibou,” she said. “That was where the big names played. The Tumbling Mustard was like the — what do they call them? The minor leagues.”
“That’s what they call them. And yet I noticed that Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee played there just before you did in 1965. They were big league even then.”
“Actually, that’s not true, Mr. Cullen.”
“Oh?”
“They were scheduled to be there, but they cancelled a couple of days before they were supposed to perform.”
“You happen to know the reason for that?”
“There were rumours at the time, but, of course, I never found out the real reason.”
“What were the rumours saying?”
“Money. One of the stories I heard was that the owners didn’t forward the advance money they were supposed to. Told the guys to just come on up to Ottawa and they’d get looked after when they got there. I imagine Sonny and Brownie had heard that one before.”
“Was that a common occurrence at The Tumbling Mustard?”
“Cancellations, you mean?”
“That, and performers not getting paid.”
Long pause. I was about to ask if she’d heard me when she spoke again. “How much do you know about The Tumbling Mustard, Mr. Cullen?”
“Next to nothing,” I confessed. “But I’d like to learn more.”
“It was owned by two guys, one of them was Middle Eastern. I remember his name, I’m not sure why — but it was Abdel Fayed. I don’t know what country he came from or how long he’d been in Canada. I do remember that he was extremely intelligent and spoke almost perfect English with very little accent. The other guy was creepy. He was really smart, too, but creepy smart. I remember he said he hadn’t lived in Ottawa for very long, but if he said where he came from I didn’t hear it, or at least I don’t remember it.”
“You remember his name?’
“Uh-huh. Laird. Cameron Laird. Always Cameron. Never Cam.”
“And he was creepy smart.”
“Yes. I know that sounds almost silly, but the thing was, The Tumbling Mustard wasn’t like other coffee houses. In those places, it was always about the music. The TM wasn’t … like that.”
“The TM?”
Another chuckle. “People got sick of saying ‘Tumbling Mustard’ all the time.”
“I can’t imagine why,” I said, with a chuckle of my own. “If it wasn’t about the music, what was it about?”
“That’s the part I’m not too sure I can tell you. It felt like every time you looked over at the coffee bar, you’d see either Abdel or Cameron, or both of them, huddled with somebody in this deep conversation. They hardly ever paid attention to what was happening onstage, and I don’t think they paid an awful lot of attention to the customers either. Maybe that’s why the place didn’t stick around long.”
“How long was the … uh … TM part of the Ottawa folk scene?”
“About a year and a half. Started up in the late summer or early fall of ’64, and it was gone by the spring of ’66.”
“How did Fayed and Laird treat you?”
“I had no complaints. I got paid on time. Of course, I wasn’t a big-ticket item like Sonny and Brownie would have been. But they treated me all right. Except that Laird kept asking me out. Well, not out exactly. He wanted me to come over to his place. I never did.”
“Any particular reason you didn’t want to do that?”
“A few, actually. I had a boyfriend, for starters. And Cameron, I don’t know, he sort of scared me.”
“Scared you how? Was he physically imposing?”
“No, that was Abdel. He was a big man. Not fat … big. Lots of muscles. People said he spent a lot of time at the gym, which would make sense, given his build. But Cameron Laird was skinny. Tall but very slight. Not a lot to the guy. So that wasn’t what scared me about him. It was just that he was really intense. Always looked forbidding. And then with all their little hush-hush discussions going on all the time … no, you couldn’t have paid me enough money to go out with that guy.”
“These secretive discussions — did it seem like the people they were talking to were the same ones all the time?”
She thought for a minute before answering. “Often it was the same ones in the same place, leaning on the counter, their heads all together and whispering away at each other. It probably wasn’t really whispering, but you know what I mean.”
“Surreptitious,” I said.
“The perfect word for it. But there were other people who were part of their little conversations. Some of them I saw only once or twice.”
“Always men?”
“Mostly men, but not all the time. I seem to remember at least one or two women getting in on the tête-à-têtes.”
“Would you say that it looked like they were talking about illegal things? Maybe making drug deals … anything like that?”
“I can’t say that, because I just don’t know. Mostly it was just this big secret thing. Almost like they were plotting. Or maybe just gossiping, I really don’t know. All I can say for sure is that it wasn’t a nice place to perform.”
I’d been scribbling notes, but I looked up now and stared out Kennedy’s living room window while I thought about what Paula was telling me.
“You ever see Fayed or Laird after the club closed down?”
“I never did. I was in and out of Ottawa a few times, but I never played the TM again. I went there a couple of times to see other people perform. But after it closed down … no, I never saw either of them again. Of course, I didn’t try to.”
“Ever hear anything about them? Where they got to, anything like that?”
“Uh-uh.… No, wait, that’s not true. I seem to remember a few years later somebody said one of them, I don’t know which one, ended up in California. Maybe L.A., although I can’t say for certain.”
“One last thing, Paula, and I really appreciate your taking the time to talk with me — Ellie Foster played the TM. Did you ever see her perform there?”
“I did. She was there early on and for quite a long gig — maybe a couple of weeks. I was in Ottawa rehearsing with some new band guys. I saw her a couple of times, actually, and she was just as amazing as ever. In fact, when Ellie was performing, those were the only times I ever saw the little huddle break up and the people at the counter — all the people — actually pay attention.”
“Listen, I —”
“Oh my God,” Paula said, interrupting. “I just thought of something. I hope I’m not making this up, some memory that didn’t really happen at all, you know? But I’m sure that she not only got the little discussion group to disperse when she was performing, but also, at least once, when she wasn’t on stage, I saw her right there with them. I can’t remember if it was during a break or after she was finished for the night, but I’m almost 100 percent sure I saw her in one of those damn huddles … head down and looking just a
s … surreptitious as the rest of them.”
“Did you ever think about what happened to her? Wonder where she got to? Who took her?”
“I guess everybody thought about those things.” Paula was speaking more slowly now, as if she was thinking about them again. “I mean, if it could happen to Ellie, maybe the same thing could have happened to me. I guess that sounds a little self-important — I was a long way from being Ellie Foster. But I can still remember getting goosebumps thinking about her, wondering where she was, if she was still alive. But after a while, as horrible as it is, you stop thinking about it as much. You move on, as the expression goes.”
“I understand,” I said. “Paula, can you remember when Ellie’s two-week gig at the TM was? Even roughly?”
She took some time with that. “I know it was before me, because I remember thinking there was no way the audience would love me like that when I stepped on that stage. I was there the first part of November; I remember that because my gig ended on Remembrance Day. I played a couple of songs that I had hoped were appropriate for it. So I guess that would put her there in September or October.… No. I’m pretty sure it was September. Which would be about right, because I think she was one of the first acts they had there.”
Paula’s recollection corresponded perfectly with the schedule I’d found in Lois Beeston’s notes. I scrawled a notation of my own. “Paula, I want you to know that you’ve been amazing. And I want you to know something else. I’m an avid collector of Canadian music. And I’m very glad Rhythm of the Ramble is part of my collection.”
“That’s very nice of you to say, Adam. I really hope you find her even after all this time. And I hope that maybe there’s a miracle waiting for you and that she’s okay … somehow.”
“Me too, Paula. Me too.”
After my conversation with Paula Pendergast ended, I didn’t write any more notes, not right away. Instead, I sat staring out the window some more and thinking. It was starting to feel like The Tumbling Mustard was something of a game changer in our search for Ellie Foster. A few people had commented on the personality transformation that seemed to have occurred, and that roughly coincided with Ellie’s time at the club.
That thought continued to be my focus as I spent an hour at the upstairs camera watching the house across the street. Eventually my thinking morphed into wondering again if the people who lived there now knew that a little girl’s body had been found in their backyard. I wondered, too, if something like that would impact my own decision to buy a property or not.
I went downstairs, made coffee, and called Cobb.
“You’re not paying me enough,” I said, when he answered the call.
“You’re assuming that I’m paying you at all,” he replied.
“Good point,” I said. “I had an interesting chat with a woman named Paula Pendergast this morning. Paula performed at The Tumbling Mustard around the same time as Ellie Foster did. Had some interesting insights into the place and the two people who owned it.”
I recounted in detail my conversation with Paula and threw in my opinion that the place was of significance, certainly measured against the change that people had indicated came over Ellie at about that time. I added in that the place might even be related somehow to her disappearance.
When I’d finished, Cobb said only, “Hnh,” which I took to mean he was thinking about what I’d just told him. Half a minute or so later, he shared his thinking.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves on this thing. We need more about the place, or at least about Laird and Fayed. Let me think about how we should go about getting that information. How’s everything over there?”
“Nothing new here. Kennedy gets back tomorrow. I’m glad I could help the guy, but I haven’t achieved anything.”
“Which is exactly the same as what he’s achieved over, what did he say, nine thousand days?”
“Yeah, well, I’m looking forward to getting back to my own place and spending time with the people I love.”
“Yeah, I love you too, man.”
I laughed. “Aw, shut up.”
“I’ll call you later after I’ve had time to consider some things.”
“Right.”
We ended the call, and I made four slices of toast to go with the coffee. Another hour, maybe a little more, checking tapes and looking at the same things I’d been looking at for the last almost ten days. I was lying on the living room carpet doing sit-ups when “Summer of ’69” announced a caller.
I grabbed my phone, said hello.
“Hey, cowboy, miss me?”
“Actually, I was just mentioning that very thing to Cobb. One more day. What are the women I’m crazy about up to today?”
“Actually,” Jill said, “I wasn’t sure if you knew that your story on Ellie Foster is in the Herald today.”
“Thanks, I didn’t know that. I’m guessing that means I’d better get ready for a barrage of crank calls and confessions. At least, that’s what Cobb told me I should expect. But even if one person gives us something, it’s worth the hassle.”
“As long as they don’t call during the warm welcome I’m planning for you when you get here.”
“Warm welcome?” I repeated. “Care to offer details?”
“Are you kidding? If this phone is tapped, we could both go to jail.”
I laughed. “I can’t wait to see you guys.”
“The feeling is extremely mutual. By the way, Kyla and I have been working on the song lyrics. We’ve got a few ideas.”
“Which is more than I have. I’ll look forward to hearing them. Better run, babe. I’ll call you later.”
I dug out the second cellphone, the one I’d bought to field calls from people offering information on Ellie Foster’s disappearance. It was charged up and ready to go. I had barely gotten comfortable on the downstairs stool when it rang.
I picked up. The voice on the line was male and hoarse, maybe old. It was hard to tell.
“I know where she’s buried.”
“Who’s calling?”
“Name’s Bernie. That singer broad. I know where she’s buried. I seen them put her there.”
“Okay, Bernie, care to elaborate?”
“What’s it pay?”
“What?”
“What are you paying for this kind of information?”
“Depends on how credible the information is. You say you saw somebody bury Ellie Foster?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“And when was that?”
“Let me think about it.” There was a brief pause. “Night before last.”
“Night before last,” I repeated. “You tell the police about this?”
“Naw, me and the police, we ain’t close.”
“What are you on, Bernie?”
“What?”
“What are you using? I’m guessing meth. How close am I, Bernie?”
“Come on, man. I got real information here. Coupla hundred bucks, I’ll take you right to where she’s buried.”
“Do me a favour, Bernie. Lose this number. I don’t want to hear from you again.”
I could hear his protests continuing as I ended the call.
Cobb was right. Eleven calls over the next hour: Eight addicts and drunks, and one hysterical woman screaming at me in two languages — one was English, the other something European, maybe. Oh, and two more calls from Bernie.
When my own cellphone rang, I was so relieved I actually fist-pumped before I answered. Pathetic.
“Mr. Cullen?”
My enthusiasm waned. The caller sounded at least two years away from puberty. But hey, look at the good stuff, I told myself. It isn’t Bernie.
“My name’s Darby O’Callaghan.”
The words that popped into my head were, You gotta be shitting me, something I hadn’t
actually said since maybe college. But I stifled that urge and said instead, “Mr. O’Callaghan, I appreciate your calling me back.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Why is that?”
“You said in your message you wanted to talk to me about Ellie. And whenever I talk about her, even after all this time, I feel like crap, you know?”
“I understand. But I’m sure you’d want to help us find her if there was any chance at all, right?”
“You won’t find her.”
That got my attention. Not only the words, but also the change in his voice. Suddenly assertive. Definite.
“You drink coffee, Darby? Or beer? I’d be happy to buy you either one if you could spare a few minutes to chat.”
A long pause. “I guess I could do that.”
“Great. I know you live out of town, but I wonder if you get into Calgary from time to time.”
“Sure, I grew up in the city. Got lots of family and friends in there.”
“What high school did you go to?”
“Crescent Heights.”
“No kidding? Me too, Darby.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. Want to hear me sing the school fight song?”
He laughed. Instant connection.
“I was going to run in there tomorrow, but I could push it up a day. Could probably be in the city in an hour or so.”
“There’s a Starbucks on 16th Avenue, right at 10th Street, near the Earl’s restaurant. Should be fairly handy for where you’re coming from.”
“It’s not bad at all. And I know the place.”
“Perfect. But please, don’t rush. Let’s make it a couple of hours from now. In case there’s traffic and stuff.”
“Fair enough. Two hours it is.”
After the call ended, I fielded two more calls on the second cellphone and was beginning to hate that I’d put the story in the Herald. And that was only one paper. What would happen when it appeared across the country? I tried telling myself again that even one call that yielded useful information would make the thing worthwhile, but I was having trouble believing me.
I took a long, hot shower, got dressed, and gathered my notes on the Foster case, stuffing them in a tired leather briefcase that I’d had for almost a decade. It was a birthday gift from Donna — couldn’t remember which birthday.
Last Song Sung Page 14
