Death of an Orchid Lover (31 page)

We found him in the greenhouse, under weak fluorescent lighting, watering some gallon-size angraecums, the Madagascar orchids with the long nectar spurs. I’d always thought you weren’t supposed to water at night. It promotes fungus growth. But maybe things were different with orchids. There was so much about them I didn’t know.

He saw us and nodded, like our showing up wasn’t any surprise. I introduced Gina. “He regarded us quietly, then said, Darwin.”

“The naturalist, or the city in Australia?”

“Yes,” he said, inscrutably, like the mysterious scientist in an old Republic serial. He turned and indicated the plants with an open hand. When Darwin found these angraecums, he postulated the existence of some insect with a long proboscis. A very long proboscis. “One that would be inserted all
the way into the nectar spur to ensure pollination and the continuation of the species.”

“The Continuation of Species,”
I said. “The sequel to
The Origin of Species.”

He eyed me. “Enough jokes.” He touched one of the nectar spurs almost lovingly. “No such insect was known. None was found until forty years later, when
Xanthopan morgani praedicta
was discovered. A moth, with a proboscis twelve inches long. Long enough to reach the end of the spur.”

He watered one more angraecum, passed the hose over a trayful of tiny plants with marble-like pseudobulbs, laid its end on a bench. It sat there a moment; then water pressure twisted it up and snapped it to the ground like a rubbery green snake. He stepped to the faucet and turned it off. “Darwin knew sooner or later the moth would appear. I am no Darwin. But I knew sooner or later you would appear. Although I did not expect the lovely companion.” He headed for the door. “Come into the trailer with me.”

We crossed the orchid-strewn yard. He stopped with one hand on the trailer door. “By the way,” he said, “Otto stopped by. He was sorry to have missed you.” He shook his head and went in.

We followed and took seats. He shuffled around for a minute or two, offered us iced tea. We declined. He poured himself a glass, conjured up a stool, sat across from us. “So,” he said. “What have you found out?”

“About you and the Czech.”

“The Czech?”

“The biggest orchid smuggler in Madagascar,” Gina said. Schoeppe hadn’t said he was the biggest. Sometimes Gina’s given to hyperbole.

Yoichi’s smile was rueful. “Indeed.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Why? I don’t actually know.”

“You don’t make enough with the stuff you propagate yourself?”

“It’s not a matter of money.” He inspected his tea glass, found an invisible spot to wipe off. It started almost by accident. A shipment of
Aerangis
became available. Some rare species, seldom seen. I bought it. I knew there was a possibility its provenance wasn’t quite legal. But the plants …oh, the plants. The people in the clubs love those plants. I don’t think they know they were collected illegally. Or perhaps they don’t care. Many of them don’t, you know. Many of them don’t even know about CITES. “Many are content to grow their plants and not worry about the environment.” He shrugged. “I help make those people happy.”

His attitude matched that of Hermann Schoeppe exactly. People want the plants, I provide them. The environment can look out for itself. End of story.

“And after that shipment?” Gina said.

“I bought more from the person who sold me the
Aerangis.
” He shrugged. “It continued from there. You don’t need to know the details, do you?”

“Not really,” I said.

“He rubbed his lower lip with a fingertip, asked, oh so casually, Now that you know, what are you going to do with this information?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether or not you killed Albert Oberg, Laura Astaire, or both.”

“You still think some imaginary altercation upset me so much that I exacted revenge?”

It was interesting that he was still denying the argument.
At this juncture it seemed pointless to do so. “No. Not anymore. But Albert was a big CITES supporter. Always working to stop illegal trafficking in plants. Maybe he found out about you and—”

“And what? I killed him for it?” He smiled indulgently, shook his head. “I am not a violent man. I assure you, I did not kill Albert. Nor Laura. I barely knew the woman. Only through—” A tiny head shake.

I stood and leaned against the stove, such as it was. “See, here’s the thing. Gina checked into your alibi for the night Albert died. It doesn’t stand up.”

“Oh,” Yoichi said. “You did, did you?” It seemed he’d been prepared for me to figure out his smuggling connection, but not for me to find out his whereabouts the previous Saturday were imaginary.

“Yes,” Gina said. “The board meeting, dinner, whatever, got canceled. So where were you really?”

“I can’t say.”

“You have to say,” I told him. “If you don’t, I’m going to do two things. First, I’m going to send the cops down here to question you. This will be a big pain in the ass and not very good for business. And they might find out about your smuggling connection, except they won’t have to do that because the second thing I’m going to do is contact the customs service and turn you in.”

“And, if I tell you where I was that night, you won’t do any of this?”

It had sounded good up to then. But what if he did tell me? Should I go ahead and turn him in anyway? An interesting moral question.

“No,” I said, glancing at Gina, then back at Yoichi. “What we’ve learned won’t go beyond this trailer.”

He nodded, sighed, slumped on his stool. “I was with someone.”

“That’s good,” I said. That’s the best kind of alibi. “Who were you with?”

He squeezed the words out. “My lover.”

“Who is she?”

“Is this absolutely necessary?”

“Yes.”

He looked me in the eye. “Very well. My lover is Helen Gartner.”

I
RECALLED HOW HELEN HADN’T SEEMED AS UP-TO-DATE ON
Laura’s relationship with Albert as I thought she ought to. Probably because while they were supposedly chatting over dinner, Helen was actually slinking around with Yoichi. And I remembered how, when I was talking to Casillas, I’d wondered if the story of the two of them being together was Laura covering up something Helen had done. I’d had the principle right. I’d just gotten the subject of the cover-up wrong.

I stared across the miniature kitchen at Yoichi. I didn’t quite know where to go next. Yoichi and Helen. Helen, whose husband held a passionate dislike for the Japanese. And who had, I knew well, a violent streak. No wonder Yoichi didn’t want anyone to know. “How long?”

“Almost a year.”

“Does David suspect?”

“Helen doesn’t believe so. We have taken the greatest pains to keep our relationship secret. Laura was a great help in that effort. Several times she covered our trail, as it were, by saying she had spent the evening with Helen.”

“So Laura wasn’t with Helen last Saturday night.”

“No. As I said, I was.”

“Do you know where she was?”

“I do not.”

Super. I’d finally managed to convince myself Laura’s alibi for the latter part of the evening was good, just in time to blow the one for the rest of it to hell.

If she wasn’t with Helen, who was she with? And what was she doing?

Maybe she
had
shot Albert. Some sort of lovers’ quarrel.

But then who’d killed her?

“Now that you know,” Yoichi said, “what are you going to do with this information?”

Good question. There didn’t seem to be any reason for anyone else to know about it. If it were true.

“I’m going to have to confirm what you told me.”

“Confirm? What do you mean, confirm?”

“I’m going to have to ask Helen about it.”

He jumped up and slapped his hands down on the table. “No! You will not do that!”

But I have to. “How do I know what you’re telling me now is any more the truth than what you told me before?”

Would I invent something like this? “Would I invent a story that could bring the wrath of an angry racist husband down upon me? Be reasonable.”

Goddamn it, I am being reasonable. I’m not turning you in to the Feds. “But I can’t just accept your story without corroboration.”

He frowned, sat back down. “When will you speak with her?”

Tomorrow, I guess. “Why?”

No particular reason. “I guess I just want to prepare myself.”

“For what?”

“In case David finds out.”

“Why should David find out?”

“You might tell him.”

“Why would I tell him? I’m just trying to find out who killed a couple of very nice people, not rid the world of adultery.”

I nodded to Gina. She got up, opened the door, navigated the steps, looked back in at us.

“Helen doesn’t know about the activities we’ve discussed,” Yoichi said. “You won’t tell her, will you?”

I stood and looked down at him. “No. That’s up to you. But if you love her, you shouldn’t keep any secrets from her.”

Joe Portugal, expert on affairs of the heart, stepped out of the trailer. We got in the car and headed out of Orange County and back to somewhere we belonged.

“Maybe they’re both in on it,” I said.

We were on the Santa Ana Freeway, almost to downtown L.A. We’d discussed our visit with Yoichi when we first got into the car, but had driven in virtual silence for the last twenty minutes.

“Both?” Gina said.

“Yoichi and Helen. That touching bit about her not knowing could have been a sham.”

“But for what reason?”

“I don’t know. I just wish I could figure out what this business connection between Albert and the Gartners was. Maybe if I knew that—”

“Where’d you hear about that again?”

“Sharon.”

“Could she have been mistaken?”

“Maybe.”

More silence. I reached behind the seat, grabbed Gina’s purse, pulled out the little cardboard box. A pack of Trojans. “What’s this about?” I said.

She took her eyes off the road long enough to see what I was referring to. “Best to be prepared,” she said.

“Prepared for what?”

“I just thought it would be good to have them. In case—”

“In case what?”

“Damn it, Joe. Just, in case.”

I shut up. Five minutes passed. Gina negotiated the interchange weirdness around downtown and got on the Hollywood Freeway.

“Even if I weren’t scared of what it would do to you and me,” I said, I couldn’t. “I mean, there’s Sharon.”

Strained silence.

“And anyway, I’ve got some.”

“I thought you might, but I wasn’t sure. It was kind of an impulse buy. I told you I was doing that a lot lately. I went to Rite-Aid for shampoo, and there they were by the checkout.”

“And anyway, if we did, do you really think I might be infected with something?”

Even in the dark I could make out the Joe-you’re-an-idiot look. Remember before AIDS? “They sold condoms then too. For birth control.”

“Birth control? I thought you had that taken care of.”

“I’ve been seeing a woman for the last four months. Why would I be dealing with birth control?”

“Oh, yeah.” I was still sitting there like a fool with the pack of Trojans in my hand. I replaced them in her purse, put it back down. I tried to think of something to say, but
nothing sounded good. When we got back to Gina’s place I went right to my truck. She didn’t provide any argument.