Death of an Orchid Lover (14 page)

“How much of a friend is she?”

“My best friend. Why do you ask?”

“I was just curious.”

Curious, my eye. I can recognize the Ten Warning Signs of Interest in the Opposite Sex.

I put down the cymbidium. “I hope to see you again soon.”

“That would be …nice.”

“Let’s go out on a date.”

Her eyes looked stricken. “Look,” she said. “A long time ago I had a bad experience with a relationship. I’m very careful now.”

“Fine. No big deal.”

She took up another loop of the extension cord. “I knew you would ask again.”

“I won’t bite, I promise.”

“I know you won’ t. I think you’re probably a very nice
man.” At least she hadn’t said
sweet.
“But I need to know you a little better.”

How about this? Tomorrow afternoon I’ll be at the Kawamura Conservatory at UCLA. I do volunteer work there. Why don’t you come by, let me show you some of the plants
I’m
into. “We can spend a little time together, but it won’t really be a date.”

“That sounds interesting.”

“You told me
interesting
means a person hates something.”

“I did, didn’t I? That’s not what I meant just now. I meant it literally. I meant—”

“I smiled. I knew what you meant.”

“She returned the smile. This will work out well. Tomorrow’s my day off. What time?”

“How about two?”

“Sounds good.”

“You need directions?”

“I’ll find it.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

“Yes.”

“Two o’clock.”

“I won’t forget.”

“Good.” We stood there awkwardly, not knowing how to part. Finally I held out a hand, and she took it, and I put my other one over hers, and she put her other one over mine. We gave the whole thing a shake and she went on her way. I picked up Gina’s plant and went on mine.

We got back to Gina’s place at ten-twenty. She put the cymbidium on her balcony and went to check her answering
machines. On the business line a client insisted the color was coming off her chairlegs and staining her carpet. “And,” the woman added, “I’m having the head of production at Sony over tomorrow night.”

The personal line bore a message from Gina’s mother. The Virgin had made an appearance in a little town in the Mojave, at a 7-Eleven, on the wall above the Slurpee machine. Mrs. Vela was making a pilgrimage in the morning and wanted to know if Gina would go with her.

“Fat chance,” Gina said. She went into the kitchen. “You want some ice cream?”

“I’ll pass.”

She came out with a pint of Häagen-Dazs chocolate chocolate chip and a spoon and transferred a couple of slabs into her mouth. Then she said, “Have you realized you’re interested in sex only when somebody gets killed?”

“I’m a man. I’m always interested in sex.” Pause. “What makes you think I’m interested in sex?”

“The way you look at that Sharon woman. The only time I see you look that way anymore is when somebody gets murdered and you get involved in the investigation.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard.”

“Is it? When was the last time you got laid? Or even had a date?”

“I don’t know, let me think—”

“Of course you know. It was right after we solved Brenda’s murder. That coed. And before that, the other one,
while
we were solving Brenda’s murder. And before that?”

“I don’t keep a scorecard.”

“Well, I do. Before that it was another year. Now don’t you think it’s weird that you got involved with two women when Brenda was killed, and now this Albert guy’s dead and
you’re ready to go screw this Sharon, and in between you were like a monk?”

I’m not ready to screw her. “You’re making me sound like some kind of necrophiliac because I happen to meet interesting women only when someone gets killed.”

“I’m just saying—”

“Drop it, okay?”

“Okay. Sheesh.”

“We put on the news, then watched Letterman. Julia Roberts, Madeleine Albright, Tori Amos. When they’d all done their thing, Gina got up from the sofa. I’m going to bed.”

“Okay.”

“Are you coming?”

I don’t think so. “Last night was one thing. We were drunk.”

“You’ll sleep with me only when you’re drunk?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Come on, Joe, do you really want to drive home at this time of night?”

“It’s not that late.”

She looked down at me. Fine. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” She walked out of the room. Shadows in the hallway shifted as she turned on the lamp in her bedroom. I heard her doing stuff in the bathroom. Shadows reverted when she switched off the bedroom lamp.

I sat for ten minutes, got up, turned off the TV, walked into the bathroom. Always empty your bladder before you go home, that’s my motto.

As the stream diminished to a trickle, I asked myself, What the hell are you afraid of, Portugal?

Yeah, but what about Sharon?

What about her? You haven’t even had a Real Date with her.

You haven’t even had a pseudo-date with her.

I went into the bedroom, stripped to my Jockeys, climbed into the empty side of the bed.

Ten minutes later I was still awake. Gina wasn’t. Her even breathing was the only sound I could hear.

Until a car backfired outside. Gina raised her head from her pillow. She reached out a hand, encountered my shoulder, said, “Good,” withdrew her arm. Moments later she was back asleep. Sometime after that, so was I.

I awoke to the sound of Gina in the shower. When the hissing stopped, I jumped out of bed and got dressed. A few minutes later she came out, wearing the biggest terry cloth robe I’d ever seen. It dragged on the floor like a bridal gown. She saw me looking. “Mom got it at the outlet mall. Seven dollars. What a bargain.”

I went into the kitchen to rustle up some tea. She came in just as the water boiled. “Are you going to infiltrate anybody’s confidence today?” she asked.

“My day’s pretty well laid out. I may not have any time for infiltrating.”

“Oh? How so?”

“To start with, this morning I’m going to an acting class with Laura.”

I expected static. Nope. “That’s good. Some real acting would be good for you. What else?”

“I promised Eugene I’d work up at the Kawamura this afternoon. We’re shifting euphorbias.”

“Sounds like a Talking Heads album.”

“And Sharon’s coming up to see the collection.”

“What was that? I didn’t hear you.”

“Why don’t you want me seeing her?”

I don’t not want you seeing her. I want you to get laid. “So you’ll stop trying to maul me all night.”

“No mauling went on last night. I would remember.” I looked into her eyes. Gi, this sleeping in the same bed is really bizarre. “I think we ought to quit.”

You did too maul me. “I woke up in the middle of the night with your hand on my breast.”

“You did not.”

“Did. I poked you with an elbow and you rolled over.”

“I had a hand on a breast and I didn’t even know it?”

“You snooze, you lose.” She headed toward the door.

“Let’s have dinner at French Market tonight. Meet me there at seven.” Then she was gone.

I finished my tea, thought about going home to shower and shave and change, realized I didn’t have time. So I showered there and locked up. Gina and I had traded keys long before.

The sky was especially bright as I drove up Beachwood Drive and parked at Laura’s. The jacaranda danced in the breeze. The same two kids were out front. The bikes had been replaced by skateboards. I said hi to them. They mumbled something back.

I went to Laura’s door and knocked. No answer. I knocked again, louder, realizing how stupid that was. In that bandbox, if she didn’t hear me knocking the first time, she wouldn’t hear me if I used brass knuckles.

Could she have forgotten me? Doubtful. Maybe she’d run to the market and was even then turning onto Beachwood.

No. Her car was outside.

Maybe she was in the laundry room.

Or maybe—

I don’t know why I took the knob and tried to turn it. I don’t know why I wasn’t surprised when I was successful.

I poked my head in. “Laura?”

The sofa bed was pulled out, the sheets and pillows scattered around on it. Suppressing a ridiculous urge to make and fold up the bed, I walked into the kitchen. That’s where I found Laura.

She was lying on the floor, more or less on her left side. There was a gun by her side, a few inches from her outstretched hand. There was blood on her head, and on the floor. Not a huge amount. Just enough to tell me she was dead.

I
CALLED 911 AND TOLD THEM WHAT HAD HAPPENED AND
gave them the address and my name and whatever other trivia they asked for. When I hung up, I looked for something to cover Laura with. It seemed cruel to leave her there, exposed to the world. But grabbing a shroud might mess up evidence. I looked at her one more time, feeling horribly guilty about my doubts about her innocence, then let her be and went outside.

The taller of the skateboard boys knew something was up. He rolled over, with the other one close behind. I shut the door and stood in front of it. I told them nothing was happening. They didn’t believe me. I suggested they go back to their previous loitering spot. They liked their new one. We made sparse small talk until authority arrived.