“I think we’d better go see PJ.”
It was, we discovered, PJ’s day off. He was not at Louie’s or at home. Dusk was settling over the island before we finally caught up with him at Sloppy Joe’s, by which time he was three sheets to the wind. I grabbed him at the bar and led him by the hand to a table.
I hastily made introductions. “This is Mark James, a friend of mine.”
PJ nodded and lifted his longnecked bottle of beer in a drunken toast. He blinked several times, as if trying to clear his vision, while he openly admired my attractive masculine companion. Mark seemed oblivious.
Raising my voice above the din of the crowd and band, I said to PJ, “Beryl’s manuscript. Did she make a copy of it while she was here?”
Taking a swig of beer and rocking to the music, he replied, “Don’t know. She never said anything about it to me, if she did.”
“But is it possible?” I persisted. “Might she have done this when she photocopied the letters she gave to you?”
He shrugged, beads of perspiration rolling down his temples, face flushed. PJ was more than drunk, he was stoned.
While Mark looked on impassively, I tried again. “Well, did she carry the manuscript with her when she went out to photocopy the letters?”
“… just like Bogie and Bacall …” PJ sang along in a hoarse baritone, slapping the edge of the table in rhythm with the mob.
“PJ!” I cried loudly.
“Man,” he protested, his eyes riveted to the stage, “it’s my favorite song.”
So I sank back in my chair and let PJ sing his favorite song. During a brief break in the performance, I repeated my question. PJ drained his bottle of beer, then replied with surprising clarity, “All I remember is Beryl had the
knapsack with her that day, okay? I gave it to her, you know. Something she could use down here to haul her shit around in. She headed off to Copy Cat or somewhere, and she sure as hell had the knapsack with her. So, yeah.”
He got out his cigarettes. “She might’ve had the book in the knapsack. And she might’ve made a copy of it when she copied the letters. All I know is she left me the one I handed over to you whenever it was.”
“Yesterday,” I said.
“Yeah, man. Yesterday.” Shutting his eyes, he started slapping the edge of the table again.
“Thank you, PJ,” I said.
He didn’t pay any attention as we left, pushing our way out of the bar to escape into the fresh night air.
“That’s what’s known as an exercise in futility,” Mark said as we began walking back to the hotel.
“I don’t know,” I answered. “But it makes sense to me that Beryl would have copied the manuscript when she copied the letters. I can’t imagine her leaving her book with PJ unless she had a copy.”
“After having met him, I can’t imagine her doing so, either. PJ’s not exactly what I’d call a reliable custodian.”
“Actually he is, Mark. He’s just a little carried away tonight.”
“Fried is the word.”
“Maybe that’s what my appearance did to him.”
“If Beryl copied her manuscript and carried it back to Richmond with her,” Mark continued, “then whoever killed her must have stolen it.”
“Frankie,” I said.
“Which may explain why he next went after Gary Harper. Our friend Frankie got jealous, the thought of Harper in Beryl’s bedroom driving him crazy–crazier. Harper’s habit of going to Culpeper’s every afternoon is in Beryl’s book.”
“I know.”
“Frankie could have read about that, known how to find him, figured it was the best time to catch him by surprise.”
“What better time than when you’re half crocked and getting out of your car on a dark driveway in the middle of nowhere?” I said.
“Just surprises me he didn’t go after Sterling Harper, too.”
“Maybe he would have.”
“You’re right. He never had the chance,” Mark said. “She spared him the trouble.”
Reaching for each other’s hands, we fell silent, our shoes quietly scuffing along the sidewalk as the breeze stirred the trees. I wanted the moment to go on forever. I dreaded the truths we had to face.