“I’m hoping her friends might be able to clarify a few points for me–”
“Wait a minute,” he interrupted, sitting up straighter in his chair. “When you say doctor, like what kind of doctor do you mean?”
“I examined her …”
“When?”
“After her death.”
“Oh, shit. You telling me you’re a mortician ?” he asked in disbelief.
“I’m a forensic pathologist.”
“A coroner?”
“More or less.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.” He looked me up and down. “I sure as hell never would’ve guessed that one.”
I didn’t know if I had just been paid a compliment or not.
“Do they always send–what did you call it? — a forensic pathologist like you around, you know, tracking down information like you’re doing?”
“Nobody sent me. I came of my own accord.”
“Why?” he asked, his eyes dark with suspicion again. “You came one hell of a long way.”
“I care about what happened to her. I care very much.”
“You’re telling me the cops didn’t send you?”
“The cops don’t have the authority to send me anywhere.”
“Good.” He laughed. “I like that.”
I reached for my drink.
“Bunch of bullies. Think they’re all junior Rambos.”
He stubbed out his cigarette. “Came in here with their damn rubber gloves on. Jesus Christ. Just how do you think that looked to our customers? Went to see Brent –he was one of our waiters. He’s dying, man, and what do they do? The assholes wear surgical masks and stand back ten feet from his bed like he’s Typhoid Mary while they’re asking him shit. I swear to God, even if I’d known a thing about what happened to Beryl, I wouldn’t have given them the time of day.”
The name hit me like a two-by-four, and when our eyes met, I knew he realized the significance of what he had just said.
“Beryl?” I asked.
He leaned back silently in his chair.
I pressed him. “You knew her name was Beryl?”
“Like I said, the cops were here asking questions, talking about her.”
Uncomfortably, he lit another cigarette, unable to meet my eyes. My bartender friend was a very poor liar.
“Did they talk to you?”
“Nope. I made myself scarce when I saw what was going on.”
“Why?”
“I told you. I don’t like cops. I’ve got a Barracuda, a beat-up piece of shit I’ve had since I was a kid.
For some reason, they’ve always got to pop me. Always giving me tickets for one thing or another, throwing their weight around with their big guns and Ray Bans, like they think they’re stars in their own TV series or something.”
“You knew her name when she was here,” I said quietly. “You knew her name was Beryl Madison long before the police came.”
“So what if I did? What’s the big deal?”
“She was very secretive about it,” I replied with feeling. “She didn’t want people down here to know who she was. She didn’t tell people who she was. She paid for everything in cash so she wouldn’t have to use credit cards, checks, anything that might identify her. She was terrified. She was running. She didn’t want to die.”
He was staring wide-eyed at me.
“Please tell me what you know. Please. I have a feeling you were her friend.”
He got up, saying nothing, and stepped out from behind the bar. His back to me, he began collecting the empty bottles and other trash the young people had scattered over the deck.
I sipped my drink in silence and stared past him at the water. In the distance a bronzed young man was unfurling a deep blue sail as he prepared to set out to sea. Palm fronds whispered in the breeze and a black Labrador retriever danced along the shore, darting in and out of the surf.
“Zulu,” I muttered, staring numbly at the dog.
The bartender stopped what he was doing and looked up at me. “What did you say?”
“Zulu,” I repeated. “Beryl mentioned Zulu and your cats in one of her letters. She said Louie’s stray animals eat better than any human.”
“What letters?”
“She wrote several letters while she was here. We found them in her bedroom after she was murdered. She said the people here had become like family. She thought this was the most beautiful place in the world. I wish she’d never returned to Richmond. I wish she’d stayed right here.”