The Cactus Club Killings (Joe Portugal) (11 page)

“Not likely, huh? Where else did you go?”

She got all excited about the two Schoeppes. “Let’s find out if they’re related.”

“How do you propose to do that?”

“Call the one in Madagascar.”

“I don’t think they have phones there.”

“You’re so Eurocentric. Of course they have phones there.”

“Out in the bush?”

“They could have cellular. Where’s that itinerary you got from Sam?”

“At home.”

“I need to put it in the spreadsheet.”

“Stop with the spreadsheet.”

“I want you to call Madagascar the minute you get home.”

“What else do you want me to do?”

“Question some more people.”

“Who, for instance?”

“Maybe you could go back to UCLA. Find some colleagues.”

I picked up what was left of my burrito and stuck it in my mouth. Sour cream dripped on my shorts, threatened to run down, bounce off the elegant chair, splatter on the spotless carpet. Gina’s eyes went wide.

I dabbed at the white stuff with a napkin. “All right, I’ll call Madagascar. Christ, maybe I ought to get on the Internet too.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

I told her about Sams little demonstration the day before. Her eyes lit up. She got up and headed for her bedroom. When she came out she was carrying her computer and a long phone cord. “What?” I said. “We’re going to call up the smugglers’ computer?”

She was plugging in cables and pushing buttons. “Do you have any idea how the Web works?”

“No, and I don’t want to.”

“Pull your chair over and watch. And don’t roll your eyes at me.”

The computer came to life. Gina moused around, boops and beeps sounded, and the computer presented us with a screen full of furniture.
Regina Vela Interiors
marched across the top. “What’s this?”

“It’s my home page.”

“What’s it for?”

“People see it and call me up.”

“People surf the Internet for an interior designer? How much business has this brought in?”

“None yet, but—”

“Who did this for you?”

“I did it myself.”

“You did? Very impressive. Show me some cactus stuff.”

She keyed and moused some more. Now the screen displayed something called the Cactus and Succulent Mall. “Watch.” She moved down to where it said
Culver City Cactus Club
and clicked the mouse. After an interminable wait some more verbiage appeared. Factoids about the club. Halfway down were the words
Our President
, and suddenly I was staring at a picture of Brenda, with Lyle in the background in his bearded days, and a white spot I thought might be the top of Rowena’s head.

“Weird,” I said.

We bounced around for three quarters of an hour and ended up back at the Cactus and Succulent Mall. I saw something about Cacti_etc. “Hey, Sam mentioned that.”

Gina clicked on it, read what appeared, and got all excited. “We have to subscribe.”

“Why?”

“Because its a mailing list.”

“So Sam said.”

“We can post a question, and whole bunches of cactus people will see it. We can ask about Brenda.”

What could it hurt? “Sign us up.”

She read the instructions, pressed, and clicked. “All done.”

“Now what?”

“Now we wait.”

“How long?”

“It depends on the listserv they’re using and—” She stopped when she saw me shaking my head. “What? What’s wrong?”

“Gina, Gina, Gina. I knew you when you were a nice girl who didn’t use words like
listserv
. Look what’s happened to you.”

“You have your hobby. I needed one too.”

I left around midnight, got a reasonable night’s sleep, and rose at eight. I journeyed out to the greenhouse and was relieved to find my metaphysical connection with my plants was nearly back to normal, that Brenda’s death hadn’t forever soured my early-morning tours. When I was done in there I stayed out back, sipping the last of my litchi tea, enjoying the shifting light as the sun ascended. A mockingbird flew down onto the lawn. She poked around in a yellowed patch and
left empty-beaked. Somewhere down the block a car alarm wailed.

Brenda’s funeral was at three, and I didn’t have a whole lot to do before then. I went in, slid aside one of the sliding mirrored doors to my bedroom closet, and pulled out my one suit. I ironed my white shirt and shined my dress shoes. My rhinoceros tie seemed appropriate. A homage to Brenda, the African connection and all. I threw some normal clothes in a gym bag for after the funeral, in case I didn’t come straight home. No point being in a suit longer than absolutely necessary.

Showering and shaving took me up till ten. I sat on the couch with a silent soap opera on the TV, trying to figure out what to do next.

The phone rang. It was Dick McAfee. “We need to talk about something,” he said.

“About what?”

“I’d rather not say. Can you come by my house after Brenda’s funeral? Say, five o’clock?”

“Sure. Or before, if you like.”

“No, I’m heading for the nursery in half an hour and won’t be back home until five.”

“Aren’t you going to the funeral?”

“I don’t go to funerals. A little quirk of mine. I prefer to say my good-byes privately.”

“I’ll see you at five, then.”

I hung up and called Gina. “Did we get any e-mail yet?”

“As a matter of fact, we did. Like a dozen already. I’m just looking at them now.”

“Anything interesting?”

“Here’s a good one. Some guy is defending smuggling plants. He doesn’t use that word exactly, but he—Wait, let me page down a little more. Oh, get this.
God put those plants there for our enjoyment, and I don’t see anything wrong with
digging them up
. He spelled “plants” with an apostrophe, by the way.”

“Is he a German?”

“Is Cedar Rapids in Germany?”

“Not last time I looked.”

“Then no. And that’s the last of it.”

“Why don’t we send an e-mail of our own?” I said. “We could tell everyone what we’re up to and see if anybody has any ideas.”

“But what if the killer’s lurking out there? He might come after us.”

“I hope you’re not serious.”

“Half.”

“I’ll leave it up to you, Gi. If you’re afraid don’t do it. Are you coming to B rendas funeral?”

“If I finish with my twelve-thirty in time. You’re sure its okay?”

“I don’t think they sell tickets. Come if you want. There’ll be lots of suspects there.”

She said she would try, and we hung up. I still couldn’t think of anything to do, so I dug out Sundays paper and riffled through the Calendar section. The first show of the new Jackie Chan was at eleven. Off I went. But when I got to the theater, I was overcome with guilt. Gina and I always went to Jackie Chans together. I took in the new hit comedy instead. Some Jim Carrey thing. The other six people thought it was pretty funny.

I
STROLLED DOWNHILL ALONG A CURVED PATH LINED WITH
rhododendrons and tree ferns, all maintained with tender loving care. Terrestrial orchids and exotic ground covers carpeted the surface below. The walkway opened up into a picturesque clearing. Topiary animals cavorted off to my left; on the right a terraced garden of azaleas and miniature bamboo worked its way back up the hill. Birds twittered, and dappled sunlight danced on the ground. I’d been at Final Haven two minutes and already I wanted to be buried there too.

A stone building with the near end open stood in the center of the clearing. Abstract paintings and exotic sculptures lay within. Wooden pews faced a simple altar, in front of which a plain wood casket rested.

I sidled off behind an acacia and situated myself where I could see who was coming or going. Coming, more likely; the only one going was Brenda. Rowena Small got there soon after I did and grabbed a seat in the front row. Five minutes later Eugene Rand showed up, wearing a black suit jacket and old chinos and the worst-tied tie I’d ever seen. He looked right at me but didn’t or wouldn’t recognize me and took a spot halfway back on the right.

Detective Hector Casillas appeared, chatting with Lyle Tillis. Casillas had his suit from Monday back on. Lyle wore no jacket, and the end of his tie hung three inches above his belt. Magda followed three steps behind him, in a simple blue dress.

More people filtered in. Some I vaguely recognized as colleagues of Brenda’s. A short cute chubby blond woman. A few more cactus folks, like Austin and his wife, Vicki.

Frank Baiter, Brendan lawyer, arrived, accompanied by a tall woman in a simple black dress garnished with a pearl necklace. She was willowy, with well-defined cheekbones and dark brown, shoulder-length hair, and even if she hadn’t been with Baiter, I would have guessed she was Brenda’s sister, Amanda. Her eyes gave her away. The same odd green as Brenda’s, tending toward yellow. The same oval shape. The same long lashes.

Baiter had her by the elbow and led her to the front row. Rowena immediately popped up and offered condolences.

Brenda’s friend Toussaint Razafindratsira appeared. He was born in Madagascar but had come to the U.S. for graduate school and stayed. His dark face was a unique mix that Brenda’d told me represented both African and Indonesian lineage. He carried a staff with a stylized lemur carved into its head and was wrapped head to toe in a length of colorful cloth—a
lamba
, the traditional Malagasy garment. Brenda’d worn them when she was feeling particularly Madagascan.

He took a position behind the dark wood podium and asked everyone to be seated. As the mourners filtered in I found a spot in the next-to-last row on the left side, on the outside aisle, where I could watch most of the crowd.

When the rustling stopped, Razafindratsira spoke. “Brenda came to Madagascar many times. She grew to understand our people and tried to protect our natural heritage.” His accent had been dimmed by his years in the States but still
came through as a peculiar lilt, an unusual separation of syllables. “She has requested to be buried in the traditional manner of the Mahafaly, the people of the thorn forest in the south of our island.” He paused and his eyes swept the crowd. “We who come from Madagascar believe death is but a milestone in the journey each person travels. So do not grieve for Brenda. She has simply moved on.”

He strode over to her coffin and began to speak in what I took for his native language. He stood over it for several minutes, gesturing with his staff at irregular intervals. I got caught up in the whole thing until I remembered I was supposed to be watching the crowd. I casually turned my head to the right. Somebody was watching right back.

His Mediterranean face was tanned and creased and his salt-and-pepper hair precisely cut. He wore sunglasses and a well-cut dark gray suit, a light gray shirt, and burgundy tie. He seemed tall, and a little overweight, until I realized the extra poundage was well-disguised muscle.

He removed his shades. Our eyes locked. His were pale blue. He smiled, a kind of tensing of the upper lip that left the lower one in place. Something glinted gold in his mouth. I turned away.

Razafindratsira seemed to be winding down. His eyes scanned the crowd as he told us some more about death and the Malagasy.

I snuck a peek over to the right. Sunglasses Guy was gone. I turned all the way around. He wasn’t anywhere in sight. Instead of him, I saw Gina hustling down the path. She wore the navy suit she saves for well-heeled clients. Her hair dropped in blue-black sheets to her shoulders, save for an errant tress by her left temple. I ran my hand through my hair in the appropriate area. She got the point and smoothed down her own and slid into the spot behind me. “What did I miss?” she whispered.

“Not much. Did you see a big guy with sunglasses on your way in?”

“No.”

“Hmm. There was this guy sitting on the other side who didn’t look like he belonged. He was watching me. Maybe he’s a cop.”

Across the aisle, Eugene Rand cast a dirty look and put his finger to his lips. I shut up. Several minutes later Razafindratsira stood beside Brenda’s casket, with one hand atop it. “We will now move on to the interment ceremony.”