Death of an Orchid Lover (20 page)

“I have it on good authority that it did.”

“Your authority is mistaken.” “You’re sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. I would remember if I ever had an argument with Albert. I did not. We got along well. And if I did have an argument with someone, I would never say he had the eyes of a newt.”

“Maybe I’ve been misinformed. Let’s say I have. But perhaps, as a grower, you might have seen or heard something that would give me an idea of where to go next. For instance, have you heard anything about business dealings between Albert and the Gartners?”

He frowned, looked away, back at me. “The Gartners?”

Yes. “David and Helen.”

“Business dealings? What kind?”

I’m not exactly sure. “That’s why I asked you.”

He shook his head. Too fast? Hard to tell. Nothing. I’ve heard nothing like that. “I really don’t know the Gartners very well.”

“You seem nervous.”

“Having a virtual stranger question me in my home does that to me.”

“I’m just trying to—” To what? To see justice done? That was way beyond my limited moral scope. “To help clear Laura’s name. Would you mind telling me where you were Saturday night?”

“Yes, I would.”

“Tell me anyway.”

He looked toward the heavens, then back at me. “Very well. I was at a board meeting of the Anaheim Orchid Society.”

“Saturday night seems an odd time for a board meeting.”

“It was a dinner as well. Orchidists enjoy each other’s company. Why not spend Saturday evening together?”

“I suppose people saw you there.”

“I suppose they did. Come, let’s go look in the greenhouse. You might find something you want to buy.”

“I might want to buy one of the flasks.”

“I don’t think I would sell you one. They’re for people who know more than you do.”

We went out to the greenhouse. Suddenly he was the same happy-go-lucky guy I’d met at the show. I looked for something to take home. Like I said, I always feel funny about visiting a nursery and not buying anything. I almost got one of the angraecums, but the ones that were significantly sized were too much money, and the ones I could afford were, according to Yoichi, a couple of years from blooming. So I picked out an
Isabelia virginalis
, a string of tiny pseudobulbs attached to a stick, with a single needlelike leaf poking out from each, the whole affair covered with a webby shroud. Twenty-two dollars. It would have gotten me a massive cactus.

I
MADE IT BACK UP TO HOLLYWOOD IN PLENTY OF TIME FOR
my three-thirty callback. I parked at Pep Boys again, did my stint in front of the camera, cut through the store on the way back to the truck. A guy in a short-sleeved white shirt and Daffy Duck tie gave me the eye. “You were all out of fuzzy dice,” I said, and hustled out to the lot.

I drove up to Franklin, cut over to Beachwood, continued north. I parked in front of Laura’s place, stared at it, willed something important to come into view.

It worked, though I didn’t know it at the time. The two neighbor boys came skateboarding down the street. The smaller, blond one had Monty the cat draped over his shoulder like a big orange muffler. They were yelling at each other, calling each other “butthole.” When they saw me sitting there, they screeched the skateboards to a halt and stood looking moderately sheepish.

I gestured them over. I probably looked like a drug dealer.

“How you kids doing?” I asked.

“Fine,” said the taller, dark-haired one. Blondie said nothing.

1“That’s Monty, right?”

“Uh-huh,” said the shorter one.

“My name’s Joe. What are your names?”

They exchanged looks, like their mother had told them not to talk to strangers. But we weren’t exactly strangers. “I’m Sonny,” said the tall one. He had a stud in his ear with a peace sign on it. “My brother’s Crock.”

What a lousy thing to do. Naming a kid Crock. A Crock boy, like the one who’d dropped the pot and uncovered the secret of the stanhopeas and their hidden flowers. “I was a friend of Laura’s. You remember? You saw me the other day.”

“She was nice,” said Crock. No earring, but a tattoo of a lightning bolt on his upper arm. It was smudged. Had to be fake. Good thing.

“She hung out with us when our mom wasn’t home,” said Sonny. “‘Cause she was home a lot in the afternoons. She was nice.”

“Real nice,” said Crock.

Okay, we were making progress. We’d established that Laura was nice. “You guys like cats?”

“We like Monty,” said Sonny. Knowing his cue, the cat picked his head up from Crock’s shoulder, looked at me, and yawned.

“You said to the policeman yesterday that you took care of him sometimes.”

“Sometimes, before she got killed,” said Crock. “Now he’s ours.”

Sonny punched him in the arm. Crock flinched away. “Sorry,” he said. “I forgot.”

Interesting behavior. “Did you guys ever feed Monty for Laura?”

They exchanged anxious looks before turning back to me. “You mean like when she wasn’t home?” said Crock.

“Yes.”

Another swapping of glances.

“Yeah,” said Crock.

“No,” said Sonny. He went to sock Crock’s arm again, but the smaller boy danced away.

I smiled. “Which is it, guys?”

“Yeah,” Sonny said, though he wasn’t happy about it. We fed him sometimes when she wasn’t home in the afternoons. “At night our mom did sometimes.”

“Is your mom home?”

“Yes,” said Crock.

“No,” said Sonny.

“Which is it, guys?”

“She’s home,” said Crock. “She just is kind of tired.” Can I talk to her? “I promise it’ll only be for a minute.”

His eyes darted around. Yeah, I guess it’s okay. “Come on.”

The two of them skateboarded a couple of apartment buildings up the street. I locked up the truck and followed. Their building was similar to Laura’s, but pale green and without any dangling house number digits.

They led me upstairs. Crock had a key on a chain around his neck. He pulled the chain over his head, approached the apartment door, stopped. He looked at his brother, then at me. “When our mom found out we told the cops we took care of Monty, she told us not to talk about it with anybody.”

“I won’t say anything.”

He looked at me, evaluated me, evidently decided I was telling the truth. He opened the door and took a step inside. “Ma!”

“Yeah?”

“There’s a man here to see you. He says he’s Laura’s friend.”

“The place is a mess.”

“I don’t care,” I yelled. “My place is a mess too.” That got a little smile out of Sonny. He and his brother and their new cat vanished into the apartment.

A few seconds later she appeared. She was short and a little heavy and wore worn denim cutoffs and a sweatshirt. Her hair was some kind of blond. “Hi,” she said. I might have smelled alcohol.

I held out a hand. “Joe Portugal. I used to hang out with Laura.”

She took my fingertips in hers, let go. “Nice girl.” That made it unanimous.

“Yes, she was. I understand you fed Monty sometimes.”

She threw a glance back into the house, turned back to me. “Where did you hear that?”

“Laura told me.”

I didn’t know if she believed me or not. I hoped I hadn’t gotten the kids in trouble.

“She said that?”

“Uh-huh.”

She looked at me as if realizing for the first time that some stranger was at her door asking her questions. “Why should I tell you anything?”

“Like I said, I’m a friend of Laura’s. I’m trying to prove her innocent of killing her boyfriend. And herself, I guess.”

“The fat guy.”

“Yeah, the fat guy.”

She heaved a big sigh. “You wanna come in?”

“Sure.”

She opened the door all the way, and I entered the apartment.
I’d expected a pit, but the place was relatively neat. Maybe the kids liked housework.

I could hear the boys being boys somewhere in the back. In the living room, the TV had one of those talk show people on, some redhead I didn’t recognize. The volume was way down. A bottle of vodka and one of Cranapple juice and a glass decorated the beat-up coffee table.

She slumped onto the Herculon couch, pointed vaguely at the matching chair. Have a seat. “Want a drink?”

“No, thanks.”

She nodded, as if I’d explained a mystery of the universe. “Yeah, I fed the cat sometimes.”

“You had a key?”

She frowned. Sure I did. “Something wrong with that?”

“Of course not.”

“She had mine too. So she could give the kids snacks when I wasn’t home from work yet.”

“Why aren’t you at work now?”

She tried to give me a dirty look, didn’t quite make it. “I wasn’t feeling well today.”

I wondered if the kids really did go to a year-round school. There was another explanation for their being on the street so much. Mom’s drunk again. Let’s skip class. She won’t care. “Feeling better now?”

“Yeah.”

“So if Laura was away, sometimes you’d go down the block and feed Monty.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you remember if you fed him Saturday night?”

“You’re not going to tell the cops any of this, are you?”

“Not if you tell me the truth.”

“I just don’t want to get involved with the cops.”

“I promise. Go ahead.”

“She called while
Nash Bridges
was on. I wouldn’t have answered the phone, but the commercial was on.” She scratched her chin. “It’s such a good show. They haven’t made a show like that in a long time. They haven’t made a show like that since—”

“Since
Miami Vice.
”

Bingo. She smiled for the first time. Sometime long ago she probably had a nice smile. “Wasn’t that a great show? I love that Don Johnson.”

“You must really love him to name your kids after his character.” Sonny. Crock, whose full first name, I suspected, was Crockett.

“I was gonna name the next one James. That was Sonny’s real name on the show. Or Jamie if it was a girl. But I never had a next one.”

“So last Saturday night, when Laura called, did she ask you to go over and feed Monty?”

“She sure did. And as soon as
Nash Bridges
was over I did. Minute I walk in the door he starts hollering at me, like he does when he’s hungry. I gave him a Sheba and some kibble and some water.”

So I’d been right about Monty. He liked to yell when he hadn’t gotten his food on time. And I’d been right when I told Casillas about him seeming like he’d been fed before Laura and Gina and I arrived at Laura’s place early Sunday morning.

I’d just been wrong about who fed him.

We talked a few minutes more, but nothing came of it, except for my acquisition of a finer appreciation of the
films of Don Johnson.
A Boy and His Dog
was playing at the New Beverly in a couple of weeks, and I promised to see it.

As I unlocked the truck, I realized I didn’t know Sonny and Crock’s mother’s name. I decided it didn’t matter.