Page 28 of The Happy Month
“I’ve got some of his financial records.”
“Some?”
“Yeah, there’s no cancelled checks for some reason. His American Express bills are there. It seems he was paying for the florist at Forest Lawn to put flowers on a grave every month for years.”
“Do you think it’s Vera’s grave? Do you think he’s felt guilty for a long time?” Ronnie wanted to know.
“I’m pretty sure the book I found said she’s buried there,” I said.
“It’s not still happening, is it?” John asked.
“I imagine whoever took over his finances put a stop to it.”
We put our empty Styrofoam containers back into the bag they’d come in. I set it outside of 1020 with the Fred Segal bag of matchbooks. Honestly, I wasn’t sure why I was taking those, other than knowing the kind of places Patrick Gill went to might tell me more about him. There wereprobably matches for gay bars in there. Was that where he’d met Vera? In a gay bar somewhere?
Back in the lockup, I made another inventory of what was there. The lawbooks, the weirdly deep desk, the leather sofa—if we did buy all this stuff, I’d want that sofa in the living room. But we weren’t going to buy this stuff. The Karpinskis would never agree to it. Not for what we could afford.
I squeezed my way by the garage things and found a couple of dressers behind the leather sofa. I was able to pull the drawers open a bit. Each was full of clothing. Men’s clothing. I pulled out a pair of slacks. From the fifties or sixties. Not something Patrick would have worn for a very long time. Not something he’d ever wear again. So, why were they here?
The whole thing was stranger and stranger. To put dressers full of clothing into storage suggested this was all done rather quickly. But then, Patrick’s financial records seemed to be severely edited. As were the rooms themselves, denuded of whatever personal photos Patrick had around.
Ronnie snuck up behind me and grabbed me around the waist. “What are looking at?” he asked.
“You’re supposed to be in your own lockup,” I said, turning around and pulling him into my arms.
“You’re going to be really happy with me,” he said, giving me a quick kiss.
“Why?”
“I called the florist at Forest Lawn, told them I was Patrick Gill’s son, the late Patrick Gill, said that he was sending flowers for years and I wanted to know whose grave they were put on. He didn’t want to give me a name, I was like, they’re both dead, what harm could itdo? He still wouldn’t tell me. But… he gave me like an address.”
“For a grave?”
“Basically. Lot 2077, space 3. We should go after this. It’s on the way home.”
“The long way home.”
“Do you want to make a separate trip?”
He was right. He usually was. I didn’t have time to come back to L.A. until at least Monday.
“Sure, we’ll go after this.”
He kissed me, deep and sexy. Then he stuck his hand down my pants.
“Uh, if you wanted to do that you should have thought of it while John was getting lunch.”
“You could have thought of it.”
“You’re the planner.”
“In that case, plan to get busy on Saturday. We have to christen the co-op.” He kissed me and then walked away. I had to rearrange myself and think of baseball for a couple of minutes before I could continue.
We poked around for another hour and a half without finding anything—except more things Ronnie wanted. About three, I said “Okay, let’s pack up and leave. All we were taking were the matchbooks and the accordion folders, which were going to take several days to fully understand. Not to mention, I had to ask myself whether that was going to matter in the end. I’d probably discovered the most important thing: that Patrick was sending flowers to Vera’s grave every month. But what did that prove? Except that he felt guilty, which I already knew.
“Can you guys put the boxes back?” I asked.
“Your shoulder hurts?” Ronnie asked.
