Death of an Orchid Lover (23 page)

The walls inside bore minimum wage statements and OSHA reminders. A calendar from some tool jobber featured a pneumatic babe in a 50s-style two-piece bathing suit, a porkpie hat that said Snap-on, and a big fake smile.

There was a desk clad in the same phony wood laminate as the table in the lobby. A red-flowered phalaenopsis sat on it, and Helen Gartner sat behind it. A Y-shaped necklace with purple stones rested on her nicely filled white blouse. Whatever else she had on was hidden behind the desk.

I walked over and offered a hand. “Joe Portugal. I’m an old friend of Laura Astaire’s.”

She took my hand. Yes. I saw you at the orchid club the other night. Well, any friend of Laura’s, et cetera, et cetera. I’m Helen Gartner. “But you must know that.”

I nodded. “Sad about Laura.”

“Yes. I can’t believe she’s gone.”

“You were close?”

“Fairly.”She gestured toward one of the olive-green leatherette chairs across the desk from her. “Have a seat.” After I had, she said, Now that we’ve gotten the clever banter out of the way, what can I do for you? “I’m guessing you’re not here to talk the price down on a set of tires.”

I shook my head. “I’m looking into Albert Oberg’s murder,” I said. “And now, Laura’s too.”

“I see.” She made a notation on a yellow legal pad, tapped the pen against the fingertips of the opposite hand. “And why don’t you just leave that to the police?”

“I promised Laura.”

“Ah,” she said. And again, “Ah.”

“I hate to see her under suspicion, and—”

“And now that she’s dead you feel someone needs to protect her name. Is that it?”

“Something like that.”

“Do you think she had something to do with it? I can assure you she didn’t. I was with her when Albert was killed.”

“Actually, the time of death could have been after you two said good night.”

“Do you have any reason to think she left my house and ran over to Albert’s and shot him?”

Something was wrong here.
She
was asking
me
the questions. “No. Of course not. I’m trying to clear Laura, not convict her.” I caught her eye. “You knew, I suppose, that she was involved with Albert.”

She blinked five or six times. “Of course I did.”

“And how was that going?”

“You were such close friends with her.” Her voice had picked up a harsh note. “Going out of your way to preserve her innocence. You should know.”

What I’d been asking shouldn’t have brought on such hostility. But as long as she was getting antagonistic, I thought I’d try pushing some buttons. “I understand you had some sort of business dealings with Albert.”

“Oh? Where did you hear that?”

“Around.”

She stood, revealing teal-blue pants of some fine material that looked like silk but that I suspected was a fashion phenomenon I wasn’t up on. She walked to the window that looked out on the sales floor. “We started out with two stalls leased from a gas station that didn’t do mechanical work.”

“And now you have six. A two hundred percent increase in stall capacity. And as many magnetic car hats as you could imagine.”

“Are you mocking my business?”

“Of course not. I just don’t see why you’re telling me this.”

She turned from the window and came to sit in the other green chair. “Whatever you heard, it’s wrong.”

“You’ve had no business with Albert?”

“You’ve been misled.”

“Was Detective Casillas misled about whatever brought him to the orchid society meeting?”

Her eyes went to the door. Mine followed. Her husband, David, stood there. He had on a nondescript striped shirt and brown slacks. His hairline was as high as ever. I wanted to tell him, Do something about that forehead, man. Comb your hair down. Or shave the whole thing. It’s very in these days.

Helen said, David, this is Joe portugal. He’s a friend of Laura’s. “He’s trying to make sure her name isn’t besmirched.”

David came in and held out his hand to be shaken. “It’ll blow over,” he said.

“I’m sure it will.” The belt between my brain and my mouth broke. I hear you went to the hockey game last Saturday night. “Anybody see you there?”

His lips went rigid. “Yeah. About fifteen thousand people. And the four buddies I sat with.”

“Sorry. Asking you that was probably out of line.”

He forced a smile. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I was just asking Helen about the two of you being in some sort of business arrangement with Albert. I’ve been told there was one, but Helen says it’s not true.”

“You expect me to say she’s wrong?”

“Of course not. I just thought—”

“Look, we’re respectable businesspeople.”

“I’m sure you are.”

“So why are you—”

I threw up my hands, both literally and figuratively. “I’ll drop it, okay?” I got out of my chair. “Forget I said anything.” I took a deep breath, looked from David to Helen and back. “But look, as long as I’m here … do either of you know anyone that might have had anything against Albert? Or Laura, for that matter?”

“No,” they said simultaneously.

“How about Yoichi Nakatani?”

“What about him?” David said. His voice was too loud and too nasty. “I don’t have time for this. I’ve got a business to run. And if you’re not going to buy anything—”

“Would you stick around if I bought some tires? Okay, fine. How about a nice set of Bridgestones? Ronnie out there said I’m about due.”

“We don’t carry them.”

“Your sign says you carry all brands.”

“The sign’s wrong.”

“How come you don’t have Bridgestones?”

“Just don’t like them.” He seemed about to say something else, thought better of it. “I’ve got to go check on some stock.” He turned and walked out.

I looked at Helen. “Was it something I said?”

“No. David’s sometimes a little lacking in the social graces. Don’t take it personally.”

“I won’t, if you answer my last question. Yoichi Nakatani.”

“I know him from the club. I’ve bought a couple of plants from him. That’s all.”

“I heard he got mad at Albert because of some judging a while back.”

“I hadn’t heard that. I doubt it happened. Yoichi doesn’t care that much about judging.”

“I’ve heard the scores can go a long way toward determining how a plant sells.”

“Yoichi thinks if a plant is good it doesn’t matter how it’s been judged. Collectors will find it anyway.”

I’d reached the point of diminishing returns. I thanked her for her time and headed for the door. I opened it, turned, said, Another answer I never got. What about Casillas? “What did he want from you the other night?”

“Nothing. It was a case of mistaken identity.”

No, it wasn’t. There was something there. I didn’t think I had much chance of her telling me what it was. Not yet. “See you around,” I said.

Outside, someone had turned the temperature up another ten degrees. I got to the truck without Ronnie or anyone else trying to sell me tires, and headed up to the 118 Freeway and my date with a costume fitter.

A
LL THOUGHTS OF MURDER TUCKED THEMSELVES AWAY
when I reached Riverrun Studio and walked into the room where my costume awaited. It was a dog suit.

“Whose idea was this?” I asked the guy from the production company.

“We thought it would be clever if you and your wife were a dog couple.”

“Dogs don’t use toilet bowls. Dogs shit in the street.”

“These dogs don’t.”

“This is humiliating.”

“Nonsense. You’ll make a great dog.”

The suit weighed a ton and looked hotter than hell. I struggled into it and checked myself out in the mirror. I didn’t look like a dog. I looked like a person in a dog suit.

The actress playing my wife showed up five minutes later. It was Diane. I hadn’t seen her at the audition, hadn’t even known she was up for the toilet bowl cleaner spot.

Shortly after she put on her costume, the director bubbled into the room. He took one look at the two of us and pronounced us “The perfect dogs.” “Then he told us the powers
that-be had deliberately cast us together because Everyone is used to you as a couple now, because of the bug spots, and they’ll buy the relationship even if you’re dogs.”

I turned to Diane. Maybe we should audition for everything together. “We could do cats and birds and fish next.”

“What would our agents think of that?”

“They don’t get a vote.” I scowled at the director. “They don’t have to dress up as basset hounds.”

Some costume guy looked us over for three seconds each and pronounced the dog suits a perfect fit. For this we schlepped all the way to Sunland?

We ditched the suits and went out to our cars. Diane told me she was nervous about the preview for her play that night. After I made the proper calming comments, I told her I was apprehensive about my evening too. “I have a date,” I said.

“A Real Date?”

“Uh-huh. Second night in a row with the same person.”

“That’s something. I do feel for you. I’m glad I don’t have to deal with dating anymore. What’s her name?”

“Sharon. Sharon Turner.”

“Hmm. I knew someone by that name once. Let me Think …”

“It couldn’t be that uncommon a name.”

“I guess not.” She unlocked her car. “Do you still want to come to the play?”

“Of course I do.”

“We talked about Saturday.”

“That won’t work. A family thing. How about Sunday?” It was important to show my support for Diane early in the run. With L.A.’s theater scene, you never knew if early in the run might end up being the whole run.

“Sunday’s good,” she said.

The director came running out. He’d gotten a bright idea. Maybe Diane should be a cat. “A mixed marriage kind of thing, like the interracial couple in the IKEA spots.”

“Maybe you should make us both the same sex,” I said. “Like the gay couple in the IKEA spots.”

“America isn’t ready for that,” he said.

“America’s ready for a mixed animal couple, but not a gay animal couple?”

“But of course.” He grabbed Diane’s arm and tried to herd her inside.

She shrugged him off. “I’ll have your comps waiting at the box office.”

“Great. Just one thing.”

“What?”

“Where’s the box office?”

“I didn’t tell you? I thought I told you. It’s the John Diamante Theatre.”

I’d heard the name before. “Didn’t that used to be—”

She was nodding. “Yes. It used to be the Altair. Where we

first met, all those years ago.” She let the director drag her inside.

I first got involved in theater in 1974, at twenty-one, when a band I was in was hired to work in one of the many rock musicals flooding the stages of L.A.’s smaller theaters. The play lasted only a couple of weeks, but it opened my eyes to a new creative outlet. Over the next few years I got more and more into theater work—both acting and behind the scenes—while finding less and less time for my guitar. Then, in ‘78, I was working at the Altair when the guy who ran the place found some leftover acid from his hippie days, had a
life-changing trip, and went off to join the Hare Krishnas. I found myself in charge, right in the middle of a production of
Equus.
I guess things went okay, because when the run was over the board of directors offered me the job full-time. It didn’t pay a whole lot, but it paid enough.