Last Song Sung

by David A. Poulsen

  For a second, I stopped cold. I was hoping Cobb wasn’t watching me. I’m sure that at the very least I turned somewhat white at Jill’s news. Until that call, a part of me had hoped Scubberd and the MFs would forget about our conversation and just go away. That clearly hadn’t happened. I wasn’t dumb enough to believe that out of the blue, some other anonymous benefactor had stepped up just days after I had made what I was now convinced was one of the biggest mistakes of my life. And the worst part was I’d have to continue to deceive a woman I had promised myself I’d never lie to.

  “That’s great, babe.” I made my voice sound excited, hoping she wouldn’t sense it was fake. “See, I told you there was no reason to worry.”

  “You can’t even imagine the relief all of us at the shelter are feeling right now. The weight of the world and all that.”

  “I can imagine. We’ll have to celebrate when I get home.”

  “Affirmative on that. Hey, are you okay? You don’t sound 100 percent. You don’t sound like you.”

  “Sorry, just a lot going on with the Ellie Foster thing. But I’m totally jacked to hear your news. That is amazing, and I’m really happy for you and Celia. I know how worried you both were.”

  “Listen, I’d better not keep you. I know you guys have work to do. I hope it’s going well.”

  “Hard to say. We might be making a little progress.”

  “Just keep slugging, okay?”

  “Okay, Coach, we will.”

  “I love you, Adam Cullen.”

  “And I love you. I’ll call you later.”

  We ended the call, but I didn’t walk back to where Cobb and Beacham stood talking. I needed a few seconds to gather myself. I kept thinking of the words of the lovely Mrs. Scubberd as she had looked at me across the table at the Harley Diner. 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.

  And now the “partnership” had been confirmed.

  I glanced over to where Beacham and Cobb looked like they were wrapping up their chat. Cobb gestured at me, so I made my way back over. Beacham reached out a hand. “This is where I leave you, gentlemen. We’re having people for dinner, and if I don’t get home in time to help … well, you guys know how that is.”

  I nodded and smiled as I shook his hand. “Thanks for the help,” I said. “You’ve been terrific.”

  “What he said.” Cobb, too, shook the offered hand.

  “Glad to try.” Beacham grinned. “Hope I was some help. And if I find out anything more on the causes of death for the Five Minutes to Midnight group members, or any of the other things we talked about, I’ll let you know.”

  “Thanks again,” Cobb said.

  We watched as Beacham crossed the street and disappeared into the growing crowd of people who were beginning to populate Preston Street.

  “Bad news?”

  “What?” I said.

  “The phone call. Everything okay?”

  “Better than okay.” I forced a big smile. “A donor has come forward to rescue Let the Sunshine Inn. It was looking more and more like they might have to close the doors, but this anonymous donor came through, so there’s jubilation all around.”

  Cobb regarded me for a few seconds before nodding. “That is good news. Tell Jill I’m happy for her next time you talk to her. Okay, we’d better get to work. We need to find your doorman buddy.”

  “I’ve got an address in Aylmer for the guy,” I said, as we started the walk back to where we’d parked the rental car.

  “I’m thinking we might be able to take the time for one more pastry before we hit the road. Celebrate the good news from home.”

  “You won’t get an argument from me,” I said, although I knew I wouldn’t enjoy it. Jill’s phone call and the sure knowledge that I would be hearing from the MFs one day had killed any potential appetite I might have been able to muster.

  I liked Aylmer right off. Of course, it wasn’t Aylmer anymore, having been amalgamated with Hull, Gatineau, and some others to form the city of Gatineau, Quebec.

  Cobb had decided against calling ahead, preferring an unexpected visit that would lessen the possibility of the interviewee prepping for our questions. The GPS directed us through the urban parts of Gatineau and eventually to the gorgeous fall colours of the Gatineau Hills. I had Tomlinson’s house projected in my mind, and I expected something you might see in the Blue Ridge Mountains — a hillbilly shack with Tomlinson and his toothless father resting on a rickety wooden porch, chewing on straw and knocking back moonshine.

  I was glaringly wrong.

  The house was a two-storey brick affair that sat gleaming in the late fall sun. I wouldn’t have guessed that brick could gleam, but this did, or at least gave that very pleasant impression. The yard that surrounded the house was well-kept — not manicured, but a long way from neglected. The porch was where my projection had come closest. It was a wood construction, protruding out and over white double doors — definitely not rickety. The driveway leading up to the house was flanked by tall, thin, perfectly shaped cedars. In that driveway was a newer-looking blue Ford Explorer, spotlessly clean, its chrome glistening in the afternoon sun. I’m guessing my mouth was open as I looked at the place. I checked the GPS and the address I had, convinced that one or both was incorrect.

  “I’m thinking a doorman’s wages didn’t pay for this place,” Cobb said, as we climbed out of the car.

  “A Canadian senator could be very happy here.”

  “Five bucks says a butler answers the door,” Cobb said, as we advanced on the house.

  “Uh-uh,” I said. “Not touching that one.”

  “When we get in there, I think you should take the lead,” Mike said. “You’ve already talked to the guy. And we stay with our cover story that we’re writing something on Ellie — let’s hang on to that as long as we can.”

  I shrugged. “I’m not sure you want me to lead the charge on the interview. When we talked on the phone, I got the feeling I might have pissed the guy off.”

  “That’s okay,” he said. “You piss everybody off.”

  “Ha ha.”

  We were wrong about the butler.

  When the door opened, the man looking at us appeared to be in his mid to late sixties, maybe a little older. He was tall, on the thin side, and casually dressed in sweater, slacks, and loafers, with an Ottawa Senators ball cap resting atop grey fringes around his head. His face was a road map of lines and creases. If this was Ben Tomlinson, this was not how I had expected him to look. What I had done, of course, was see in my mind’s eye the doorman at The Tumbling Mustard — a wide-eyed twenty-year-old learning about the world around him.

  But that man was fifty years older now, and as I looked at the unsmiling, silent figure who stood in the doorway, I realized this could very well be him.

  “Mr. Tomlinson?”

  When he didn’t answer, I took a step forward. “I’m Adam Cullen. I spoke to Mr. Tomlinson on the phone a couple of days ago. About Ellie Foster. We were out here to follow up on a few things and thought we’d stop by.” I offered a hand.

  He ignored it and didn’t indicate we should come in.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “Are you Ben Tomlinson?” I asked again.

  “I told you everything I remembered when we talked on the phone the other day.”

  “Yes, sir, I’m sure you did. We just had a couple more things we’d like to ask you about.”

  “What kind of things?”

  There was no doubt the former doorman at The Tumbling Mustard was not happy that we were there. There had been a decided change in his attitude near the end of our first conversation, and clearly there had not been a thaw since.

  “This is Mike Cobb.” I gestured to Mike. “He’s working on the story with me.”
/>   Cobb smiled, stayed silent. Tomlinson eyed him for a minute, then turned his attention back to me.

  “What kind of things?” he repeated.

  “I wonder if we could come in just for a few minutes,” I said.

  “How about some ID?”

  I looked at Cobb, who gave the slightest shrug — my call. I knew I didn’t have long, and made my decision. “Mr. Tomlinson, I’m afraid we haven’t been totally truthful. While it is true that I’m working on a story on Ellie Foster’s disappearance, Mr. Cobb here is a private investigator I’ve engaged to assist me. As you know, there are elements of the story that have a criminal connotation, and I thought it best to involve someone with that kind of expertise as an adviser.”

  Tomlinson thought about that. Finally, he said, “I’ll still need to look at that ID.”

  Cobb and I pulled out our wallets and presented our credentials to him — mine as a journalist (out of date, but impressive if given only a cursory glance, and happily Tomlinson’s glance was cursory), and Cobb’s as a private investigator. While Tomlinson looked them over, Cobb gave me an approving wink that said Nice cover.

  Tomlinson returned our IDs, then, as if he’d turned a switch, offered a broad smile and shook both our hands. “Sorry, guys, I haven’t been very hospitable, and that’s not like me. I guess I was just a little suspicious, and I let it get the better of me. Come on inside and let me get you something to drink.”

  I wasn’t sure what had precipitated the attitude change but didn’t really care. Tomlinson stepped back, and Cobb and I followed him into the house. The front hallway was spacious and opened up into the main living room, with the dining area straight ahead.

  Tomlinson gestured at a long L-shaped couch, and Cobb and I sat.

  “What can I get you gentlemen? Beer? Wine? Apple juice?”

  “Just water’s fine for me,” Cobb said.

  “I’ll have an apple juice,” I said.

  “I’ll be right back.” Tomlinson smiled and headed off toward the kitchen.

  I watched him go. He still moved fluidly, not at all like a man taken hold of by arthritis or other afflictions of the aging. I glanced at Cobb, looking for his take on the man, but he was checking out the house, his attention, it seemed, on a series of photographs on one wall of the living room. I followed his gaze to a small table that sat directly in front of the photos on the wall, and it, too, was festooned with framed pictures, some in black and white, others in colour, but all weathered and faded. Old photos.

  Tomlinson returned with a tray bearing the drinks. He passed the water to Cobb and the apple juice to me, then took the last glass from the tray — another apple juice.

  “Thank you.” Cobb pointed his chin in the direction of the photos. “Family?” he asked.

  “Some,” Tomlinson replied. “Actually, not many are family. Most are friends, people we’ve known. Some from a long time ago, as you can see.”

  “Any Tumbling Mustard memories?”

  Tomlinson crossed to the photos. “Just one,” he said, “but it might interest you. It’s Ellie Foster.”

  He crossed the room and returned with one of the framed colour photos from the table. He handed it to Cobb, who held it so that both of us could look at it. I recognized Ellie Foster from the photos Monica Brill had brought us the morning of our first meeting at Cobb’s office. In this photo, Ellie was standing next to a dark-complexioned, unsmiling man. Ellie was smiling, but the smile lacked warmth or any sense of joy.

  “Is that Fayed?” I asked Tomlinson.

  “That is Mister Fayed, yes.”

  “Mister” Fayed, even after all this time.

  “Do you remember when this was taken?” Cobb asked.

  Tomlinson shook his head. “Uh-uh. I’m guessing it was from when she played The Tumbling Mustard, but I don’t know that for sure. The picture is right outside the TM, so that’s certainly possible — and if that’s when it was, that would make it the fall of ’64.”

  I leaned closer to get another look at the photo, this time concentrating on what looked like the front of the coffee house. Not much to see, really. Large double doors were set into a yellowish (mustard?) concrete and brick wall; protruding from the entrance was a kind of box office like you see outside movie theatres, exactly as Paula Pendergast had described. Above the entrance, a sign, also inexpensive, maybe hand-painted in what looked like tie-dyed lettering — The Tumbling Mustard Coffee House. Frankly, it looked like a place I’d walk by, looking for something a little more user-friendly. But maybe it was all the rage in the mid sixties, and maybe I wouldn’t have felt that way if I’d been part of that time and that scene.

  “Pretty lady,” said Cobb. He’d been looking at Ellie while I was checking out the building.

  “Yeah, I guess she was,” Tomlinson agreed, “but not beautiful. Pretty is the right word. But when she smiled, man, that was a little bit of magic right there.”

  He set the picture back on the table, then sat down opposite us, took a sip of his juice.

  “Mr. Tomlinson,” I began, “we’d like to know more about The Tumbling Mustard.”

  Tomlinson shrugged. “Fire away. I can’t say I’ll be much help a half century after the fact, but I’ll do all I can.”

  Before I could ask my first question, there was a noise behind us. We turned to see a man in a wheelchair rolling slowly into the room. If I’d had to hazard a guess, I would have put him at least twenty years older than Tomlinson, making him in his late eighties or early nineties.

  Tomlinson jumped up and hurried to the old man, turning to us as he reached the wheelchair. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I’d like you to meet my father, Arnold. He likes people to call him Arnie. Dad” — he bent slightly toward the old man — “this is the gentleman I was telling you about. Mr. Cullen. It was Mr. Cullen I spoke to on the phone. Mr. Cobb is his … associate. They’re working on the story about Ellie Foster.”

  “Adam and Mike,” I corrected, as both Mike and I stood, unsure of whether we should offer to shake the old man’s hand, whether he’d be able to respond.

  He wasn’t just old. Unlike his son, this was a person who did not look well. I couldn’t tell how tall he’d be when standing, but I guessed that he weighed less than a hundred pounds. Maybe considerably less.

  “Welcome to our home.” The old man smiled as he spoke in a soft, croaking, slightly halting voice, another indication to my untrained eye and ear that he was not well. “I’m pleased to meet you both.” He pulled a wizened hand from beneath the blanket that covered his lap and legs and shakily extended it. I took it first, found it to be bony and cold, though the room was, if anything, a little too warm. Cobb moved alongside me, and he, too, shook the old man’s hand.

  “Good to meet you, sir,” I said, as Mike nodded and smiled.

  The old man looked up at us somewhat questioningly, as if wondering why we were there. I wondered if he had understood his son’s explanation, or even remembered the earlier conversation.

  As if to confirm my doubt, Tomlinson went through the explanation a second time. “These are the newspaper guys, Dad,” Tomlinson said, as he moved behind the wheelchair and moved the old man farther into the room. “I told you about Mr. Cullen … Adam. He called a few days ago. They’re doing a story on Ellie Foster — she’s the singer who performed at The Tumbling Mustard and then was abducted out in Calgary. We’ve talked about it a few times over the years.”

  Tomlinson had elected not to note Cobb’s actual profession, I guessed to keep things simple for the older man, whose eyes hadn’t left Cobb and me.

  “Yes, I remember,” he said.

  I wasn’t sure if he was referring to my phone call to his son or to Ellie Foster’s disappearance.

  “Would you like a juice, Dad?”

  The old man shook his head, and Tomlinson came around the wheelchair, sat back down,
and regarded Cobb and me. Ready. I pulled a notebook and pen out, partly for show and partly to note anything I thought might be useful.

  “How long were you at The Tumbling Mustard, Mr. Tomlinson?”

  “I think we’re all on first names here, so let’s make it Ben. And as for the TM, I was there the day they opened the doors and I was there when they shut the place down.”

  “How were you hired?”

  Tomlinson smiled and scratched his jaw. “Well, now, hired is maybe the wrong word. Initially, I volunteered to help out. I liked the music, and I wanted the place to be another Le Hibou or maybe better. It never was, but …” He stopped talking, and I wasn’t sure whether he’d lost his train of thought or just didn’t want to finish the sentence with some negative comment about the establishment.

  I thought back to my conversations with Paula Pendergast and her statement that The Tumbling Mustard had never been about the music. I wondered what Tomlinson would say to that, but decided to leave that question for the moment.

  “So you weren’t paid to be there?” Cobb asked.

  “Not at first, but then I wasn’t doing a whole lot. I’d help performers set up on stage, pour the odd coffee, take out the trash — odd jobs guy, that was me. Didn’t have to pay for coffee — I guess that was my payment. But maybe a month after the place opened, they decided they wanted a doorman and I got the job. Turned out to be a long-running gig.”

  I wanted to go back over the doorman thing and whose idea it was, but that was when things had turned testy when we’d spoken on the phone, so I decided to let it go.

  “Tell us about Fayed,” I said.

  “As in …?”

  “As in what kind of guy he was. What was he like to work for?”

  “He was fine, same as Laird. Thing is, at the TM there wasn’t a lot of employer-employee dynamic going on. You came in, you did your job; at the end of the night after the customers were gone, you maybe hung around for a while, visited with the performers, had a coffee, or sometimes there’d be beer or wine and we’d have a glass or two. Then you went home, and the next day you came back and did the same thing.”