Last Song Sung

by David A. Poulsen

  Cobb looked over at me, and I sensed he wanted to jump into the conversation. I gave a little nod. It’s not like I was enjoying some kind of rapport with Tomlinson. He was answering the questions but not really giving me much.

  Cobb must have been thinking the same thing. He leaned forward on the couch. “You really didn’t say much about Fayed. Can we try that again?”

  A cloud came over Tomlinson’s face, and I thought we might have lost him, but he recovered and pulled the half smile back into place. “You’re right,” he said pleasantly. “The problem was, I really didn’t know him very well. He tended to hang out with certain people, and I wasn’t really one of them. I didn’t know much about him. I knew he was born in Egypt, moved to California as a teenager, then to Ottawa a year or two before The Tumbling Mustard opened its doors.”

  “He have a family?”

  “Not then.”

  “Later?”

  “No idea.”

  “What did he do with his time away from The Tumbling Mustard?”

  “No clue.” Tomlinson shook his head. “Like I said, I didn’t hang with the guy. I know he worked out a bunch, and somebody said he was a big soccer guy. I don’t know if that was as a player or a fan, but I remember hearing that. And that’s about the extent of how well I knew him.”

  “How about Laird?”

  “Same answer.”

  “What answer was that, Ben?”

  Again a hint of a frown, then, “Didn’t know him beyond seeing him at work. Except he was the guy who paid us. We handed in time sheets, and at the end of the month he came around with the cheques, handed them out.”

  “When the news hit that Ellie Foster had disappeared, what was the reaction of Fayed and Laird?”

  Tomlinson shrugged. “Shock, I think, like everybody else. I mean, it was a terrible thing, and when you actually know the person this has happened to … I guess it hit all of us pretty hard.”

  Cobb glanced at me, an invitation to jump back in.

  “Ben, I know I asked you about this when we talked on the phone, but we were given to understand that there were a lot of conversations between Fayed and Laird and a number of other people … conversations that seemed almost secretive, maybe conspiratorial. Often these conversations were around the coffee bar area and were long and somewhat intense. Can you tell us anything about that?”

  “Conversations?”

  I nodded but didn’t say anything.

  “I mean, sure, there were conversations. Hell, coffee houses were all about conversation. People singing about and talking about fixing the world. But what you’re suggesting … conspiratorial … I didn’t see any of that.”

  “I know you said you didn’t get to know the performers that well, but can you tell me your impression of Ellie Foster?

  “Impression?”

  “Truth is, Ben, several people said she seemed somehow different after her gig at the TM. Did you notice that at all?”

  “Different?”

  Tomlinson was a master of the delayed response. Repeat a word from the question to buy time while you thought about your answer. I’d seen it in lots of interviews I’d conducted over the years — often when the person being interviewed was feeling uncomfortable.

  “Changed,” I said. “Maybe more serious, not as happy.”

  He thought for a while before answering, finally shaking his head as he spoke. “No, I didn’t see that. But then I wouldn’t have, would I? I didn’t know her before she played there, and I never saw her after. So I can’t comment on whether she was … changed. I can’t recall her being unhappy, though. Seemed to me that the way she was on stage was all about happy. She gave off this vibe. It was the love generation, after all. And Ellie was definitely a part of that generation.”

  “But not everybody who was part of the love generation was happy,” Cobb said. “I mean, I wasn’t there, but it was also a time of unrest, of wanting change and being willing to do things that didn’t feel much like love to effect that change. Did you see any of that around the TM, Ben?”

  A pause, then a shrug. “Hell, I’m sure there were radicals came into the place. I mean, they were everywhere, so they’d have to be in the TM occasionally, wouldn’t they? But if you’re asking me if suddenly Ellie went all radical, I really didn’t see that. Sorry.”

  Cobb sat back again.

  I said, “Something else I think I asked you earlier — Ellie Foster disappeared on the twenty-fifth of February. Can you recall if Laird and Fayed were around the TM at that time?”

  “You mean were they in Ottawa and not out in Calgary shooting guys and kidnapping Ellie? Yeah, I think I can say they were around the club at that time. Like I told you, they were never away for more than a day or two at a time. So no, they didn’t kidnap Ellie, which is what I think you’re asking. Sorry to ruin your story.”

  Tomlinson had switched again — the voice was once again cold, and his body language was leaning toward Get the fuck out of here.

  Cobb stepped back in, undeterred by our host’s suddenly unpleasant demeanour. He spoke to Tomlinson’s father.

  “Did you ever get to The Tumbling Mustard, sir?”

  I was looking at Tomlinson when Cobb asked his question, and it was obvious he was uncomfortable with his father having to answer. “Just a min—” he began, but the elder Tomlinson held up a hand to stop him.

  He looked at Cobb, and the halting voice spoke: “I was there from time to time, yes. Liked the place, at least the music. Loved the music.”

  Cobb smiled and nodded. “Did you ever see Ellie Foster perform, Mr. Tomlinson?”

  The old man swallowed a couple of times before answering. I continued to watch the younger Tomlinson, who seemed to be worried that the effort to answer questions was taking a toll on his father.

  The old man nodded. “Yes, I did. She was wonderful. Quite wonderful.” He swallowed a couple more times. It seemed to require an effort.

  “Dad, I think we’d better get you back to your room for now. You’re looking pretty tuckered. And we’ve got a big day tomorrow — doctor’s appointment in the morning and lunch at your favourite place.”

  The old man looked like he wanted to argue the point, but he finally responded with a slight nod. I was disappointed to see him go. Other than the swallowing, he didn’t appear to be in a great deal of discomfort. At least, not any more discomfort.

  Tomlinson rose, turned his father’s wheelchair, and started in the direction of the bedroom. “I’ll just be a minute,” he said, without turning to look at us.

  I looked over at Cobb, my eyebrows raised. The bedroom was too close for us to say anything that wouldn’t be heard. Cobb got up and crossed to the part of the living room where the old photos were displayed. I also stood up, more to stretch my legs, and wandered around the room.

  It was a pleasant space. There were older paintings on the wall; at least, I assumed they were old. Certainly the frames were. Antique tools and kitchen implements hung on nails here and there. It was an attempt at rustic, and I thought it worked.

  I stepped closer to examine the paintings and artists’ names. Not all were signed, and those that were tended to be by artists I didn’t know — maybe locals, though clearly some were very good. Lots of landscapes — I wondered if they were of nearby places.

  Among those that were signed, several were French Canadian names. Some were only initials. One of the paintings stood out, at least for me. It was a vibrant splash of greens and golds, with a young boy in the foreground sitting on the bank of a pleasant stream. The boy was leaning against a tree but not facing the stream, at least not face on. Instead, he was to one side of the tree, facing what looked to be downstream. A forest canopy stretched out behind the boy and the stream. His knees were pulled up, and he rested his arms on his knees, his chin on his arms. And he looked unhappy, or at least deeply contemp
lative. It was an image that drew you in, almost forcing you to wonder what the boy was thinking so hard about.

  I looked for the artist’s name, hoping I’d see more of his or her work. No name — only the initials D.G.

  I was about to wander the place to see if D.G. had anything else on display when Tomlinson returned from the bedroom. “Sorry about that.” He rubbed his hands together. “Well, if that’s everything, I do have some work to do. I don’t know if I was much help with your story. But I look forward to reading it when it comes out.” His voice conveyed something, I wasn’t sure what — maybe it was my imagination. I got the feeling he doubted there would be a story. But I couldn’t tell if it was because he thought we weren’t capable of writing it or he sensed our cover was bogus.

  Cobb wasn’t in a hurry to leave. He finally turned to face Tomlinson without moving from the photo gallery corner.

  “Ben, let me ask you something,” he said. “Do you have any idea who might have kidnapped Ellie Foster?”

  “I really don’t.” Tomlinson shook his head sadly. “I won’t say I haven’t thought about it, especially in the months and even the first few years after it happened. And that’s what makes it so tough — she truly was as wonderful as my father said she was.”

  Cobb nodded and looked at me. I gave a small head shake to tell him I had nothing more. He started for the door, then stopped and turned to Tomlinson, who was behind us.

  “One last thing. I’m wondering if you might be able to give us a list of other people who worked at The Tumbling Mustard.”

  Tomlinson shook his head. “After Adam called” — he gestured in my direction — “I did some thinking about that. I actually wondered if there was someone at the TM who might have been involved in the incident out in Calgary. And I came up with nothing at all. Truth is, a lot of the people who worked there were there for only a short time — students making a little money to help with their schooling, hippie types who just wanted to work a few hours. I came up with maybe two or three names in all, and those people have been dead for some time. So I’m afraid I can’t help you on that score. Sorry.”

  Cobb looked like he wanted to pursue the point but changed his mind. He continued to the door. I followed as Tomlinson moved past us to open the door. “I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay in our part of the world,” he said, smiling. “And I wish you every success with the story.”

  Again, the slightest hint of sarcasm. I was pretty sure our cover had been blown.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  Cobb merely nodded. And then we were out of the house, the door closed behind us. Firmly, I thought. Not exactly rudely, but definitely firmly.

  Once we were in the car and out of the driveway, I said, “Well, what did you think?”

  “He kind of blew hot and cold,” Cobb observed, “depending on where the conversation was going.”

  “Does that tell you anything?”

  Cobb shook his head slowly. “Other than the fact there were things he liked talking about more than some other things, not much.”

  “Did you believe the thing about the names, that there wasn’t anybody he could give us?”

  Cobb shrugged. “Hard to say. It was a hell of a long time ago. So maybe he was telling the truth. I can’t say I have a warm spot in my heart for Mr. Tomlinson the younger, but that isn’t a good reason to suspect he was lying.”

  “The guy felt a little oily to me,” I said.

  “Has that about him, all right.” Cobb nodded. “I would have liked to spend a little more time with his father. Got the impression Ben didn’t want that. But in fairness, that might have been because of the old man’s health. He may simply have thought a lot of questions would tax his father’s strength, and looking at the older Mr. Tomlinson, that might have been the case.”

  We drove in silence for a while. I wanted to enjoy the scenery, but the realization that we were pretty much at the end of our leads spoiled the view at least somewhat.

  “You think Ben believed we just wanted to write a story?” I asked.

  “I can’t say for sure.” Cobb shrugged. “But I don’t know that it matters. I don’t think he would have given us any more either way.”

  “Any thoughts as to what we should do next?”

  “Not really,” Cobb replied. “But while we ponder our next move, I think we should sample some Ottawa cuisine.”

  Twelve

  We were upstairs in the Vittoria Trattoria, an Italian restaurant in the ByWard Market. We had already worked our way through some excellent bruschetta and were wrapping up the pasta dishes. Mine was a funghi e pancetta, a penne with ham and sautéed mushrooms in a brandy rosé sauce, and it was damn good. Cobb, ever the conservative gourmand, went with the meatballs and spaghetti, which he pronounced “just as damn good.”

  We had not discussed the case, neither of us wanting to spoil a terrific dinner with a depressing recap of our lack of progress. The waiter had just delivered two more glasses of wine when Stompin’ Tom’s “The Hockey Song” announced an incoming call on my cell and brought smiles to neighbouring diners’ faces. I looked at the call display — no name, but an Alberta number with a 780 prefix, meaning that the call was from the northern part of the province. I told Cobb I’d better take the call, relieved that it wasn’t the MFs with the dreaded payback demand.

  I answered the call as I was making my way down the stairs and out onto the street. A female voice said, “I hope I’m not taking you away from anything.”

  “Not at all,” I answered, noncommittal until I knew who the caller, whose voice was familiar, actually was.

  “It’s Paula, Adam. Paula Pendergast.”

  “Hi, Paula. What’s up? You come up with any more names?”

  “I wish I had,” she said. “No, I just haven’t been able to think about anything else but Ellie Foster and what happened to her. I guess I was just hoping for an update. I hope that isn’t too presumptuous of me.”

  “Not at all, Paula. I understand, but unfortunately I’m afraid we haven’t really gotten any closer to determining what happened to her.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Funny coincidence, though, that you should call today. Cobb and I spent the afternoon with Ben Tomlinson. He has a place out in the Gatineaus. Pretty cool place. Unfortunately, he wasn’t able to give us anything we didn’t already have.”

  “Ben. My goodness. How is he, anyway?”

  “Well, I’d say he looked pretty good. I wish I could say the same for his father. But I think the old man isn’t going to be around much longer. He looked pretty emaciated and sickly. I’m no expert, but I’d say it might be cancer.”

  She was quiet for a long while. I guessed she was upset at the news about Tomlinson’s father. When the silence continued, I said, “Did you know Ben’s dad, Paula?”

  “Are you sure it was Ben Tomlinson you were speaking to?” she asked me.

  I wasn’t sure how to react to a question so odd. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

  “Ben Tomlinson’s dad is dead.”

  I didn’t understand. “But he seemed —”

  “No, I mean he died a long time ago.”

  It was my turn to fall silent. After a few seconds, I said, “How do you know that?”

  “It was really sad.” Her voice was so soft I had to press the phone harder to my ear to hear her. “It was when I was performing at The Tumbling Mustard. One night Ben wasn’t at his usual spot at the door, and I asked Laird if anything was wrong. He told me that Ben’s dad had died that morning of an aneurysm. It was terrible; I think he was only in his forties. When Ben came back to work a couple of days later, he was so terribly down. I think they must have been really close. I guess I kind of became the person he could talk to, and we spent a couple of long nights with him telling me about his dad. That’s why when you said you met h
is father … well … that’s just not possible.”

  I took a couple of deep breaths while I processed what she’d said. “Paula,” I said, “do you happen to know if Ben ever married?”

  “I don’t know for sure. I thought we’d stay in touch after my time at The Tumbling Mustard, especially with him losing his dad and all, but you know how it is — it just didn’t happen.”

  “Listen, Paula, I have to run, but thanks for the call, and believe me, you weren’t bothering me one bit. And if we find out anything definitive about Ellie Foster, you’ll be my first call.”

  “Thank you, Adam, that’s very kind of you.”

  I disconnected and took the stairs two at a time back up to the second floor, almost laying out our waiter as I reached the top of the staircase. I apologized and made my way quickly, and a little more carefully, back to our table. Cobb had finished his dinner and was looking impatient.

  I sat down. “Sorry, but that was a call I’m glad I took. It was Paula Pendergast, the Saskatoon Princess, with some very interesting information.”

  “Good. I ordered tiramisu, so why don’t you finish your pasta while you talk?”

  I nodded. I took one bite of the pasta, a sip of wine, and leaned forward, lowering my voice. “There’s something strange going on. The old guy we met today wasn’t Ben Tomlinson’s father. Paula told me that Tomlinson’s dad died during the time she was performing at The Tumbling Mustard.”

  Cobb was about to take a drink of wine. The glass stopped halfway to his lips, and he set it back down.

  “Is she sure?”

  “One hundred percent positive.”

  Cobb was looking at me, but I could tell he wasn’t seeing me or anything else. He was in an almost trance-like state as he digested the news.

  After a couple of beats, he said, “So who was the old man?”

  “Good question. Father-in-law?

  “We can check that. But why lie about it? If he’s the father-in-law, then just say that — it’s hardly incriminating.”