Page 110 of The Happy Month
Driving back to Long Beach, I fell asleep. That shouldn’t have come as a surprise. I’d been told to take a walk around the block every day. I’d managed it on Sunday, but it had exhausted me. As it turned out, sitting in the car for forty-five minutes then walking into a nursing home had a similar effect.
I woke up around the time we got onto the 710. Junior, noticing I was awake, asked, “What do you think? How much of that was real?”
“I think a lot of it was real.”
“Even after what that woman at the desk said?”
“Gigi was married to a violent man. A couple of people have said that. I’d guess Patrick was either threatened or attacked because of his connection to Vera.”
“And you think Gigi’s husband killed Vera?”
“I do.”
“Gigi is a nickname,” he said. “Georgiana, Georgina, Georgette… almost any name with a G?—”
“Georgia Dawson,” I said.
“That’s someone you talked to?”
“She worked with Vera. She said Vera never talked about anyone named Gigi.”
“I guess we know why she’d say that.” After a moment, he said excitedly, “Where do they live? We’ll go there now.”
“They live in Scottsdale Arizona.”
“Oh my. That’s a six-hour drive. You’re not up for that.”
And he was right. I wasn’t.
Later that afternoon I tried to take a shower and wiped out the next seventy-two hours. I didn’t fall down, but I did slip and slam myself against the tiled wall. Assoon as he got home, Ronnie dragged me to the emergency room so they could do an X-ray. Everything was fine, thank God. The last thing I wanted was more surgery. They gave me another, stronger prescription for pain, and the instructions to stay at home for at least a week.
Seven very boring days of TV and not much else. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. I knew I was going to have to go over to Scottsdale as soon as I got better. But in the meantime, I had to make sure I knew everything I could about Georgia Dawson and her husband Harper. On Thursday, I let the drugs wear off long enough to call Wallace Philburn. When he picked up, I said, “Wally, it’s your old friend Dom. I’ve got a few more questions.”
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
“I knew you’d be excited.”
He hung up on me. I called again. And again. The sixth time he picked up, and said, “Can’t you fucking leave me alone!”
“I’m going to tell you who killed Vera.”
There was a long pause, and then he said, “Go ahead. Tell me.”
“No. I’m going to ask you questions. From my questions you’ll be able to figure it out.”
I knew that once I told him he would just hang up again.
“Go ahead. Ask your goddamn questions.”
“You put a picture of Harper and Georgia Dawson in your book, but you barely mention them. Why?”
“We had to have some kind of art, and the picture was evocative of the period.”
“Tell me everything you remember about the Dawsons.”
“Harper Dawson? He killed Vera?”
“Tell me what you know about them. Where were they living when you interviewed them?”
