Last Song Sung

by David A. Poulsen

  Standing next to Scubberd was his bodyguard, a behemoth whose name, I recalled, was Minnis. We weren’t on a first-name basis. There had previously been a second goon, a slimy, knife-wielding psychopath who had died on the front step of my apartment, a couple of bullet holes expertly placed in his upper torso.

  But it was the third member of the threesome who exerted an almost mesmerizing presence, just as she had the first time I’d seen her. She was Mrs. Scubberd — I didn’t know her first name either. She was beautiful, intelligent, and, as both Cobb and I had concluded, a whole lot more than a pretty face when it came to the decision-making process for the MFs.

  She slid into the booth they would occupy. Minnis and Scubberd remained on their feet, both of them facing me, neither of them looking welcoming.

  I willed my legs to move and took a couple of steps toward them.

  “Hello,” I said, “nice to see you again.”

  “No need for pleasantries, scribe. Especially when there isn’t any goddamn truth in what you’re saying. The real truth is either you are just leaving and this was a chance encounter, or you want to talk to me about something. Either way, there’s nothing nice about it.”

  “You’re right, I was hoping you might have a minute. I apologize if I’m interrupting your evening.” I nodded in the direction of Mrs. Scubberd, whose chin moved downward maybe a millimetre.

  “Where’s your private-eye pal?”

  “I’m flying solo this time around,” I told him.

  “Well, good for you. Now fuck off, because as a matter of fact, you are interrupting our evening.” Scubberd moved a half step to the side to allow me to get by on my way to the door.

  I nodded and walked past him a few steps, then stopped. I’d invested three nights of my time in this, and I figured I owed it to myself to try a little harder. I turned back to face him.

  “It can’t hurt to hear what I have to say, and I promise I’ll be quick about it.”

  Scubberd grinned at me and turned first to the mammoth Minnis and then to his wife. Minnis was unmoving and silent, like a Downton Abbey servant gone rogue. Mrs. Scubberd studied me for a full minute while I tried to keep my face as emotionless as possible. I’m not sure how successful I was.

  “Maybe we can give him a moment or two, Rock,” Mrs. Scubberd said, in a voice and tone that belied her role as a biker’s woman and wife of a big-time criminal. Cobb had thought she was a lot closer to the top of the gang’s hierarchy than the bottom, and I remembered thinking at the time he might be right. Now I hoped he was right.

  Scubberd pointed at the seat across from his wife. As I moved into the booth, Scubberd slid in next to her, while Minnis stood alongside the booth, his eyes never leaving my face and his presence always ominous.

  “Let’s hear it, scribe,” Scubberd said.

  I took a breath and was about to speak when a server I knew from my previous time at the diner arrived with a tray full of beer. Four beers in total.

  “We’ll only be needing three, Davy,” Scubberd said.

  “Rock, I think we should be hospitable,” his wife said, in a voice as gentle as Minnis was violent.

  I held up a hand. “I’m fine, really. It’s not necess—”

  Mrs. Scubbard smiled and stopped me midsentence. “I’d like very much for you to have a beer with us, Mr. … it’s Cullen, isn’t it?”

  “It is, yes. And I’d be honoured.”

  Davy set the fourth beer in front of me and left. The Scubberds and I poured our beer into large glasses. Minnis didn’t move, and his eyes hadn’t moved either. They were still on me. His beer sat on the table untouched.

  Scubberd raised his glass. “To prosperity … and a good story.”

  Mrs. Scubberd and I drank, and I set my glass down.

  “Because that’s what we’re going to get, am I right?” Scubberd said. “You’re a writer, and I’m guessing you’ve brought us a story.”

  I looked at Scubberd. “I’d like you to think about making a donation. To a homeless shelter.”

  Scubberd set his glass down and leaned forward just slightly. “You came in here soliciting a donation from me? Not even a loan, a donation. Are you fucking crazy?”

  I figured I better keep talking if I wanted to walk out of there on my own. “There’s a shelter not far from here that’s going to have to close its doors if it doesn’t get some money, and soon. It’s a place where addicts are able to go for a bed, a shower, and a hot meal. Things are tough economically in Alberta right now. A lot of businesses — maybe not yours — but other … uh … kinds of businesses are struggling and can’t support the charities and causes that they have previously. And government budgets are stretched to snapping point. This shelter has lost its funding. I figured you might want to help.”

  Scubberd was shaking his head in disbelief. “First of all, either you are the dumbest son of a douchebag alive, or you’re crazy, flat-out fucking nuts. Now, which is it?” He didn’t wait for the answer. “Wrap your head around this: The MFs are not corporate Calgary. We don’t donate to charities, and we don’t get tax breaks. We have our own formula for economic success. I’m going to assume you bumped your head earlier today and that’s why you’re here. And if you don’t want it bumped again” — his eyes flicked briefly in the direction of Minnis — “then you need to get your sorry ass out of here.”

  I knew I would be pushing it to continue. But I hated the way he felt he could blow me off like some teenager asking for an increased allowance. “One of the things about your formula for economic success, Mr. Scubberd, is that there’s a fair amount of what could be called collateral damage. You remember Clay Blevins, the kid we were all looking for after his father shot a couple of dealers? Clay ended up at that shelter. He was collateral damage who was able to get his life back in order. And so I was thinking it might be kind of appropriate if you were to offer to donate the amount of the shortfall the shelter is facing.”

  “Have you ever thought of trying to get work in comedy clubs? You could do stand-up and have people in freaking tears.”

  I didn’t have an answer to that, so I took a long drink of the beer.

  “Okay, keep me laughing, scribe. How much are we talking about?”

  “Twenty-five thousand.”

  Scubberd’s eyes bulged. “Twenty-five large. Is there a camera in here?” He looked around as if he were trying to spot it. Performing. “There’s got to be a hidden camera in here. Nobody is crazy enough to walk in here, look me in the eye, and ask for a donation of twenty-five grand. Nobody.”

  “I’m not saying it’s a small amount. In fact, I realize that’s a sizable figure, but I’m guessing you can afford it. I’m also guessing that the money wouldn’t mean nearly as much to you as it would to the people who run that shelter and the people who use it when it’s minus twenty outside.”

  Scubberd had jabbed a finger in my direction throughout his speech. His face was red, and he was no longer thinking that my craziness was something to laugh at. He was pissed off, and I didn’t think a pissed-off Rock Scubberd was likely to get me a solid rating on my next life insurance application.

  There was nothing more I could say. He was right; I’d been stupid to think this could work. I reached in my pocket and pulled out two twenties and tossed them on the table. As I started to slide out of the booth, Mrs. Scubberd put her hand on her husband’s arm.

  “Rock, Mr. Cullen is a journalist. There have been times when having a journalist we could talk to might have been useful. There may be other times when having a member of the fourth estate, someone we can … work with, might be helpful.”

  I’m not sure what my face was conveying, but I know what I was thinking: It isn’t every damn day you hear a biker’s lady, someone who is arguably a gangster’s wife, reference the fourth estate.

  She looked at me. “Do you know how it works in our busin
ess, Mr. Cullen?”

  I shrugged and waited for her to continue. She was dressed in much the same way she had been the only other time I’d met her: like a downtown executive. Her makeup was perfectly applied, and she was a striking woman. When she smiled — and that happened rarely — she became breathtakingly beautiful. She was smiling — slightly — now.

  “Let me explain it to you,” she continued. “Nothing is free. If my husband gives that shelter the money you’re asking for, it means we’re partners. Not us and the shelter. Us and you.”

  “If I had the money, I wouldn’t be talking to you.” I wasn’t sure why I said that or that it was relevant. But I said it anyway.

  “Not money, Mr. Cullen. This isn’t a loan. We won’t be asking you to pay back the money. But we will require repayment. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  I thought hard about her words. “I understand.”

  “I don’t know if my husband will decide to donate that money or not. But if he does, I want you to understand exactly how it works. Good night, Mr. Cullen. And thank you for the beer.”

  I pulled myself out of the booth. Minnis moved over just enough to let me by. Like boss, like underling. I didn’t look back at them as I headed for the door and out into the rain, which felt a lot less pleasant than it had earlier.

  Eight

  It was just after two in the afternoon, and I was at the downstairs location, having just fielded two more responses to my Herald story: one from a woman who was certain that Ellie Foster had paid the price for her sinful ways and was “burning in hell as we speak,” and the other from a guy named Max who claimed to be Ellie’s husband. He’d married her when she was twenty-three, and they’d been together for four years before his heart was broken by her being kidnapped. He’d received a ransom note and had paid seventy-five thousand dollars, but Ellie had not been returned to him by “them thievin’ bastards” and he was merely wanting to recover the seventy-five grand, because the last thing he’d want to do is profit from poor Ellie’s misfortune.

  “Ellie was twenty when she was taken, Max.”

  “Well, damn, my girl lied to me when we got married.”

  “Have a nice day, Max.”

  I heard the key in the front door and climbed off my stool. Kennedy had set down his suitcase and was hanging up his coat in the front closet when I got to the hall.

  “Welcome back,” I said.

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ve got some coffee going in the kitchen. Want some?”

  He hesitated, and I wondered if what he wanted most was for me to be out of his house. But finally he shrugged. “Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

  I poured a couple of cups, and we sat at the kitchen table. I’d already packed up my computer, CDs, and sports bag, and had them in one corner of the kitchen. Kennedy noticed.

  “Eager to get out of here?”

  I shook my head. “Eager to get back to my family,” I said.

  “I get that.” He nodded, added milk to his coffee, and passed the carton to me.

  “How did it go out there? I mean, under the circumstances.” I wasn’t sure how much he’d want to talk about his ex-wife’s death.

  “Under the circumstances? Okay, I guess.”

  Conversation flagged after that, and we drank coffee in silence.

  “How about here?” he asked. “Any problems? Anything interesting?”

  I shook my head again. “No problems. Not much interesting.”

  “Not much?”

  I’d thought about whether to tell him about my nocturnal visit to the alley behind the murder house, decided I would. “You ever see anything over there late at night? Something that looks like a shadow, maybe?”

  “What did you see?”

  “Just that. The second night I was here, there was something, a movement, a shadow — hard to say — probably an animal, but I wasn’t sure. I went over there, but I didn’t see anything.”

  Kennedy stood up. “Let’s take a look at the tape.”

  I led the way upstairs, found the tape from that night, and fast-forwarded it to when I’d seen whatever it was I’d seen. We watched it through three times.

  “And you went over there,” Kennedy said at last.

  “Yeah.”

  He nodded, clearly thinking about what I’d shown him. “And?”

  “Nothing. Not a sign of anyone or anything.”

  He watched me, thinking.

  “You ever see anything like that?”

  He took his time answering. “Yeah,” he said finally. “A few times over the years. Just the last three years or so. Maybe half a dozen times total over that period. I’ve gone over there every goddamned time. Nothing.”

  “What did you conclude?”

  “About the same as you … nothing. Maybe it was an animal, like you said. I just don’t know. I’ve even gone over there a few nights and hidden out there, waiting for whatever it was to show up. Nothing happened on any of those nights.”

  I looked out the window over at the house and garage, the alley behind it. “Probably nothing.”

  “Yeah, probably.” I wasn’t sure if he sounded convinced or not.

  “Guess I’ll be on my way.”

  “Sorry you didn’t get to finish your coffee. I guess I wanted to see —”

  I held up a hand and smiled. “I drink too much of the stuff anyway.”

  We went back downstairs and I gathered my gear, headed for the front door, set my computer down.

  He pulled out his wallet. I shook my head. “You don’t need to do that.”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  I shook my head again.

  “You mentioned family. You got a new lady? You know, since …” He looked at me, somehow more kindly than I’d seen before.

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “I want you to take her for dinner. On me. At least let me do that.” He offered a hundred-dollar bill. “I mean it.”

  I hesitated, then took it, realizing this was as much for him as for me. “I’ll make sure she knows.”

  “Sure.” The corners of his mouth turned up slightly — it was as close as I’d ever seen him come to smiling. “Thanks. I appreciate what you did here.”

  “You ever see that shadow again and figure out what it is, I’d like to hear about it.”

  “Sure,” Kennedy said again. I wasn’t sure he meant it. “By the way, I know your car now.”

  I wondered for a few seconds what he meant. Then I got it. If I drove down the alley again, as I had a number of times in the past, he’d know it was me. And wouldn’t feel the need to hunt me down, thinking I might be Faith Unruh’s killer.

  For a few seconds I considered telling him about my adventure of the previous night. But only a few seconds. I knew his reaction would be fairly similar to my own: What were you thinking?

  I shrugged into my jacket, nodded, and left Kennedy’s house feeling a little weird. I’d spent most of the last couple of weeks in this house and wasn’t sure whether I’d ever set foot in it again. No reason to, really. Yes, we were both interested in the same cold case, but it wasn’t like I’d be dropping by for a beer and a chat about it. I got to the end of the walk and looked back at the house. A house that was a surveillance site for an obsessed ex-cop who hadn’t let go. And never would.

  There was part of me that was relieved to be out of there. But for another part of me, yeah, it felt weird.

  I didn’t go directly home. I needed to think. And ever since I got my first car at sixteen, driving through the streets of Calgary had allowed me to do that. I chose Joni Mitchell to background the thinking I wanted to do. First, because it seemed appropriate. And second, because I’d loved her music for pretty well ever.

  I had no destination in mind. I started toward downtown, then changed my mind and rolled back south on Elbow Drive, p
ast the old mansions I loved to look at and dream about. As I often did when I drove this route, I thought about the people who occupied those splendid homes with their often more splendid grounds.

  What secrets did those magnificent walls shield? Because there were secrets. That thought brought me back to the reality of Faith Unruh and that strange, sad street. Every day motorists and pedestrians meandered past Kennedy’s house, their casual glances yielding nothing of the story that unfolded every day between those walls. The former Unruh house was just a few doors down.

  And, of course, there was the house across the street. Stigmatized, I had learned, was the real estate agent term for places where violent tragedies have taken place. Yet, almost none of the people passing would know about that tragedy. Too long ago. Long ago and long forgotten. By most, but not by all.

  I forced my focus back to Ellie Foster — to her life, to her disappearance — and wondered where those secrets were buried. I wondered, too, whether Cobb and I would find them. Could find them.

  I mentally noted some of the questions that were percolating in my mind, questions that, could we answer them, might lead us to her. I reviewed what I had learned so far, recapped the conversations in my mind. There were the questions that had to do with the minute or ninety seconds — it could hardly have taken longer — in back of The Depression. Did Ellie Foster say “Bastard” or “You bastard” as she was being forced into the car? And if it was “You bastard,” did that mean she knew at least one of the men who had just shot her band members to death? And if she did know them, was it possible that she wasn’t forced into the car at all, but actually went of her own volition? Which would make her a participant in the shootings. Then why, if she were part of what had happened that night, if she was actually in league with the killers, did she call him (or them) bastards?

  Then there were the questions swirling around The Tumbling Mustard. What were the topics of those conversations that had taken place at the coffee bar? Who were the participants? And how did Ellie figure in to whatever was going on there — if, in fact, it was anything of consequence?