Death of an Orchid Lover (13 page)

I sat through a couple more plants, wanting to switch tables, maybe see Stalin in action, but not knowing how to do so politely. I decided to watch one more, then go back upstairs and compare notes with Gina.

When the next orchid was put on the table, I got a glimpse of its entry form, filled out in an unusual handwriting that slanted to the left. The plant was an oncidium called ‘Nagano Snow.’ It had at least a hundred flowers on a spike four feet tall. Each bloom was an inch across, with a pale yellow background and purple edges. There was red mixed in there, too, and some green, and some color I couldn’t even put a name to. The inflorescence shimmered above us, luminous even in the harsh light.

“What are the parents?” Pipe Guy said.

Someone read them off, and they got out a book and looked at pictures of both. Bob leaned over to me. “A plant has to show the influence of both parents to get awarded.”

They dwelled a while on the plant, kicking around this
and that aspect of it, before putting it to a vote. It got a 74. Just short of an award. Bob told me if it would have scored higher had it shown more of the pollen parent’s characteristics.

I thanked everyone and excused myself. Sharon and I went out and closed the door behind us. “That last one,” I said. “It belongs to a guy named Yoichi, doesn’t it?”

I wouldn’t be surprised. “He’s been hybridizing oncidiums for years. Why did you think that?”

I bought a plant from him yesterday. On my way out. The handwriting on the receipt matched what was on the entry form. “It’s very distinctive.”

How clever. “You really may be cut out for this detective business.”

“Is he here? I haven’t seen him.”

“Probably not. Someone else usually brings his plants in. He generally goes to a club down in Orange County, but they don’t have judging.”

“Oh, there you are.” Gina came bounding down the stairs. I thought maybe you got eaten by one of the plants. Like in “
Little Shop of Horrors.
”

Sharon put a hand on my arm. “I’ll see you later.” She headed upstairs. I watched her go, evidently with enough interest for Gina to comment on. “You’re hot for her.”

“I am not.”

Of course you are. “I know the signs. You did the nostril thing.”

“I did not.”

“You did. Flared wider than I’ve ever seen ’em.”

I smiled guiltily. “She
is
attractive.”

“I don’t like her.”

“You don’t get a vote.” Slight pause.
“Why
don’t you like her?”

“General principles. And what’s with the hair? Hasn’t she heard of L’Oréal?”

“I’ll take your disapproval under consideration. You get tired of the shenanigans upstairs?”

“They’re on a break. They did a repotting demonstration. The woman doing it wore surgical gloves. Said something about ‘the ever-present threat of virus.’ Then they had a slide program on Madagascar. What is it with plant people and slide programs on Madagascar? If I ever see another cute picture of a lemur, I’ll puke. Come back upstairs with me, before all the goodies are gone.”

We returned to the meeting room, filled plates with cookies and fruit, dropped a couple of bucks in the paper cup, watched the crowd. I told Gina about the judging session. When I finished, she said, “Maybe Albert had some secret prejudice and marked someone down and they knocked him off.”

“Doesn’t seem likely.”

“You don’t know. He could have been a real Nazi.”

The public address system squealed. A lanky guy in his forties, the only one in the room wearing a jacket and tie, asked for everyone to take their seats. He held the cordless microphone in a death grip. “He’s the president,” Gina said. “Name’s Dean something, or something Dean. I think you should wear a tie when you run your cactus meetings. It’s very presidential.”

We found places on the aisle halfway back. Dean waited for everyone to sit. He would have waited forever if Ms. Buzz-cut hadn’t stood up and shouted, “Everyone find your goddamned seats,” evoking laughter from some, nervous looks from others, the requested behavior from all.

Dean positioned himself behind a podium bearing a sizable gold cross. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Many, nay
all of you know that our longtime member and dear friend Albert Oberg was, uh, killed last Saturday night.”

“Did he say nay’?” Gina whispered.

“Aye, he did,” I whispered back.

A diminutive woman sitting in front of us turned around and put a finger to her lips.

“Sorry,” I said.

Dean went on. Some have asked about Albert’s funeral service. I’m afraid there won’t be one. In accordance with Albert’s wishes, he will be cremated, and the ashes spread in his greenhouse. There will be a memorial service later on. “So.” He seemed relieved to be done talking about the service.

Tonight we have a special guest. Tonight we have here with us someone involved in the investigation of Albert’s death. He may seek you out to ask questions. I beseech you to answer these truthfully and honestly, and to give him your fullest cooperation. “For only through his efforts can we determine the perpetrator of this terrible crime.”

Huh? How did he know I was investigating Albert’s death? What was I going to say when I got up to speak? And was the perpetrator—as the president put it—in this very room, and would he or she jump up the moment I reached the podium, shout, “Die, cactus-collecting scum,” and launch a plant stake at my heart?

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Dean. “From the Los Angeles Police Department, Detective Hector Casillas!”

C
ASILLAS MARCHED UP FROM THE BACK OF THE ROOM
, wearing a gray suit and a kindly smile. I hadn’t seen him back there. Maybe he was hiding behind a cymbidium.

He whisked to the podium, shook hands with Dean, took the mike, waited while Dean got it that Casillas didn’t want him standing there. When the president stepped away, Casillas tapped the mike, saying, “Is this thing on?” He smiled sheepishly when feedback erupted from the speakers. His ingratiating manner, admirable a year before, had been honed to a fine point.

I didn’t know which was worse. That I’d nearly made a fool of myself with my self-aggrandizing image of Joe Portugal, criminal catcher, or that my nemesis Casillas was there, addressing the orchid crowd much as, the previous spring, he’d done the same at a meeting of the Culver City Cactus Club.

He went around the podium to lean against the raffle table. “First,” he said, “let me express my sympathy at the loss of your friend. I understand he was a fine man.”
Someone in the back began to applaud, and a few more folks picked it up, before Casillas gestured for silence.

“Like Mr. Dean said, as part of our ongoing investigation, I’d like you all to know that I may be calling on you to ask questions about Mr. Oberg and his associates. Please be assured that any questioning you undergo does not necessarily mean you are suspected of a crime.”

“Notice the
necessarily,”
I said. The woman in front of me did the finger thing again.

Casillas did some PR, took a couple of questions, asked a few of his own. I sat there with my arms crossed over my chest. I didn’t know why Casillas affected me so viscerally. Maybe it was because he represented authority, and ever since my days as a somewhat-out-of-control rock-and-roll kid I’d had a problem with authority. Maybe it was because authority had sent my father to prison when he should have been home teaching me to hit a curve ball.

After fifteen minutes Casillas thanked everyone profusely and walked out into the hallway. Dean regained the podium and told everyone it was their last opportunity to buy chances at the raffle, touching off a small frenzy around the buzz-cut woman and her roll of orange tickets. When they called a halt to sales, I got up. Gina didn’t. She pulled out a strip of raffle tickets. Go figure.

I made it into the hallway just as they began calling numbers. Casillas was waiting for me, leaning against the wall and chewing a toothpick. “Expected you’d be here,” he said.

“Who are you checking up on?”

“What makes you think I’m checking up on anyone?”

“You wouldn’t waste your time here if there wasn’t someone you wanted to watch.”

He tossed his toothpick in a potted palm. “If that’s the case, why aren’t I back in there watching them?”

An excited squeal escaped the meeting room. Someone had gotten the plant of their dreams. I pointed at the door leading back inside. “That’s the only way out of there. You can watch just fine from here.”

“Let’s just say you’re right about this, and I’m watching someone. Who might that someone be?”

I shook my head. “You’re not going to get me to give up my suspects so easily.”

Suddenly he was in my face. He’d had something with garlic for dinner, had eaten mints since then, but they weren’t quite up to the job. “Suspects? You got suspects? If you know something, you better tell me now. I’m sick and tired of you butting your ass in where it doesn’t belong, but if your butting got you something useful you better tell me about it.”

“Back off, Detective.”

“And if I don’t?”

Hmm. Good question. “There’s really no one in there I suspect.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I came up to—”

His eyes wavered. Just for an instant his glance went off me and onto whoever was in the doorway to the meeting room. Then it returned to me. But something had changed. He’d seen whoever it was he wanted to see.

I turned. The person he’d reacted to was around my age, average height, jet-black hair. Thin features, just enough makeup, tasteful jewelry. She had her arms wrapped around a potful of oncidium. Its flower stalk towered over her head.

The guy I’d seen watching me at the judging, the one with the monumental forehead, emerged from the room, proprietarily put his hand on her shoulder, guided her down
the hall and onto the stairs. I turned back to Casillas. “It’s that woman, isn’t it?”

“You are so wrong.”

“I saw your eyes flicker.”

“You’re going to see your head flicker if you don’t get your ass out of the way of official business.”

“It
is
her. Who is she?”

I’ve had about enough of you. “Just stay out of my way.” He barged past me, and down the hall to the staircase.

Gina emerged from the meeting room, barely carrying a cymbidium I was sure had been the biggest thing on the raffle table. “What’s happening?”

“Casillas suspects some woman.” I considered following him outside. I decided it wasn’t a good idea. I did it anyway.

The three of them were standing at the far end of the parking lot, engaged in a heated though low-volume conversation. I moved a few steps across the lot to try and hear them better. Casillas saw me. He gave me a nasty look. I beat it back inside and up the stairs.

“Who is she?” Gina asked.

“I don’t know.” I eyed her acquisition. “What’s with the plant?”

“I thought it would look good on the patio.”

“You realize how ugly those things are when they’re not in bloom?”

So I’ll throw it out. I only spent a couple of dollars on tickets. It was an impulse buy. I’ve been doing that a lot lately. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

“In a minute. There’s someone I want to speak to.”

“That Sharon, no doubt.”

“I’ll meet you at the car.”

“Take this. If I try to carry it down the stairs, I’ll fall down them for sure.”

I let her give me the plant. “Okay, shrimp.”

She stamped off. I returned to the meeting room, where Sharon was winding up the fat extension cord that had powered the projector. “There’s a woman,” I said. “Forties, very black hair. With a guy with a high forehead who’s a judge. Who is she?”

“That would be Helen Gartner. The man’s David.”

I thought of the night Albert was killed. What Laura had told me.
As for Helen, she has problems of her own.

“Casillas practically chased her outside,”I said.

“I wonder what for.”

“Maybe those business dealings you said they had with Albert went awry.”

“Maybe.” She indicated the plant I was carrying. “Nice cymbidium.”

“It’s my friend’s.”