Death of an Orchid Lover (29 page)

I pulled her to me and kissed her again. It was nice. It was exciting. But why did I get the feeling she wasn’t totally into it? Why was I getting all these conflicting signals?

T
HE BIGGEST EXCITEMENT OF SATURDAY MORNING’S GREENHOUSE
rounds came when I went to pluck a renegade particle of pumice off one of my mammillarias. When I touched the multiheaded spiny mass, it moved. This is not supposed to happen. I nudged it again. The whole thing collapsed. It was nothing but a skeleton of spines surrounding a heinous mess of orange goo.

This wasn’t that unusual; cacti are very susceptible to invasion by various agents of fungal and bacterial rot. Overwatering is usually a factor, but if anything I’d been too conservative with the water lately. And sometimes the infection will get in when the pot is dry as a bone, and turn your prizewinning plant into a pile of mush overnight.

I took the thing to the garbage can. I saw the food scraps from the night before. Usually when I see food remnants in the garbage, I feel guilty for not composting. But on this particular sunny spring morning, I just felt a little sad. Sharon and I had had a lovely evening, and I was certain I would find a way to screw things up. I felt like a character in
a Greek tragedy; the gods were conspiring to dole me out little scraps of love, leaving me pining for more.

I went inside, called my father, and asked him if Mrs. Vela could come to the family gathering. He said that since he considered Gina a member of the family, her mother must be one too, and of course she could come. Then I called Gina, briefed her on my date, and told her what I’d arranged about that evening. She said it sounded like a great idea. All the extra people would make being with her mom less stressful.

I went in to shower. I found myself fantasizing about Sharon. She was in the shower with me, the water coursing down her body, her nipples erect from the cold spray. Why the spray would be cold I had no idea, but it seemed a good way to get her nipples erect. Then I realized it was my fantasy and they could be erect for any damned reason I pleased. Like maybe because being with me turned her on. So I granted us some warm water.

Just a couple of days before, I hadn’t been able to picture Sharon naked. What fine progress I was making.

I was about to leave for my Olsen’s gig when the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Is that Joe Portugal?” said Hermann Schoeppe.

He was a plant smuggler. I didn’t like what he did, but I liked him. He was charming, he was helpful, he was practical. We’d become acquainted during the Brenda business.

I wasn’t surprised to hear from him. After all, I’d set Gina and Sam to tracking him down. How are you, Mr. “Schoeppe.”

“Fine,” he said. “And you?”

“Just fine.”

“And your friend Ms. Vela?”

“She’s fine too.” Everyone was fine. How nice for us. “Where are you calling from?”

“The Gambia. But please, enough small talk. Transatlantic rates are high. I understand you have been trying to reach me.”

“I have. I need to ask you something.” “Has someone been murdered? Do you suspect me?” I laughed. Feebly. “Yes to the first question. No to the second.” I gave him the
Reader’s Digest Condensed Books
version of the past week’s events. Then I said, “Do you do orchids?”

“Do?”

“Do, as in smuggle. Do you deal in orchids?”

“Occasionally.”

“But not a lot.”

“No. I work in succulents. Only if something shares a site and is too charming to ignore do I take orchids. Otherwise I leave them for others. I do not infringe on their territory, nor they on mine.”

Honor among plant smugglers. What a concept. “So you know some of the, uh, orchid men.”

“Yes. We meet sometimes, talk about business. You know how it is.”

I pictured them sitting around at the Plant Smugglers’ Benevolent Society, reviewing species they’d ravaged, habitats they’d plundered. “In your contact with these gentlemen, has the name Yoichi Nakatani ever come up?”

“I don’t believe so,” Schoeppe said. “Should it have?”

“Possibly. I believe he might be involved in your profession.”

“Involved?”

“Goddamn it, do we have to be so damned polite? I think
he’s a plant smuggler. I don’t care if he’s a plant smuggler—well, I do, but it’s significant to me right now only if it has something to do with the murders. I just need to know. I’m not going to do anything about it unless he’s involved with the killings. Do you think you can find out anything about him?”

“I can try.”

“I’d appreciate it.” I gave him Gina’s cell phone number as a backup and rang off.

My Olsen’s gig at Fashion Square in Sherman Oaks went smoothly. I quizzed Diane on her opening. She said everything had gone well. There’d been three or four reviewers in the house and audience response was good. But since the place was papered with the cast’s loved ones, that didn’t necessarily mean anything.

A couple of times I was on the verge of calling Sharon. Just to check in, to not let a day go by without contact. But each time, I gathered a shred of self-respect and found something else to do instead.

I was done at four. I pulled up at a traffic light on Ventura Boulevard, next to a bus that had stopped to let off passengers. There was an advertising placard on the side. I was supposed to watch
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
on Channel 5 on Tuesdays. Good thing we had buses in L.A. Otherwise I wouldn’t know what was on TV. What had that other sign been for, on Melrose, on the bus that nearly ran me over? Oh, yeah.
Nash Bridges.
Friday nights on CBS.

Friday
nights?

Was that what it had said? I closed my eyes, tried to picture the words emblazoned between the smiling faces of Cheech Marin and Don Johnson.

Somebody honked. My eyes snapped open. The light was green. I cut in front of the bus and pulled up by a magazine stand a block ahead. I hopped out, grabbed a
TV Guide
, shuffled pages.

Yup.
Nash Bridges
was on Fridays.

I drove to Hollywood. Up Beachwood Drive to Laura’s neighbor’s place. I took the stairs two at a time and rang the doorbell. Rustling sounds inside. Eventually, “Who is it?”

“Joe Portugal.”

“Who?”

“Laura’s friend.”

“Oh, yeah.”

She opened the door just enough to peer out. Her face looked older and her hair was dirty. I could hear the boys hollering somewhere inside.

“I hate to bother you again, but something’s not making sense. You told me that the night Laura’s boyfriend Albert was killed you fed Monty. That Laura called and she asked you to feed him and you did.”

“So?”

“So are you sure?”

“I guess.”

“Because you told me she called during
Nash Bridges”

“So?”

“So
Nash Bridges
is on Friday night, not Saturday. He was killed on Saturday.”

Confusion reigned on the other side of the door. “Yeah, I guess that’s right.”

So she must have called you to feed the cat Friday night. “Not Saturday.”

“I guess.”

“And are you sure you didn’t feed the cat last Saturday night also?”

“I don’t think so. Wait. Wasn’t that the night they ran
Harley Davidson & the Marlboro Man
on Channel 13?”

“I don’t know.”

“Let me look.” She disappeared, returning shortly with the previous week’s
TV Guide.
“Yeah, that was the night. The phone never rang.”

“You sure?”

“I took it off the hook. Don Johnson and Mickey Rourke both. I didn’t want to be interrupted.”

“Thanks. You’ve been a big help.”

“She smiled. I have?”

“Yes. What’s your name, by the way?”

“Donna.”

It seemed to fit. “Thanks, Donna.”

“You’re welcome. Come back sometime when I’m feeling better, okay?”

“I’ll see what I can do.” I turned from the door. I didn’t hear it close until I’d reached the bottom of the stairs.

The fact that Donna hadn’t fed Monty the cat Saturday night didn’t necessarily mean Laura did. But, judging from his not yowling at Laura and Gina and me when we came in early Sunday morning, somebody had. He certainly hadn’t fed himself. Maybe Laura had called Donna from Helen’s, gotten a busy signal because the phone was off the hook,
come home to dish out the food before heading up to Albert’s. I could ask Helen about that. Though who knew if she’d tell me the truth. Maybe I could get Burns to check the phone records. But were there records of calls that didn’t go through? It seemed unlikely.