The Cactus Club Killings (Joe Portugal) Page 5

  Dick asked my advice on how we should handle “the Brenda thing.” I told him what I thought. He agreed, and he and Hope went back to work.

  More members arrived. Some were oldies-but-goodies, people like Dick who’d been members practically since cacti evolved, or at least since the clubs founding in 1955. There were newbies too, folks who’d wandered into our annual show, bought a couple of weird plants, and soon found they couldn’t live without several dozen more.

  I dropped off my giveaways and stopped by the library table to return my book. Austin Richman, club librarian and unreconstructed hippie, greeted me. “Hey, man, how’s it going?” He’d dressed formally—he had a T-shirt on under his overalls. I gave him the book, and he dutifully signed it in. We exchanged grimaces about Brenda, and I moved on.

  A big burly fellow carrying a flat of plants arrived. “Who’s that guy?” Gina whispered. “He looks suspicious.”

  “That’s Lyle Tillis. He’s a part-time grower. He’s been in the club forever. Past president; treasurer now. Nice guy. Always giving away plants to people. He gave the program last month, about his trip to South Africa.” A short woman—vaguely eastern European, with sad dark eyes—followed Lyle in. “That’s his wife, Magda,” I said.

  I found seats in the back against the wall. Gina pulled her computer out of its case. She turned it on and began typing. “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Taking notes. I don’t want to trust all this to memory.”

  “Notes on what?”

  “Suspects.”

  “Oy. Don’t piss anybody off.”

  “Maybe I should. We could get them mad, and they’d get confused, and they’d confess.”

  I patted her hand. “Behave, okay?”

  “I will, I promise. Tell me about Lyle.”

  “He and Dick are old buddies. Best buddies. Jesus, I feel like an idiot doing this.”

  “Shut up and tell me more.”

  “Lyle provides a lot of the succulents that Dick sells at the nursery.”

  “What nursery?”

  “McAfee’s. Perhaps you’ve seen it.”

  She could hardly help having seen it. Dick’s nursery was a giant landmark on Washington Boulevard, near the marina. They sold all manner of plants in huge quantities. Indoor, outdoor, everything. In December they added a bunch of Christmas paraphernalia, and the indoor section was awash in more Euphorbia pulcherrima—poinsettias—than you’d ever want to see. Dick fancied himself the poinsettia king of Los Angeles.

  “He’s that McAfee? They must be loaded.”

  “They live modestly.”

  “What does she do?”

  “She doesn’t have a job, but she does a ton of volunteer work. Can we stop this cross-examination, please?”

  She gave me a look, seemed about to answer. But she got distracted. “Who’s that?”

  “That” was Rowena Small. A little old lady—very little, like four-six. Her hair was pure white. Stick legs poked out from a pair of cutoffs. She was a fixture at meetings, dispensing advice to all the newcomers. It was an amazing mix, this advice. Sometimes it was perfectly accurate, useful, and succinct, On other occasions it was utter hogwash.

  “Don’t tell me you think she looks suspicious too.”

  “She’s too hyper. She’s hiding something.”

  “She’s always like that.”

  “Maybe she’s been killing people all along.”

  Over the next fifteen minutes, several people came up and asked about Brenda. I told them I wanted to wait and talk to everyone at the same time. Others stood around the room, sneaking glances at me as if I were a hero for discovering the body.

  At seven forty-five, Dick called the meeting to order. He introduced a couple of new members. They each got a round of applause. Members of CCCC were so conditioned. Introduce anyone, they clapped their hands off.

  With this nicety complete, Dick managed to turn the meeting over to me before dazing and/or confusing more than a handful of attendees. I stepped up to the front. A table in front of me displayed a variety of plants the members had brought in to brag about, complain over, or give away. To my left, a bust of some great Odd Fellow of the past stared off into infinity. On my right, a moth-eaten American flag hung limply from a once-golden pole. My shirt was already stuck to my back; except in the dead of winter, we had to choose between sweating our asses off or struggling to be heard over the two industrial-strength fans, and this evening whoever was in charge of such things had opted for sweat.

  I gazed out over the assembled masses. Three dozen faces stared back. All suspects, to hear Gina tell it. I caught her eye. She gave me a smile, lowered her head, and entered something into the computer.

  What to say? They’d all read the paper or spoken to someone who had. They all knew what had happened. I could deliver a lame eulogy. I could describe the death scene.

  I could go home.

  That was exactly the thing to do. Whip off a few quick wasn’t-she-greats, turn the meeting back to Marblemouth Dick, and flee.

  “Tell us everything!” shrieked Rowena Small.

  The dam broke. A thousand questions poured out at me. Did she look like it hurt? Was she naked? Did this mean Dick was president now? Whose plant was poking out of her mouth?

  Wait, I thought. Who was that? That doesn’t sound like one of the members. That sounds like …

  Detective Hector Casillas stood at the back of the room, partially obscuring a photo of two dozen old women in frilly pink dresses. “Hi, Portugal,” he said.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Just trying to find out whose plant was sticking out of the victim’s mouth like a big green—”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” I said. “This is Detective Hector Casillas of the Los Angeles Police Department. I’m sure he’ll answer all your questions about our presidents demise.” I clapped my hands together, one-two-three-four, like a rich person telling a servant to hurry up. They all picked up the clapping. I dashed out from behind the table. When the applause began to die down, I said, “Come on, is that how you welcome one of L.A.’s finest?” They started up again, viewing him adoringly, awaiting momentous information. I threw him a smug smile.

  Rowena Small, wearing a fiendish expression, shot out, “Did the poor baby suffer before she went?” and before you knew it Casillas was answering a barrage of questions. Gina sat furiously typing the answers into her computer. I stood off to the side, trying not to laugh at my tormentor’s predicament, then sidled outside and indulged in a giggling fit. I’d shown him.

  I stuck my head back in. I’d shown him nothing. He’d moved from the back of the room to the front, where he leaned against the table, notebook in hand. While I was off having hysterics, he’d turned things around. Now it was him asking the questions. Had there been any suspicious characters at the last meeting? Had Brenda said anything to anyone about her trip to Madagascar? Did anyone recognize the plant in the photograph he just happened to have in his jacket pocket?

  I withdrew from the doorway and wandered out to the curb. A breeze was up. A lone Jacaranda across the street shed lavender remnants onto a parked car. “You prick,” said Casillas.

  “That’s twice you’ve snuck up on me.”

  “You dumb-ass prick. Don’t ever try to make me look bad.”

  “I thought you were going to accuse me right in front of everybody.”

  “I can’t do that. Not enough proof. Yet.” He smirked. “But I got some good stuff just now. Thanks for getting me in with those people.”

  “My pleasure. Tell me something. Do you really think I killed Brenda?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t know. You could have. Any of those people could have. But I got to tell you, the plant matched up. Makes it look kind of bad for you.” He pulled out a tissue, removed those damned half-glasses, scrubbed the lenses. “Its nothing personal. You shouldn’t take it personal. Sometimes you got to step on a few toes to make an omelet.” He replaced his glasses, adjusted h
is suit collar, glared at me. “Better watch yourself. One false move and pow!” He strode over to his Chevy and drove off into the night.

  I watched his taillights until he turned the corner. After that I imagined I was still watching them. Then—

  “Here he is,” screeched Rowena Small. “Are you a suspect? Vera Berg says you’re a suspect.” Vera was about a hundred years old and always spent the meetings at the refreshment table, sucking up cookies.

  Rowena stood in the doorway, positively shivering with anticipation. Next to her, Dick and Hope McAfee had their arms around each other. The rest of the members pressed up behind them, threatening to burst out the door, but holding back as if afraid to share the out-of-doors with me until I was cleared of all suspicion.

  “I don’t think I am,” I said.

  “He most certainly is not,” Gina said. She pushed her way into the crowd and popped through to join me outside. She turned, took Rowena firmly by the shoulders, and shoved. The crowd swallowed Rowena up. “Please,” Gina said. “Everyone go inside. Show’s over.” She pushed and prodded and got them all in. She slammed the door behind them and leaned her back against it. “I told you, Joe,” she said.

  “Told me what?”

  “They’re wackos, this cactus club. They’re wackos, each and every one of them. And I think one of them killed Brenda.”

  I decided CCCC could manage the rest of the meeting without me. Someone else could take notes. Nobody ever cared about the minutes anyway.

  But before I could escape, Dick and Lyle emerged from the hall. Our speaker hadn’t shown up. Someone had called him and found out he thought the meeting was the following Tuesday. What were we to do now?

  We made an executive decision. We told everyone the funeral arrangements and sent them home. At least I think that’s what we did; I didn’t stick around to find out. For all I know, no one could understand what Dick was saying and they sat around until the wee hours of the morning discussing my possible guilt.

  I drove home, and Gina followed. Somewhere during the fiasco at the Odd Fellows I’d misplaced my sandwich. Gina proposed to throw together some pasta. I wandered outside with a flashlight to see if any of the night-bloomers had done their thing. None had, but I surprised a possum who was poking around the greenhouse door.

  A pungent Italian-cooking smell hit me the instant I walked back into the house. I followed my nose to the kitchen. I’d had one tomato, one carrot, one green pepper and one onion, and Gina’d found them all. “Sit,” she said.

  I meandered into the living room, sat on the couch, flicked on the remote. Must’ve been Van Damme week on Channel 6. He was punching some Asian baddie senseless.

  I turned off the sound and listened to the hissing of the sautéing vegetables, the clink of utensils, the little foot squeaks on the kitchen floor. I turned and watched Gina’s activities over the counter between the kitchen and living room. After a bit I directed my attention back to the mute TV. “I’m going to smoke myself a joint,” I said.

  “You are not.”

  “Why the hell not? It’ll make me feel better.”

  “Stop acting like a four-year-old, Joe. You can’t get loaded just because you have troubles to take your mind off.”

  “Can too.”

  “We have to figure out what to do.”

  “I already figured it out. I’m going to smoke a—”

  “Joe.” Something about her tone made me look at her. She’d moved into the kitchen doorway. She stood there with an oven mitt on one hand, holding a wooden spoon in the other. “Whoever did this didn’t just kill Brenda. They did it by sticking a plant down her throat. Your run-of-the-mill murderer’s not going to do that. It takes a plant nerd to catch a plant nerd.”

  I said nothing.

  “You know you want to look into this.”

  “Do not.”

  “What harm could a little investigating do? We haven’t had an adventure in almost two years.”

  Our last adventure had been river rafting on the Colorado. I came out of that one with a broken arm and twelve stitches in my temple. I’d told Gina the next time she wanted an adventure, she should go with her boyfriend. Or girlfriend. Whatever she was into at the time. I reminded her as much now.

  “Do you have anything better to do?” she asked. “Other than playing with your plants and watching wrestling and waiting for Elaine to come up with your bimonthly commercial?”

  “I only watch wrestling once in a while. On weekends.”

  “You need some mental stimulation. This is a chance to get some and get Casillas off your back too.”

  “What if I run into the killer and he’s moved on to Cygon injections or something?”

  She went back to the stove before replying. “Carry a gun.”

  I stood and walked over to the counter. She was at least half serious.

  “Where am I going to get a gun?” I asked.

  “I have one.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What part didn’t you understand? I have a gun.”

  “When did you get a gun?”

  “Two years ago, when we had that serial rapist in West Hollywood.”

  “Where’d you get it?” I asked, certain I knew the answer.

  “From your father.”

  I was right. “How come you never told me?”

  “I was embarrassed about it. I took some lessons at the Beverly Hills Gun Club, and then I put it way back on the top shelf of my closet and I never took it out again.”

  “Why don’t we just leave it there? All I need is for Casillas to come talk to me and find out I’m packing.”

  “Maybe I wasn’t serious about the gun. But I’m serious about the rest.”

  She wasn’t going to let it go. What had started as a whim had evidently turned into an obsession. “Just assuming I went along with this insanity,” I said, “how would we start?”

  She smiled for the first time since I’d come back in the house. She shut off the heat under the skillet and started pulling on cabinet doors. As she tracked down dishes she said, “I have a spreadsheet.”

  “Fascinating.”

  “It’s not finished yet, but I’ve been organizing everything we know into an Excel spreadsheet. I have a column for suspects, and one for motives, and one for miscellaneous. So far most of the stuff’s under miscellaneous. Go grab us some napkins and drinks and sit.”

  I did as I was told, wondering what had gotten into my dearest friend. “This is what you’ve been doing all day.”

  “When I wasn’t with a client.” She placed a plate of pasta on the table in front of me.

  I had an appetite for the first time since we’d stumbled across Brenda. I took a big forkful. It was perfect. I could taste all four of my vegetables. “So now we have this spreadsheet.” I had only the vaguest idea what a spreadsheet was but figured that could come later. “What do we do with it?”

  She looked up from her plate, held up a let-me-swallow finger. A drop of sauce lingered on her chin. I reached over the table and dabbed it off with my napkin. “We start questioning people,” she said.

  “Just like that?”

  “We’re smart. We’ll figure it out. Does this need more red pepper?”

  We cleaned our plates, had seconds, washed the dishes. By the time we were done with ice cream and Letterman and the Cary Grant movie we found ourselves watching, it was one-thirty in the morning. Too late for Gina to go home. I pulled out the bed hidden in my couch and brought her the oversize T-shirt she kept at my place. I tucked her in and hied myself off to the bedroom. I stripped, set the clock, memorized my two lines for the commercial shoot in the morning, and went to bed.

  But I couldn’t sleep. I’d eaten too much and given myself a stomachache. The air in the bedroom was too still, and the fan hadn’t made it in yet from the garage, where it liked to spend the winter. I lay there thinking about the fix I found myself in. This led me to Gina’s notion of poking into things ourselves. This led me to Gina.<
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  We’d first met in 1981, when I was managing and acting at the Altair. She’d recently moved back to L.A. after ending a four-year affair with another Harvard alumna she’d met in her senior year there. Someone recommended her to design sets for our revival of Private Lives, We hit it off and steamed into one of those fast and furious flings theater people are so adept at. It burned out around opening night, and when the run ended we lost touch.

  Fast forward eight years to a Passover seder at my cousin—and commercial agent—Elaine’s. It was the first seder I’d ever been to. When I was growing up, my father’s Judaism and my mother’s Catholicism neatly canceled one another out. We had Christmas, and that was about it.

  The doorbell rang, I opened it, and there stood Gina. She was doing the interior of Elaine’s new office in Westwood, and Elaine had invited her on the pretext of expanding her religious horizons but with the ulterior motive of fixing us up. Gina and I were uncomfortable—for the first thirty seconds or so. By the end of the evening we were the best of friends. She brought me up to date; she’d gotten married and divorced, been through a punk phase, and started her own interior-design business.

  We were a couple of jerks that evening, ignoring everyone else except Lauren—Elaine and her husband Wayne’s daughter—who was nine and a fine audience for our antics. By the time the last matzo was eaten, Gina and I had arranged four or five activities together.

  Being in the entertainment world—however loosely you use that phrase—meant I’d always had female friends. But there was generally an undertone of sexual tension, on my part at least. I’d treat the women as buddies and secretly plot some way to get them into bed. It happened once or twice and ruined the friendship.

  But when I ran into Gina again, I felt no chemistry. We’d used it up back in ‘81. She obviously felt like I did, and besides, her social life was already complicated enough. She’d been juggling two lovers, one male and one female, for several months. Before our reacquaintance was a week old, she’d related all their shortcomings to me—all of them. I responded with similar complaints about the woman I’d been seeing on and off It was great. It was like suddenly having the sister I’d never had, except you couldn’t talk to your sister about blow jobs.