Death of an Orchid Lover Page 13

  “I don’t think I can help you.”

  “Why not?”

  “For one thing, the argument never happened.”

  “I have it on good authority that it did.”

  “Your authority is mistaken.” “You’re sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. I would remember if I ever had an argument with Albert. I did not. We got along well. And if I did have an argument with someone, I would never say he had the eyes of a newt.”

  “Maybe I’ve been misinformed. Let’s say I have. But perhaps, as a grower, you might have seen or heard something that would give me an idea of where to go next. For instance, have you heard anything about business dealings between Albert and the Gartners?”

  He frowned, looked away, back at me. “The Gartners?”

  Yes. “David and Helen.”

  “Business dealings? What kind?”

  I’m not exactly sure. “That’s why I asked you.”

  He shook his head. Too fast? Hard to tell. Nothing. I’ve heard nothing like that. “I really don’t know the Gartners very well.”

  “You seem nervous.”

  “Having a virtual stranger question me in my home does that to me.”

  “I’m just trying to—” To what? To see justice done? That was way beyond my limited moral scope. “To help clear Laura’s name. Would you mind telling me where you were Saturday night?”

  “Yes, I would.”

  “Tell me anyway.”

  He looked toward the heavens, then back at me. “Very well. I was at a board meeting of the Anaheim Orchid Society.”

  “Saturday night seems an odd time for a board meeting.”

  “It was a dinner as well. Orchidists enjoy each other’s company. Why not spend Saturday evening together?”

  “I suppose people saw you there.”

  “I suppose they did. Come, let’s go look in the greenhouse. You might find something you want to buy.”

  “I might want to buy one of the flasks.”

  “I don’t think I would sell you one. They’re for people who know more than you do.”

  We went out to the greenhouse. Suddenly he was the same happy-go-lucky guy I’d met at the show. I looked for something to take home. Like I said, I always feel funny about visiting a nursery and not buying anything. I almost got one of the angraecums, but the ones that were significantly sized were too much money, and the ones I could afford were, according to Yoichi, a couple of years from blooming. So I picked out an Isabelia virginalis, a string of tiny pseudobulbs attached to a stick, with a single needlelike leaf poking out from each, the whole affair covered with a webby shroud. Twenty-two dollars. It would have gotten me a massive cactus.

  16

  I MADE IT BACK UP TO HOLLYWOOD IN PLENTY OF TIME FOR my three-thirty callback. I parked at Pep Boys again, did my stint in front of the camera, cut through the store on the way back to the truck. A guy in a short-sleeved white shirt and Daffy Duck tie gave me the eye. “You were all out of fuzzy dice,” I said, and hustled out to the lot.

  I drove up to Franklin, cut over to Beachwood, continued north. I parked in front of Laura’s place, stared at it, willed something important to come into view.

  It worked, though I didn’t know it at the time. The two neighbor boys came skateboarding down the street. The smaller, blond one had Monty the cat draped over his shoulder like a big orange muffler. They were yelling at each other, calling each other “butthole.” When they saw me sitting there, they screeched the skateboards to a halt and stood looking moderately sheepish.

  I gestured them over. I probably looked like a drug dealer.

  “How you kids doing?” I asked.

  “Fine,” said the taller, dark-haired one. Blondie said nothing.

  1“That’s Monty, right?”

  “Uh-huh,” said the shorter one.

  “My name’s Joe. What are your names?”

  They exchanged looks, like their mother had told them not to talk to strangers. But we weren’t exactly strangers. “I’m Sonny,” said the tall one. He had a stud in his ear with a peace sign on it. “My brother’s Crock.”

  What a lousy thing to do. Naming a kid Crock. A Crock boy, like the one who’d dropped the pot and uncovered the secret of the stanhopeas and their hidden flowers. “I was a friend of Laura’s. You remember? You saw me the other day.”

  “She was nice,” said Crock. No earring, but a tattoo of a lightning bolt on his upper arm. It was smudged. Had to be fake. Good thing.

  “She hung out with us when our mom wasn’t home,” said Sonny. “‘Cause she was home a lot in the afternoons. She was nice.”

  “Real nice,” said Crock.

  Okay, we were making progress. We’d established that Laura was nice. “You guys like cats?”

  “We like Monty,” said Sonny. Knowing his cue, the cat picked his head up from Crock’s shoulder, looked at me, and yawned.

  “You said to the policeman yesterday that you took care of him sometimes.”

  “Sometimes, before she got killed,” said Crock. “Now he’s ours.”

  Sonny punched him in the arm. Crock flinched away. “Sorry,” he said. “I forgot.”

  Interesting behavior. “Did you guys ever feed Monty for Laura?”

  They exchanged anxious looks before turning back to me. “You mean like when she wasn’t home?” said Crock.

  “Yes.”

  Another swapping of glances.

  “Yeah,” said Crock.

  “No,” said Sonny. He went to sock Crock’s arm again, but the smaller boy danced away.

  I smiled. “Which is it, guys?”

  “Yeah,” Sonny said, though he wasn’t happy about it. We fed him sometimes when she wasn’t home in the afternoons. “At night our mom did sometimes.”

  “Is your mom home?”

  “Yes,” said Crock.

  “No,” said Sonny.

  “Which is it, guys?”

  “She’s home,” said Crock. “She just is kind of tired.” Can I talk to her? “I promise it’ll only be for a minute.”

  His eyes darted around. Yeah, I guess it’s okay. “Come on.”

  The two of them skateboarded a couple of apartment buildings up the street. I locked up the truck and followed. Their building was similar to Laura’s, but pale green and without any dangling house number digits.

  They led me upstairs. Crock had a key on a chain around his neck. He pulled the chain over his head, approached the apartment door, stopped. He looked at his brother, then at me. “When our mom found out we told the cops we took care of Monty, she told us not to talk about it with anybody.”

  “I won’t say anything.”

  He looked at me, evaluated me, evidently decided I was telling the truth. He opened the door and took a step inside. “Ma!”

  “Yeah?”

  “There’s a man here to see you. He says he’s Laura’s friend.”

  “The place is a mess.”

  “I don’t care,” I yelled. “My place is a mess too.” That got a little smile out of Sonny. He and his brother and their new cat vanished into the apartment.

  A few seconds later she appeared. She was short and a little heavy and wore worn denim cutoffs and a sweatshirt. Her hair was some kind of blond. “Hi,” she said. I might have smelled alcohol.

  I held out a hand. “Joe Portugal. I used to hang out with Laura.”

  She took my fingertips in hers, let go. “Nice girl.” That made it unanimous.

  “Yes, she was. I understand you fed Monty sometimes.”

  She threw a glance back into the house, turned back to me. “Where did you hear that?”

  “Laura told me.”

  I didn’t know if she believed me or not. I hoped I hadn’t gotten the kids in trouble.

  “She said that?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She looked at me as if realizing for the first time that some stranger was at her door asking her questions. “Why should I tell you anything?”

  “Like
I said, I’m a friend of Laura’s. I’m trying to prove her innocent of killing her boyfriend. And herself, I guess.”

  “The fat guy.”

  “Yeah, the fat guy.”

  She heaved a big sigh. “You wanna come in?”

  “Sure.”

  She opened the door all the way, and I entered the apartment. I’d expected a pit, but the place was relatively neat. Maybe the kids liked housework.

  I could hear the boys being boys somewhere in the back. In the living room, the TV had one of those talk show people on, some redhead I didn’t recognize. The volume was way down. A bottle of vodka and one of Cranapple juice and a glass decorated the beat-up coffee table.

  She slumped onto the Herculon couch, pointed vaguely at the matching chair. Have a seat. “Want a drink?”

  “No, thanks.”

  She nodded, as if I’d explained a mystery of the universe. “Yeah, I fed the cat sometimes.”

  “You had a key?”

  She frowned. Sure I did. “Something wrong with that?”

  “Of course not.”

  “She had mine too. So she could give the kids snacks when I wasn’t home from work yet.”

  “Why aren’t you at work now?”

  She tried to give me a dirty look, didn’t quite make it. “I wasn’t feeling well today.”

  I wondered if the kids really did go to a year-round school. There was another explanation for their being on the street so much. Mom’s drunk again. Let’s skip class. She won’t care. “Feeling better now?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So if Laura was away, sometimes you’d go down the block and feed Monty.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you remember if you fed him Saturday night?”

  “You’re not going to tell the cops any of this, are you?”

  “Not if you tell me the truth.”

  “I just don’t want to get involved with the cops.”

  “I promise. Go ahead.”

  “She called while Nash Bridges was on. I wouldn’t have answered the phone, but the commercial was on.” She scratched her chin. “It’s such a good show. They haven’t made a show like that in a long time. They haven’t made a show like that since—”

  “Since Miami Vice.”

  Bingo. She smiled for the first time. Sometime long ago she probably had a nice smile. “Wasn’t that a great show? I love that Don Johnson.”

  “You must really love him to name your kids after his character.” Sonny. Crock, whose full first name, I suspected, was Crockett.

  “I was gonna name the next one James. That was Sonny’s real name on the show. Or Jamie if it was a girl. But I never had a next one.”

  “So last Saturday night, when Laura called, did she ask you to go over and feed Monty?”

  “She sure did. And as soon as Nash Bridges was over I did. Minute I walk in the door he starts hollering at me, like he does when he’s hungry. I gave him a Sheba and some kibble and some water.”

  So I’d been right about Monty. He liked to yell when he hadn’t gotten his food on time. And I’d been right when I told Casillas about him seeming like he’d been fed before Laura and Gina and I arrived at Laura’s place early Sunday morning.

  I’d just been wrong about who fed him.

  We talked a few minutes more, but nothing came of it, except for my acquisition of a finer appreciation of the films of Don Johnson. A Boy and His Dog was playing at the New Beverly in a couple of weeks, and I promised to see it.

  As I unlocked the truck, I realized I didn’t know Sonny and Crock’s mother’s name. I decided it didn’t matter.

  17

  I SPENT THE RIDE HOME IN A FUNK. LAURA HAD LIED TO US. It should have been upsetting, but not as upsetting as it was. Maybe that was because I’d set her up in my mind as a mistress of integrity, and she’d shown she wasn’t.

  I called Gina as soon as I got back. “Guess what. Laura didn’t feed Monty Saturday night. I found the neighbor who

  did.”

  “Oops. There goes the old alibi.”

  “I still don’t think she did it.”

  “So why did she lie about feeding the cat?”

  “Maybe she went somewhere else after she left Helen, somewhere she didn’t want us knowing she went.”

  “Like where?”

  “I don’t know. Damn it.”

  “What?”

  “What if she was playing me for an idiot? What if she really did it and sent me off to find some fake killer?”

  “Why would she do that? You never would have gotten mixed up in the whole thing if she hadn’t gotten you involved.”

  I don’t know. “As a smoke screen?”

  “Doesn’t seem likely. You find out anything else today?”

  I told her about Burns and about Yoichi. She said Yoichi sounded suspicious. I asked why. “She said, Oh, you know those Orientals,” trying to get my goat and failing.

  When we were done with my day, we went on to hers. “I went to the Beverly Hills Gun Club,” she said.

  “What for?”

  “I hadn’t practiced in months.”

  “And now you had a sudden urge to? You’re not going to begin carrying your gun, are you?”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  “Please don’t.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Gina—”

  “I’m a big girl.”

  “Yeah, okay, whatever. Just don’t shoot your toe off.” I glanced at my watch. “I’d better go.”

  “To get ready for your big date.” “Uh-huh.”

  “Talk to you tomorrow, then.”

  “You want to have breakfast?”

  “Okay.” She didn’t sound very enthusiastic.

  “How about I come up and we do French Market again? How’s nine sound?”

  “You sure you can make it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You might get lucky.”

  “I’m not going to get lucky. It’s only a first date.”

  Suddenly I felt awkward. Gina and I had had this kind of conversation a million times. Talking about our lovers. Sometimes including what we did with them after the lights went out. Sometimes in explicit detail. It had always felt totally comfortable before. Now it was different. Not quite right.

  I’d wanted to pick Sharon up, make it as much of a Real Date as I could manage, but when we’d set things up she said she might have to come straight from work, and why didn’t she just come to my place? I spent the time before she showed up straightening the house as best I could. I even vacuumed the living room. Half of it, anyway. Somewhere to the left of the coffee table the vacuum began gargling. Shortly thereafter, all suction ceased. My guess was that a belt had broken, but I didn’t want to dig around to find out.

  At six-thirty, the appointed time, Sharon was nowhere in sight. Five minutes later I started to worry that she’d decided going out with me was a stupid idea and she’d blown me off. After five more I was sure. By a quarter to seven I was ready to call Gina and say, Let’s get married.

  I hadn’t always been so distrusting of women. Only since I was twenty, when somebody I was dating said she’d come by, and I waited two hours before getting on the telephone and finding out she’d gotten hold of some acid and was blowing her mind in my bass player’s water bed.

  I was pacing the living room, making up stories about what had happened to Sharon, when the half-used package of condoms in my nightstand somehow jumped to mind. It dated back to Iris, the UCLA coed I’d had a ridiculous couple of weeks with a year or so before. I found myself wondering if the damned things had an expiration date. Would pinholes develop if you kept them too long? Or would the nonoxynol turn sour and emit an evil odor when you tore the foil packs open?

  I dashed into the bedroom and grabbed the little cardboard package from my nightstand. Durex Extra Sensitive. Super thin for more feeling. There was indeed an expiration date on the box, as if they were cough syrup or Tylenol, but it was a year away. I
was opening the box to check the integrity of the foil packs when the doorbell rang.

  I threw the box into its drawer and flung the drawer closed. I ran to the front door and opened it. Sharon stood there, wearing a pale yellow Izod shirt and khaki pants. Not her traditional black jeans. She apologized for being late, saying there was some last-minute stuff at work. We stood there awkwardly until I comprehended that the civil thing to do would be to invite her in. She slipped through the door and into the living room.

  I gave her the thirty-cent tour. Most people give a fifty-cent tour, but at my place you get a discount because there’s not much to see, except the greenhouse, and it was too dark for that. This is the living room. This is the kitchen. “This is the, uh, bedroom.” She smiled and nodded and seemed genuinely interested. Then we got to the canaries’ room. “Oh, how cute,” she said, and insisted on being introduced to them all. So I named off Muck and Mire, and Groucho, Chico, Harpo, Zeppo, Gummo, and Brillo, more or less at random, since the only person who really knew which was which had left this mortal coil some months before.

  I took her to Akbar, an Indian restaurant on Washington Boulevard a mile or so from the ocean. It’s more pricey than my usual Indian places, but it’s fun and neighborhoodish. They put tiny slivers of edible silver foil in some of the dishes, which is always good for conversation. “The first time I’d gone there, with Gina, the waiter had told us he had a photogenic memory,” and he always remembered my name, even though I showed up no more than three times a year. Always with Gina, too, and the waiter remembered that as well, giving me a quizzical look when he saw me with Sharon.

  We ordered some somosas to start, and a couple of the dinners. I had tandoori chicken. After considering the lamb, Sharon went for chicken too. I was glad she’d forgone the lamb. I had trouble with people who ate baby animals. Eating grown-up ones probably wasn’t all that much better, but I hadn’t gotten around to facing that moral dilemma yet.

  The waiter departed. I said, “Want to hear about my big investigation?”

  She gave me an indulgent smile. “Sure.”

  I gave myself two dramatic seconds. Then I said, “Laura’s alibi doesn’t hold up.”