Читать книгу Last Song Sung - David A. Poulsen - Страница 7

The reading was a long way from happy.

Cobb had wanted to get home to have time to get ready for the evening’s social function, so I gathered Monica Brill’s file and pulled on my peacoat — a bit of overkill, as fall had been easy on southern Albertans so far. My destination was the Purple Perk seven or eight blocks away; one of my favourite coffee haunts in that part of the city.

Monica Brill’s file wasn’t comprehensive, but there was enough there to answer some of the questions I had and to prompt some I hadn’t thought of. It contained at least part of the homicide file. Having already read the statement of the lone eyewitness about what had happened in the alley behind The Depression fifty-one years before, I decided to go to the police report next.

It looked to my untrained eye like the work of the two police investigators, Norris Wardlow and Lex Carrington, had been both thorough and well documented. They had interviewed club management and staff, as well as several, though not all, of the patrons who had been there that night. The officers acknowledged and were frustrated by the fact that some of the audience had fled as word of what was going on in the back alley had spread inside the club. The two cops even talked to a couple of cleaners who had been working in a nearby building. The cleaners had heard the commotion but seen nothing. Because the area was commercial, there had not been the usual canvas of nearby residents.

During the first days of the investigation, Wardlow and Carrington had focused on two things: learning all they could about Ellie Foster and the two shooting victims, and trying to find the car that had been used by the two gunmen. They had checked out several cars that answered the minimal description given by Guy Kramer. They were unable to find the one used in the commission of the crime. As for Monica’s grandmother, while the two officers were able to put together a fairly detailed account of Ellie Foster’s early years, they’d been less successful at discovering much about her life as a professional performer or anything that might have provided a motive for her kidnapping.

Ballistics identified the murder weapon as a Colt Python and determined that both victims had been killed with the same gun. Six rounds in all were fired — three struck one of the victims, two hit the other, and one round missed both men and ended up embedded in the back wall of the building that housed The Depression.

The investigators surmised (admitting it was only a theory) that one man had driven the car and that the second man, the passenger, was likely the shooter. Though the witness, Guy Kramer, had been very sure both men had gotten out of the car, he wasn’t able to say for certain which one was the shooter. And though he thought both had been carrying guns, he hadn’t been willing to state that fact with certainty. The investigators had guessed that the reason for his uncertainty was that he had ducked for cover behind the garbage cans as the shooting had started and may have had only a couple of glimpses of what actually happened — afraid to take a longer look for fear of being seen and ending up as the next victim. Understandable.

Carrington and Wardlow had also interviewed Ellie’s family members: a sister, June, who was three years older and lived in Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan (it was she and her husband who had raised Monica Brill’s mother); Ellie’s mother, who lived in London, Ontario (Ellie’s father was deceased); and a cousin, who lived in Walkerton, Ontario, a couple of hours from London. I read the transcripts of the interviews, and beyond shock and sorrow, none of the family members were able to shed any light on what had happened in the back alley, or why.

Only one comment of even mild interest came of those interviews. In response to the question, “Had your daughter seemed worried or anxious in the days or weeks before she was kidnapped?” Ellie’s mother had replied, “No, not worried or anything like that, but she seemed different. Sort of cold and unhappy, and that wasn’t my daughter.” Though Carrington and Wardlow had asked follow-up questions, Mrs. Foster had no explanation for her daughter’s altered personality other than, “Maybe she wasn’t handling becoming successful very well.”

The detectives also spoke to the caregiver who had looked after Ellie’s baby girl, Monica’s mother, in London, Ontario, where Ellie had lived for the previous two years when she wasn’t on the road performing. Again, nothing. The investigators were not successful in finding the baby’s father. It was one of the questions they’d asked in every one of their interviews, but apparently Ellie Foster had not divulged that information to anyone — at least not to any of the people the cops questioned. Either that, or the people who did know the father’s identity had been sworn to secrecy and weren’t willing to betray a confidence, not even after the death of the person who had asked for that confidence.

I read a while longer. What I found in those pages confirmed my belief that the two officers had worked hard. Wardlow had flown to Ottawa and talked to several people at Le Hibou, the club Ellie had performed at before her Depression gig. The two detectives also contacted a club called The Bunkhouse in Vancouver, where she was scheduled to appear the following week. The trail quickly became cold, and as I read and re-read the police report I could sense the growing exasperation of the two men. There were virtually no leads, nothing that would even remotely explain what had happened that night. They dug into the backgrounds of the two band members who were shot, thinking that maybe Ellie Foster wasn’t the main target of the attack. Again, nothing.

Eventually I sat back in my chair, drank espresso, and thought about what I’d read. I concluded that, a half century after the fact, the chance of our solving this case — one that two apparently competent and dedicated cops with the advantage of working it right after the crime had taken place had struck out on — was next to nil.

After pondering that sad reality for several minutes, I pulled the CD copy out of its paper-bag wrapper and, with earbuds in place, spent the next half hour listening to the lone song over and over, trying to find some hidden clue or message buried in the lyrics. I struck out. With authority.

I figured Cobb would repeat my effort the next day, after which he’d decide there was no investigation to be conducted, admit defeat, and move on to something — anything — more promising.

My cellphone rang. This week the ringtone was Robbie Robertson and the boys: The Band. A few bars into “The Weight,” I clicked answer and was listening to my favourite voice in the stratosphere, that of Jill Sawley, the woman I had been seeing for almost a year and with whom I was very much in love.

“Hey, what’s up, Mister? There are two women over here who are hoping you’re having a lovely day and that you’re up for what folks in these here parts refer to as a strawberry shortcake fest. Kyla knows it’s one of your favourites, and apparently thinks we should spoil you. I tried to talk her out of it, but without success.”

“Hnh,” I said.

“Excuse me, but that sounds just a little south of enthusiastic.”

“That’s because, as I am outnumbered two to one, said fest is likely to be followed by my being subjected to a chick flick, a film genre that ranks just slightly above horror on my ‘most hated’ list.”

“Colour me guilty.” She laughed. “Sorry, but the testosterone extravaganzas offered by the likes of Stallone and Schwarzenegger are seldom on the bill at the house of Sawley.”

“‘Seldom’ as in …?”

“Never.”

“Exactly. However, the promise of strawberry shortcake will offset the pain of having to watch Love Actually one more time.”

“Thought that might happen.” Jill laughed again.

I turned serious. “Is strawberry shortcake okay for Kyla?”

Jill’s nine-year-old daughter, who had stolen my heart within minutes of our first meeting, had been diagnosed with Crohn’s disease a few months before, and I was constantly wary that this or that food item might cause her discomfort, or worse.

“It’s not something she should be having often, but in moderation I think we’re okay.”

“Then count me in. Want me to pick up a movie on my way over?” While most of the video stores had disappeared over the last couple of years, there was still one that I frequented and it seemed to stay busy, perhaps because the selection rivalled, and likely surpassed, that of any online carrier.

“Already handled.”

“I was afraid of that.”

I had a couple of hours and spent much of that time writing out and studying the lyrics from the Ellie Foster song, hoping I had missed something in my listening. Scratched out on paper, the words offered no more meaning than they had through the earbuds. I stared long and hard at them.

Summer sun. Summer fun. Some were done

They walked the gentle path

At first asking only that the wind and rain wash their shaking hands

Stopping peace to fame

That person’s name

Man at the mike … so, so bad

But good at play

And always the sadness, the love over and over

The long man points and tells

An owl sits and stares, sound around and through his feathered force

So much like the other place. And so different …

Midnight. Not yesterday, not tomorrow. A time with no day of its own

The last of sun. The last of fun. The last time won

They circle the windswept block

At first telling the youngest ones it’s only a dream

See the balloons, hear them popping

Are they balloons?

No more the sadness, the hate over and over

The long man points and tells

An owl sits and stares, sound around and through his feathered force

Midnight. Not yesterday, not tomorrow. A time with no day of its own

Eventually my eyes ached and my frustration level had me shaking my head and tapping the page hard enough to break one pencil and threaten the welfare of another. And still I saw nothing. The inaccessible ranting of a pharmaceutically modified mind? Or a message? Or something else? Or nothing?

I was having trouble believing that a CD containing one song would suddenly appear fifty years after the disappearance of the person singing the song without there being anything significant about it. It made as much sense to me as the lyrics themselves. I hoped that Jill or Cobb would have more luck deciphering the thing and closed my notebook.

I decided to try something else. I’d been in situations before when having a story appear in the Herald and other national newspapers had been helpful. This was one time when I thought we really had nothing to lose. If reading and remembering the story jarred even one mind to recall a detail that had previously been unknown, then the story would be worth the effort.

And writing it would force me to review again what we did know — mostly from newspaper accounts and the file folder Monica Brill had given us during her visit to Cobb’s office.

I tapped at my keyboard for the next seventy-five minutes, constructing a piece I knew the Herald would use. I forced myself to stay away from conjecture and used only the information that was known: the details about what had happened in the alley behind The Depression that night and the few meaningful facts the police had managed to piece together as to what had happened after that.

As I read it over, I realized the story was pathetically incomplete. But it was all we had for the moment. I added a plea for anyone knowing anything at all to please get in touch with either Cobb or me, and I texted Cobb to let him know what I’d done and that I’d like him to see the piece before it ran. I wanted to be there when he read it to gauge his reaction and answer any questions he might have. I added that I’d read through Monica Brill’s file folder and would bring it along. He got back to me in less than a half hour to say he liked the idea and to suggest we grab coffee or breakfast in the morning.

I texted him back saying I was just heading out the door en route to Jill’s house and that I’d bring Monica’s file folder and a copy of the song lyrics the next morning. Then in capital letters I typed “BREAKFAST.” I was already running late for the strawberry shortcake festival, so I didn’t wait for the answering text.

Before picking up my car from the parking lot behind Cobb’s building, I stopped off at the two-storey brick structure that had once housed The Depression. Parm promised terrific pizza and great wine; neither was an unworthy goal, in my opinion.

Though Cobb and I had been in the place a couple of times, I’d paid little attention to the layout or decor. Once inside, I ordered a beer from the pleasant server I’d seen there before. She told me, in answer to my question, that she had been working there for a little over a year.

While I waited for the beer to arrive, I looked around. Parm was pleasant, clean, and friendly. And offered nothing in terms of instant clues to the world that had existed there fifty years before.

When the server delivered the beer, I asked her if she was aware that the basement of the building had once housed Calgary’s first folk club and coffee house. She shook her head and regarded me suspiciously. I introduced myself and told her I was writing a story about the club and other similar establishments from yesteryear for the Herald — sort of a “Where Are They Now?” piece.

I was skirting, or at least stretching the truth, but didn’t want to scare her off by relating that the place had been the site of one of Calgary’s most infamous unsolved crimes. Later when she came by to ask if I wanted food or another beer, I asked if I could have a look at the basement.

“It’s just storage now,” she said.

“I understand,” I told her. “Just a quick look — it would really help me with the story I’m writing.”

She looked around and apparently decided the young girl who was serving a couple three tables away from me could handle things for a few minutes while she showed me the downstairs area. She led the way to the stairs that wound their way to the basement level, turned on a light near the bottom of the stairs, and stepped aside at the bottom to allow me to see.

“Like I said, we use it for storage.” She sounded apologetic.

“No problem,” I said, and stepped past her to get a better look around.

The ceiling was low. One wall was decorated with a carousel that was a symbol of a later club that had occupied the space, and most of the rest of the place was, as she had stated, storage. Metal shelving units, beat-up chairs, some dishes, a few pots and pans, and one worn but decent-looking chesterfield were the highlights.

I stepped further into the room and tried to imagine where the stage might have stood, pulled out my phone, and snapped a couple of pictures of the space.

The truth was, there was nothing there to indicate that the place where I was standing had once been a happening folk club where Mitchell, Lightfoot, Cockburn, and others had performed in the earliest moments of their careers. I’m not sure what I’d expected. Spirits of long-passed singers? Discarded programs from 1965? A dust-covered microphone?

None of those things, of course, existed. And try as I might, I was unable to get any kind of feel for what had been there fifty years before.

It was a storage area.

I turned to the server and nodded. “Hard to imagine it as a club, huh?”

She glanced around, shrugged. “I guess.”

I thanked her, and we returned to the main floor. I finished my beer, paid my tab, and left what I hoped was a generous tip. Outside, I stood on the sidewalk and stared at the front of the building for a long while, again unable to conjure up ghostly images of yesteryear. I looked up and down the street, trying to determine what buildings still remained of those Monica Brill had noted on her map of the street as it was in 1965.

I walked down the block until I found an opening that led to the alley and circled around to the part of the lane that was directly behind the restaurant. I was standing in the vicinity, at least, of where two people had lost their lives in a hail of gunfire and a young woman had been abducted and never seen or heard from again.

Until now.

If the CD that had been left for Monica Brill was, as she and I suspected, her grandmother singing. I kicked a few rocks around, snapped a few more pictures, and made my way back to the street. I crossed it and then walked to the parking lot at the rear of Cobb’s building. I climbed into my Honda Accord and headed off for strawberry shortcake and a painful movie experience.

I hadn’t gone more than three blocks when I got a call — my first opportunity to try out the hands-free device I’d installed a few days before.

“Hello.” I hoped I sounded like a veteran hands-free guy as I spoke.

“Marlon Kennedy,” the voice on the other end of the line said.

I hesitated. “Kendall Mark,” I said.

“Yeah.”

“You got something?”

“I want to talk to you guys.”

“Sure,” I said. “Got a time and place in mind?”

“Belmont Diner. Thirty-Third Avenue Southwest. Nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”

“Yeah, I think …” I started to respond, then realized I was talking to a dial tone. Kendall Mark, now known as Marlon Kennedy, had hung up. That call had removed any indecision as to where Cobb and I would be meeting in the morning. Except that now there would be three of us.

I fog-walked through the rest of the evening, even the strawberry shortcake that was, I seem to recall, pretty damned wonderful. And the movie, when I was able to concentrate at all, was okay too. Mean Girls … Lindsay Lohan. I laughed a couple of times and nodded dutifully whenever Jill and Kyla gave me their told you this would be amazing look.

After Kyla headed off to bed, a copy of Kathy Kacer’s The Night Spies in hand, Jill poured us each a glass of a Tuscan red and sat next to me on the couch.

We didn’t talk much. Often we didn’t, content to be close to one another, allowing the music — she had selected R.E.M.’s Automatic for the People — to move through and between us. During the second glass of wine I told her of Monica Brill’s visit to Cobb’s office and the search for Ellie Foster that would be our focus, at least for a while.

I showed her the lyrics of the song; she read them, shrugged, and said, “That’s going to take more concentration than I’m capable of right now.”

“Roger that.” I nodded.

“Although there is one thing I might be able to manage to concentrate on.” She placed a hand on my thigh.

“Wicked woman.” I smiled at her.

“The Eagles were singing about me.”

“That was ‘Witchy Woman,’” I pointed out.

She took my hand and began leading me down the hallway. “Like I said, they were singing about me.”