Death of an Orchid Lover

M
y thanks go out to the membership of the Malibu Orchid Society—especially Brian Derby, Richard Klug, and George Vasquez—and to Rod and Janet Carpenter, for their invaluable help with orchid lore.

Thank you to the members of the Los Angeles and Internet Chapters of Sisters in Crime for constant support and clear thinking. To Linda Thrasher, without whom
Death of an Orchid Lover
might still be looking for a title. To Emy de la Fuente Jr., Kevin Burton Smith, and Jerry Wright for Web site stuff. To Alice Fundukian-Anmahouni and Vicken Anmahouni, for
aboush.

And thanks to my agent, Janet Manus, and my editor, Mike Shohl, for doing what they do.

Thanks to my editor, Mike Shohl, for figuring out what was wrong with this book and showing me how to fix it.

And special thanks to my agent, Janet Manus, for support and enthusiasm that continually go far beyond the call of duty.

T
HE SCENT EVOKED MEMORIES OF MY FATHER AT THE
kitchen counter with a hammer and a brown hairy thing.

“Coconut,” Gina said. “What smells like coconut?”

The guy who looked like Humpty Dumpty overheard her. He snatched a potful of plant off a table and rushed over. It was a mass of long skinny leaves erupting from bulblike bases. Its flowers, maroon and yellow and about an inch across, resembled old-fashioned airplane propellers with spotted tongues.

He stuck the thing in Gina’s face.
“Maxillaria tenuifolia,”
he said.

“Very nice,” she said. “Would you please get it out of my nose?”

Humpty’s forehead creased as he considered his faux pas. He pulled the plant back, cradling it against his substantial gut. “I only wanted you to enjoy the fullness of its fragrance.”

“Which she couldn’t do with leaves in her nostrils,” said Sam Oliver.

We were at the Palisades Orchid Society’s spring social.
Throughout the spacious house overlooking Mulholland Drive, people darted from plant to plant, uttering “oohs” and “ahs” as they alit on one orchid or another. There were plenty for them to alight on. A pot or two on each table, a bunch on shelves near the windows and sliding glass doors. In a corner at least a hundred miniature plants grew under lights on an antique rack.

Why we were there was Sam, the goateed elder statesman of the Culver City Cactus Club. A friend of his was hosting the event and had insisted he come. Sam—who wasn’t particularly into orchids—had dragged me along. I, in turn, had dragged Gina.

I took the plant from Humpty. “Is this thing an orchid?”

His eyes flitted from me to Gina to Sam and back to me again. Then, as plant people are apt to do, he spewed. “It is indeed. Not being orchidists, you probably think orchids all resemble the corsages teenagers wear to proms. But there’s an infinite variety. There are large orchids, small orchids, white orchids, red orchids, orchids of every hue. Except black. There are no black orchids. Not true black, anyway. Oh, some of your growers say they’ve created a black orchid, but it isn’t a true black, just as there isn’t a truly black rose.” He took back the plant, brought it to his nose, took a big whiff. “If you like scented plants you might consider
Oncidium
Sharry Baby, with a chocolate fragrance. And of course vanilla comes from an orchid, and—but I’m forgetting my manners.” He reached a pudgy hand over to me. “Albert Oberg.”

“Our host,” Sam said.

I took the hand. Albert surprised me with a solid grip. I’d expected a mackerel. “I’m Joe Portugal,” I said. “Gina Vela,” said Gina.

Albert looked to be around sixty, though I suspected his
chubby face was hiding a few years. His features were slightly too close together, accentuating his resemblance to one of those stuffed pantyhose dolls. His head sprouted an incongruous mushroom of luxurious blond hair. He was tall as well as round, several inches more than my five-ten, and he had one of the most impressive stomachs I’d ever seen. It wasn’t like a beer belly, suddenly erupting somewhere south of his nipples and hanging off him like he was about due for a cesarean. Instead, it slowly rose just below his shoulders, climbing smoothly to its full rotundity and tapering off equally gracefully, eventually beveling into his stick legs. He didn’t seem to have any room for genitals, but with looks like his, he probably didn’t need them very often.

To his credit, he wasn’t one of those fat guys who wear size 34 pants by slinging them below their guts. His belt threaded directly across his huge expanse of stomach like a pipeline traversing the Alaskan wilderness. The pants were wide-wale corduroys. A herringbone sport jacket over a pale yellow dress shirt completed the picture.

“Well, Albert,” I said. “I’m sure these are all fine orchids, and I’m sure there’s a lot of interesting things I could learn about them, but I’m more of a succulent kind of guy.”

“Succulents?” He said the word like it was an expletive, like I’d told him I collected Nazi war helmets or Charles Manson memorabilia. “Succulents?” He turned to Sam, received a dirty look, came back to me. “What is it about those spiny things that makes them so attractive to some people?”

“We’ve had this conversation a million times,” Sam said.

“So we have. Well. Come along, Sam, I want to show you my new eulophia.”

Sam turned to me. “Coming?”

I shook my head. “I’ve seen enough eulophias for a while.”

The two of them wandered off. “What’s a eulophia?” Gina asked.

“I have no idea. Come on, let’s explore.”

We walked into the living room, where a group had gathered around a big flameless stone fireplace. They had the look of plant people. Dressed subtly behind the times, with conventional hairstyles and earnest expressions. One pair stood out, a middle-aged woman standing behind an older one in a wheelchair. Each had a moon-shaped face, watery gray eyes, and a British accent.

Two guys were discussing fertilizers. One said he liked 1010-10, and the other told him that was fine for growth but not for blooming, and the first said, “Oh, you and your manure.” Mr. Manure retorted by saying a lot of the winners at the Santa Barbara show had been over-potashed.

I listened awhile, nodding at appropriate places. When a woman wearing a muumuu decorated with Day-Glo hibiscus began haranguing a man in a priest’s collar about tissue culture, I caught Gina’s eye and we moved into the kitchen. There, three or four people were dissecting the cancellation of
Ellen.
Gina rolled her eyes and went outside to get a snack. I stood near the sink, looking busy fixing myself a Coke. Someone invaded my space. “Hi,” she said. “I think I know you.”

She was blond, average height, a few years older than my forty-five, with a look of ethereal intensity. She wore a well-tailored lavender blouse and cream-colored pants. She seemed vaguely familiar, but anyone will if you look at them long enough.

“I’m Laura,” she said.

“Joe. Wait. I’ve got it. The Altair.
Boondale
, right?” “That’s it.” We managed a half-assed hug. “How
are
you?”

Fifteen or so years before, when I managed the Altair Theater, Laura Astaire—no relation to Fred—had done two shows there. The first, about the decline and fall of a West Virginia coal mining town, was called
Last Train to Boondale.
It was one of the occasional plays I acted in, portraying Laura’s brother, a ne’er-do-well who ended up getting run over by the eponymous train.