“Go on.”
“I recall that there was a rather nasty argument one night. I was there as an audience member, and I’ve tried to remember who was playing, but I’m just not sure. But the discussion was loud and quite unpleasant, as I recall.”
“Do you remember who was arguing?”
“It was Fayed and Laird — I’m sure it was both of them — and they were yelling at some guy. I thought at first they just wanted him out of there, that maybe he was drunk and bothering people or something, but it wasn’t anything like that, as I remember.”
“What was it, then?”
“I’m not sure. The only thing I really remember was the guy yelling ‘This is bullshit! It’s all bullshit!’ And the only reason I remember that much is that there was an emcee guy there that night, and after the argument was over he stepped up to the mike and said, ‘And now let’s get back to the music. Here’s (whoever it was) with a special rendition of that old favourite, “Bullshit.”’ It was pretty good — brilliant, actually — because it got people’s minds back on the music and off the unpleasantness.”
“And you don’t know who it was they were arguing with?”
“No, I didn’t know him.”
“You ever see him in there before that?”
“I don’t think so, but I can’t say for sure. I wouldn’t have taken notice of everybody who came and went from there — even when I was performing.”
“Of course not,” I said. I thought about what else I could ask her.
“I guess it’s not much,” she said. “I mean, it could have been a bad cup of coffee, or the guy not liking where he’d been seated. It could have been a lot of things that didn’t matter at all.”
“Or it could be something significant, and I thank you for sharing it with me. One more thing, Paula. Can you remember any other names besides Fayed and Laird? Anybody at all — staff, performers, people in the audience, anybody we might be able to talk to?”
“Are you thinking the place might be important?”
“I don’t know that, Paula, I really don’t. But we’d like to find out all we can about it.”
“Names,” she said. “I should be able to come up with one or two at least. Can you let me work on it for a couple of hours?”
“Of course I can. How about I call you back?”
“I’ll look forward to it. And I hope I can do some good.”
“We’ll be happy with whatever you’re able to put together. Goodbye, Paula.”
I had some time, so I pulled a Rolling Rock from the fridge and sat for a while enjoying the view outside my living room window. It wasn’t an amazing view, but I was especially appreciative after spending over a week in Kennedy’s house, where the only views were of two houses forever linked to a violent tragedy.
I went over everything I knew about The Tumbling Mustard, and after twenty minutes realized it wasn’t a hell of a lot. Two guys: one tall, one maybe Middle Eastern and muscular. Discussions at the bar during and around the performances onstage in a place that, according to Paula Pendergast, was not all about the music like most other coffee houses. And Ellie Foster seemed changed in a negative way after her time there. That was it.
It wasn’t much. I opened a second beer and pushed Rose Cousins’s We Have Made a Spark into the CD player. I flipped open my Day-timer and found the number for Armand Beauclair, the guy who had been an assistant manager at Le Hibou for a time.
I was on a roll. He picked up even faster than Paula Pendergast had. I thought this was a bit of a long shot, that he’d be unlikely to tell me much more than he already had. But, of course, the truth was we didn’t have a lot of hot leads on a club that had sprung up, lingered, then fizzled out all in about eighteen months, as near I could figure.
“Armand? Adam Cullen. We talked a while back about Le Hibou.”
“Of course. How can I help you?” A bit formal, maybe unhappy at my calling again.
“During our previous conversation, you mentioned The Tumbling Mustard.”
“Yes, I did.”
“We’re just trying to get a better handle on the place, and I wonder if you can remember anything else, anything you didn’t think of until after my earlier call. Or even any names, people I could call and chat with.”
“Christ, that was a half century ago.”
“I know I’m asking a lot,” I agreed, “but if there’s anything at all that comes to mind, it just might help.”
He didn’t say anything, and I wasn’t sure whether he was thinking or waiting for a prompt from me.
“How about the owners?” I prompted. “Anything more on them? Fayed and another guy, real tall, skinny. Name of Laird, Cameron Laird.”
Still Beauclair said nothing, at least for another minute or so.
Finally, he cleared his throat and spoke: “You know how it is. You hear stuff. You’re in the same business, and naturally, I guess, people think you’re interested, so, yeah, I’d hear rumours from time to time.”
“What kind of rumours?”
“Oh, just that the two guys who ran the place weren’t real solid citizens, that maybe there was some shady stuff going down in the place.”
“Shady stuff,” I repeated. “Anything specific?”
“God, I can’t remember now. Back then you’d think it might have been drugs, but I can’t say for sure if that was it.”
“You ever hear of anything subversive going on at the TM?”
“The TM,” he repeated. “Wow, I’d forgotten that’s how people used to refer to it. Subversive … subversive how?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I mean, it was a time of protest. Any of that protest get to be more than just songs and talk?”
A pause. “I can’t say one way or the other. Like I said, I was busy helping run our own place. I didn’t have the time or, frankly, the interest in what was happening in Little Italy.”
“Where exactly in Little Italy was it?”
“On Preston — not far from Dow’s Lake. There’s something else there now. Actually, I think there’s been a few different businesses in that spot since the TM. Maybe it jinxed that location.” He chuckled.
“Yeah, maybe.”
“Sorry I couldn’t be more helpful, but I’m glad you guys are still working on finding Ellie. It must be tough.”
“Damn tough,” I admitted, “but I appreciate your help once again.”
After ending the call with Beauclair, I still had a little over an hour before I was to call Paula Pendergast. I didn’t want to rush her and have her miss a possible contact. I decided that, rather than sit and wait for the minutes to tick by, I’d have another go at the Ottawa newspaper. After all, my last search had yielded the Saskatoon Princess.
I grabbed my jacket and cellphone, jotted Paula’s number on a piece of paper, stuffed it in my pocket, and headed for the Accord. Twenty minutes later I was once again settled at a table at the downtown library, scrolling through automated pages of fifty-year-old Ottawa Citizens.
I looked at countless stories, checked Entertainment pages, and flipped through ads — all to no avail until about five minutes before I was to call Paula. I stumbled across something by sheer accident.
I’d confined much of my search to the Entertainment section and had found no mention of The Tumbling Mustard. But as I was scrolling through papers pre-dating the place’s existence, I happened to see a small story not in Entertainment, but in the Lifestyle section of the June 19 edition. The three-paragraph piece talked of a new coffee house opening soon in Little Italy. The place was to be called The Tumbling Mustard, and the owners planned to compete for the best folk and blues acts in the business.
But what was of particular interest to me was that there were three owners mentioned — Laird, Fayed, and a third man, Daniel Gervais, who at the time was a successful movie theatre operator in
Ottawa and nearby Hull.
Silent partner? Folk music lover? And why hadn’t his name shown up previously? I had no idea. I did an online search, got nothing, and called Paula Pendergast.
“I did come up with one name,” she told me, after we had exchanged greetings. “Real nice guy — Ben Tomlinson,” she offered, with more than a trace of pride in her voice. “He was the doorman.”
“Doorman? At a folk club?”
“I know, right?” Paula said. “It was weird, the only place I ever played that was like that. There was this little portable box office thingy outside the front door. People bought tickets and then they’d go inside. The doorman, Ben, would tear their tickets. It was more like going to a movie.”
Going to a movie.
“Any idea where I might find Ben?”
“That’s what’s so cool. I did a search and found a mention of him on an obscure little website called Seniors: The Circle of Life. It contains information on taking care of elderly family members. The site looks like it’s been inactive for a really long time, but there was a list of board members for 2008 to 2009. And there was Ben’s name — if it’s the same Ben Tomlinson. I think it might be, because he was still living in Ottawa at that time in what sounds like Gloucester. And I even found a phone number for him.”
“Did you call him, Paula?” I hoped the answer was no. I didn’t really want my call to be announced.
“No, I wasn’t sure the number would still be valid. And I thought I’d better leave that to you.”
Good girl. She recited the number, and I jotted it down in my notebook.
“One more thing, Paula. You ever hear of somebody named Daniel Gervais?”
A pause while she thought about it. “No, I don’t think so. I don’t recall that name. Should I have heard of him?”
“I read a report that he might have been a third owner of The Tumbling Mustard — along with Laird and Fayed.”
Another pause. “If he was, I don’t remember him. And I’m sure I’d remember one of the owners if I’d ever met him — they’re kind of important to performers.”
“I understand,” I said.
“But maybe Ben can help you with that.”
“Maybe he can,” I agreed. “And thanks for this, Paula. You’ve been tremendously helpful again. This is much more than I’d asked you to do, and I won’t forget it.”
“I just hope it helps, Adam. Do you feel you’re getting any closer?”
“Depends on what time of day you ask me.”
“I’m sure there must be frustrations.”
“A few,” I admitted. “But you’ve been great,” I said again.
We ended the call, and then I phoned Armand Beauclair, who informed me he’d never heard of Daniel Gervais. This time I was sure Beauclair was getting tired of hearing from me.
Next, I called Cobb.
“I’ve got a new name, but beyond the name I haven’t got much else.” I told him about Gervais’s name being mentioned prior to the opening of The Tumbling Mustard.
“Maybe he dropped out of the deal before the place opened,” Cobb suggested, “and was never a player.”
“That’s absolutely possible, but I’m not sure we should blow the thing off without checking, if we can.”
“I agree,” Cobb said. “Leave it with me. I’ll make some calls.”
“Okay, and while you’re doing that, Paula gave me the name of the doorman: Ben Tomlinson, possibly still living in Ottawa. She also dug up an old phone number for the guy. Or at least for a guy with that name.”
“Maybe we should hire the Saskatoon Princess full-time.”
“So far, she’s at least as effective as the journalist guy you’ve got working for you.”
“Feeling sorry for yourself doesn’t look good on you, my friend.”
“Point taken. Let me see if I can reach Tomlinson.”
We rang off, and I stared at my computer screen for a while, willing it to start flashing clues. Cobb was right. I had been feeling sorry for myself and was becoming a pain in the ass — even to myself.
Except, of course, what I was feeling was more self-blame than self-pity, my ill-conceived Faustian arrangement with the MFs never out of my mind. More and more, I was hoping they’d just let it drop and not follow up on my requested donation to the Let the Sunshine Inn. And, more and more, I was convinced that was not going to happen. I repeatedly had to force myself to concentrate on what I should be doing and not what I almost certainly should not have done.
I called the number Paula had given me, struck out, tried 411, and was given another number for a Ben Tomlinson. I tried that number, got a man’s voice mail, and left a brief message saying I was freelancing a story about Ellie Foster and would like to talk to Ben Tomlinson, if this was his number, about his time at The Tumbling Mustard. It was the old fallback lie, but I wasn’t comfortable talking about our investigation on the voice mail of a man I didn’t know.
I decided to call Jill next.
“Hey,” I said. “Miss me?”
“More every day. And just so you know, there are two of us over here who feel that way.”
“Actually, that’s what I was calling about.”
“Oh?”
“Listen, I feel like I haven’t been there for either of you guys lately. I spend ten days or whatever it was at Kennedy’s house, then I swing back into this case full bore. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if the pair of you have started to wonder about your choice of male companion.”
“You’re not serious.”
“Actually, I am. The last time we did anything that could be categorized as fun was … hell, I can’t even remember. I mean, Kyla has Crohn’s disease, for God’s sake, and I bet it’s been days since I even asked how she’s doing, and —”
“Hold it right there, mister.” The laughing lilt that was almost always in Jill’s voice was gone for the moment. “First of all, I think it should be up to Kyla and me to decide if we’re feeling neglected. And we’re not. You’ve been wonderful to both of us, and Kyla adores you. So get all the really dumb thoughts out of your head. We both know you’ve been busy, and we’re making a list of all the things you’re going to have to do to make it up to us right after you find Ellie Foster.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“What’s going on, Adam? This doesn’t sound at all like you.”
I wanted so badly to tell her about what I’d done, my ill-thought-out approach to the MFs. But, of course, I couldn’t do that. Instead, I said, “It’s been fifty years, Jill. I’d give anything to find her, or at least be able to say what happened to her, but it just seems so …”
“Wasn’t last night helpful? I thought we —”
“Last night was totally helpful,” I said, cutting her off. “You guys were all amazing. It’s not that. It’s just … I don’t know what it is.”
“Sounds like a good old-fashioned case of the blues to me. Is there anything I can do?”
I sat up. “Yeah, actually there is. You can let me come over and barbecue up some burgers and tell me how great they are after we’ve eaten them.”
“Deal.”
“And then you and your daughter will be crushed by yours truly in the game of your choice.”
“Hey, we’re good, but we can’t do the impossible here.”
“Ha ha.”
I hadn’t even set my phone down when it rang again.
“What, you’ve already decided which game will establish my male superiority?”
“It’s Kennedy.”
“Sorry,” I mumbled. “Thought you were somebody else.”
“No shit. That’s why they have caller ID.”
“For the record, that’s not why they have caller ID. How can I help you, Marlon?”
“You got any time today? I have a couple of things I’d like yo
u to see.”
I thought about whether I wanted to spend any time with Marlon Kennedy today. If Jill was right and I had the blues, Kennedy was very capable of turning blue to black. But if he had something to share on the Faith Unruh case, I didn’t want him running off and doing something impulsive, then saying, I called, but you didn’t have time for me.
“I can be there in an hour.”
“Good. Except not here. I’ll buy you a beer at the Rose and Crown. You know it?”
“I know it. I’ll see you there.”
Nine
I had some time and was still feeling the invariable lift I got from talking to Jill. I decided I could face what Cobb called the tip line and what I called the phone messages from hell. This time there were twenty-one messages, three deserving of callbacks. The good news was that Bernie had apparently taken the day off.
The first two callbacks netted me nothing I didn’t already know. The third call was to someone named Alfie Keller. He picked up after two rings.
“Adam Cullen, Mr. Keller. You left a message that indicated you might have some information concerning the disappearance of Ellie Foster.”
“Yes, I did.”
“I appreciate the call, sir. Why don’t you tell me what you know?”
“I was at The Depression that night.”
I sat up. Interested but cautious. I’d had big first lines from callers before — I saw the getaway car; I saw Ellie arguing with two guys the afternoon of her kidnapping; Ellie and I were lovers — but in every case, the statement proved to be false.
So this could go nowhere. But better to be ready.
“What night was that, Mr. Keller?”
“February 28, 1965. I was a big fan of Ellie Foster’s. Sat through her shows maybe ten or twelve times between that last string of gigs and the one before it.”
Promising.
“What can you tell me about that night, Mr. Keller?”
“I don’t know if I can tell you anything useful, but I thought I should at least call to see if I could help somehow. It was terrible that she disappeared like that, but to still be missing … or … after all this time, it’s horrible beyond belief.”
Last Song Sung Page 19
