Authors: Nathan Walpow

Death of an Orchid Lover (19 page)

“Night before last,” I said, “Casillas came to an orchid society meeting because of a woman named Helen Gartner. The woman Laura was with the night Albert was killed.”

“The woman she
said
she was with.”

“Fine, whatever you say. He talked to Helen when she left. I want to find out what about.”

“You do, do you?”

“Yes.”

She just stared at me.

“What?” I said. “I have cream cheese on my nose?” Her deep brown eyes wouldn’t let me go. Finally I turned away. I
spied the sesame seed on my plate, licked a finger, picked up the seed, ate it.

We sat there silently for half a minute. “You don’t get it, do you, Joe?” she said at last. She’d never called me by my first name before.

“Don’t get what?”

“Criminals are bad people. You get mixed up with them, you put yourself—and those you love—in danger.”

“I’m being careful.”

“Are you? Tell me just how you’re being careful.”

“I—” Of course, I couldn’t come up with anything. Because I wasn’t being careful at all. Disregarding the admonitions of my father, ones now repeated by someone who should know, I was blithely careening around among a bunch of possibly dangerous characters.

“Look,” she said, I have to get back. Regardless of what you might think, “I’ve got cases of my own to worry about.”

“Can you find out from Casillas why he was after Helen Gartner?”

“Why should I?”

“For old times’ sake.”

She sighed. I just know this is a bad idea, but … “I’ll see what I can dig up.”

“There’s one more thing I’d like you to dig up.”

“Don’t push your luck.”

“I’d like to know whether Laura killed herself.”

“Now how on God’s green earth am I supposed to find that out?”

“Ask Casillas.”

“And what makes you think he knows?”

The police can always tell. Powder burns, bullet trajectories, stuff like that. “Like on
Homicide.
Come on, don’t tell me they haven’t been trying to figure that out already.”

Next to the word
baleful
in the dictionary, they have a picture of the look Burns was giving me. “I’ll see what I can find out,” she said.

I took her back, dropped her off, watched as she strode back into the station. I liked the way she walked. Powerful and womanly. Nice ass.

Jesus. Why was I thinking about Burns’s ass? Gina was right. Investigating homicides made me horny.

O
RANGE
C
OUNTY IS ALIEN.
T
HAT’S THE ONLY WORD THAT
seems to do it justice. When I pass one of the big green freeway signs that say I’m entering it, I immediately feel like an interloper, and like everyone who sees me will know it and treat me appropriately.

O.C. is a hugely conservative area, one of the last bastions of the Reagan dream. But my discomfort is more than just political. The women with their frosted blond heads might as well be of another species. The men, perfectly coiffed with caterpillar mustaches, could be from another planet. I have nothing in common with them. They are interested in phenomena I have no knowledge of.

Even the traffic lights in Orange County are weird. They travel to the beat of a different electronic drum, so when you’re driving one of the long straight streets you end up waiting for two or three minutes at a time, while cars go in every direction but yours, and turn left from places you didn’t know existed. Then you move on a couple of blocks to do the whole thing all over again.

At a little before noon Wednesday, I found myself on one
such stretch. Beach Boulevard, in Stanton, a small city I knew only because there’s a cactus nursery there that I used to go to once a year, until I realized I was buying something only because I was embarrassed to leave empty-handed. I passed a lot of ugly apartment buildings and uglier shopping centers, spending the interminable traffic-light intervals listening to Moby Grape’s third album, a ninety-nine-cent Tower Records find.

Finally I found the avenue the
Thomas Guide
told me to turn left at. I made another left onto the street on the receipt Yoichi Nakatani had given me and found the long rutted driveway that led to his place. I bounced down it on shocks that were new when Jimmy Carter was in the White House, taking in the colorful cymbidiums planted in tubs alongside, and pulled to a stop in front of a greenhouse. It was typical of those at specialty plant dealers. Sections poked off at odd angles. Saggy benches were haphazardly propped up. At least four kinds of shade cloth drooped over various areas. The electrical wiring would meet no building code on the planet. Plants sat on every horizontal surface and hung from most of the vertical ones.

Yoichi emerged from a house trailer across the driveway from the greenhouse. Its undercarriage was covered with plywood sheets that were nailed in and painted to match the trailer. A variety of plant benches surrounded it: planks on cinder blocks, constructions cobbled together from fiber-board and two-by-fours, metal racks from Home Depot. All were loaded with orchids. Most of them were shaded by the big sycamores and eucalyptus that dotted the lot, though they would have gotten some direct sun in the morning.

I left the truck behind and picked my way through the plant gauntlet to him. His olive-green shorts reached below his knees. He wore the same orchid T-shirt Sharon’d had on
at the show, but his was beat up, with a ripped seam on one shoulder. On his feet were rubber gardening shoes, the kind they sell for exorbitant prices at Smith and Hawken.

His hand was clammy, his handshake weak. “I thought I would see you again,” he said. The lure of the orchid is very strong. “You must have more.”

“Something like that.”

He had a giant plastic cup of iced tea, and asked if I wanted some before we hit the greenhouse. I told him it was an excellent idea. He led me into the trailer.

The door opened on the kitchen. Yoichi pointed me to a tiny table accompanied by seats consisting of benchlike wall projections with cushions. He poured me some tea from a pitcher he got out of a refrigerator that seemed way too big for the space, and sat down at right angles to me. Our knees banged. “Sorry,” I said, even though he was the one who’d clobbered me.

“No problem,” he said.

He watched as I took several swallows of iced tea. It was good, freshly brewed, unsweetened. I waited for him to say something. He didn’t, so I did. “Quite a spread you’ve got here.” Quite a wordsmith, that Portugal.

He nodded and took a long draught of tea. While he still had the glass up to his mouth, I said, “I saw the judging at the Palisades Orchid Society the other night.”

There was a slight hitch to his swallow. He finished off his tea, put the glass down. “You said you were a newcomer to orchids.”

“So?”

“Why were you at the judging?”

“Call me precocious. Did your plant do as well as you expected?”

“No, it didn’t. More tea?”

“Your glass is empty, not mine.”

He looked down at it. “Ah, yes.” He got up, refilled it, sat down again. “I did expect a higher score. At least an HCC.”

“Why do you think you didn’t get it?”

He shrugged. “Who can tell with orchid judges? They get things in their heads. They don’t like a genus, they don’t like a grower. They didn’t get what they needed the night before from their wives.” He smiled. His teeth were too even, too perfect. “Or, in a few cases, their husbands. Or whoever.”

“Doesn’t it bother you, putting months and years into a plant, then having it judged down in a matter of minutes?”

Another shrug. “That’s the rule of the game. What about Olympic sprinters? They train for four years, and some of them, the ones eliminated in the heats, are out of the competition in ten seconds.”

“You weren’t there Monday night.”

“No, I wasn’t. Would you like to see my lab?”

“Where were—”

“Of course you would. Come. Please leave your tea behind. And …”

“Yes?”

He pointed to the minuscule sink. “Would you mind washing your hands?”

“Not at all.”

I scrubbed up using soap from a push-button dispenser and wiped my hands on paper towels. Yoichi produced a trash can, took the towels, made the can disappear again. He went through a door and I followed.

The room I found myself in was perhaps thirty feet long, filling that whole end of the trailer. It was chock-f of scientific apparatus. Test tubes, beakers, pipettes, and a load of other stuff vaguely remembered from high school chemistry
class. Cases with meters on the front, some with dials, some digital.

Racks of flasks filled with something green lined a ten-foot section of the wall. Strong fluorescent fixtures lit the place clearly. Over in a corner, a security camera on a bracket gave everything the once-over.

“This is pretty amazing,” I said.

“Yes.”

I walked over to the racks with their dozens of flasks. The green things within were little plants, a couple of dozen in each. They didn’t really resemble orchids. There wasn’t any soil; instead, the plants were stuck into some goopy substance lining the insides of the flasks, each of which had a computer-printed label bearing plant names and dates. “What’s all this?”

“These are some of my creations.”

Great. I’d tracked down “Dr. Frankenstein. Creations?”

“My hybrids.” He pulled a flask from the rack, jogged over to a workbench, shuffled some papers, came back with a couple of photos. “The plants in this flask, for instance, are a cross between these two angraecums.”

They had long stems up which pairs of leaves climbed like a ladder, and big white star-shaped flowers. “I don’t know angraecums.”

“A very interesting genus. You see the nectar spurs?”

“Those long pointy things dangling from the flowers?”

Yes. “They’re designed for one pollinator and one pollinator only.”

Nature. “Isn’t it wonderful? Where are they from?”

“Madagascar.”

I nodded. Madagascar has a lot of wonderful plants. “Too bad they’re destroying so many of them.”

He gave me a funny look. “Who is?”

“The locals. With their deforestation.”

“Oh. Them. Yes, it is too bad.”

I pointed to the flask. “Did you sprout them yourself?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve heard that orchid seed is really small and hard to get going.” What else had Albert told me? “And that a lot of people send it out for germination.”

“Ah. I germinate my own. All the best growers do.”

I took the flask from his hand. He gave it up grudgingly. “So you just grow them in these flasks until they get big enough to pot up themselves?”

“Oh, no. This is how I sell them.”

“Why do people buy them like this?”

“They grow them on. They want to see what will develop. You never know what two parents will come up with. Like humans, hmm?” He took the flask back, placed it on the rack, dropped the photos on the workbench. “So tell me, Mr. Portugal. What is the real reason for your visit today?”

“I thought I might learn some more about—”

“Do you think I’m an idiot?”

“No.”

“Then tell me why you’re here.”

I drew in a big breath, let it out slowly. “I’m investigating Albert Oberg’s death. And, now, Laura Astaire’s as well.”

“And what gives you the right to do that?”

“The right?”

“I don’t have to talk to you, you know.”

“But why wouldn’t you, if you have nothing to hide?”

“Did someone imply I had something to hide?”

“Everyone has something to hide.”

“Yes.” He sat in a leather desk chair, decided he didn’t like it, got back up. “Go ahead with your questions.”