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.
