The Cactus Club Killings (Joe Portugal) (6 page)

“Didn’t think so, though my first thought was one of her boyfriends. Crime of passion sort of thing. Then I thought, no, it’s the damned smugglers. I’m probably next.”

“You think so? I mean about the smugglers? I keep hearing about them, but I don’t really have a grip on how nasty they are.”

My omelet was ready. He handed me the plate, told me to grab a drink from the fridge, snatched an apple for himself “Let’s talk outside.”

A redwood table and chairs were set out under a giant
Dracaena draco. A
dragon tree, with clouds of dagger-shape
leaves. We sat. He crunched his apple, chewed, swallowed. “About those smugglers. I wouldn’t underestimate them. Anything you’ve heard is true, in spades. They’re nasty, all right. It’s not enough the natives have burned down most of the island for charcoal. No, these people have to come in and take the rest. They’ll wipe a new species from the habitat in a day or so and then sell it to the Europeans. The Europeans’ll buy anything that’s new and different and won’t care where it came from. Won’t wait until we can get a decent stock from seed. Two times ago when I was in Madagascar, we—Doug Hammer and I, you know who he is?”

“That British guy. The one who writes all the books.” He nodded. “Doug and I found an undescribed species of euphorbia. It grew like milii but had leaves like francoisii. It was the most amazing damned thing I ever saw.”

Euphorbia milii
is the spiny, leafy plant known as crown of thorns because it resembles what Christ supposedly wore on his head when he was crucified.
E. francoisit’s a
popular dwarf with a fat stem and multicolored leaves. Collectors would eat up a combination like that.

“Next time I went back,” Sam said, “—and mind you, this was just a year later—almost all of them were gone. Some had been ripped from the ground and just left to die. We saved a few, maybe enough to perpetuate the species. I have one. You want a cutting?”

“Maybe some other time, Sam. About the smugglers …” “Right, the smugglers. Evidently, a ranger down there came across them while they were doing their dirty work, and they macheted him right across the throat. Then they left him there.”

“Do we know who any of these people are?”

“I have some names, not the actual smugglers but the people in Germany who are receiving the plants.”

A yellow jacket circled in and alit on my omelet. I watched, unable to move, as it carved out a tiny piece of ham.

Sam saw my reaction and casually brushed the wasp away. “Nothing to worry about, my boy. It’s just a yellow jacket.”

Embarrassed, I said the first thing that came into my mind. “Did you know I was taking care of Brenda’s canaries?”

“A fine thing, young man, a fine thing.”

“But all she gave me was her departure and return dates and her bird vet’s phone number.”

“I have the whole itinerary, and I’ve already cabled Doug Hammer to tell him what happened.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Sorry. Doug was one of the people she was meeting down there. Him and Willy Schoeppe.”

I raised an eyebrow. “A German?”

“Yes, but a good German.”

“Could I have a copy of the itinerary?”

“Might I ask why?”

Good question. What was I going to do, press it up against my head like Carnac the Magnificent and divine who had killed Brenda?

I told Sam the truth. “I don’t really know I just have this vague urge to do something about Brenda’s death, and this would be something tangible to … to …”

Sam laughed. “If you want it, young man, you shall have it. Come inside, I’ll make you a copy. Another omelet?”

I looked down at my plate. Someone had cleaned it. Chances are it was me, but I hadn’t been aware of doing so. “No thanks. I’m watching my cholesterol.”

“I’m paying someone to watch mine. I’m glad you want the itinerary; it’ll give me a chance to show off my new toy.”

He led me inside to a cluttered corner where a plastic
contraption the size of a small TV sat on a desk next to a computer. “Its a combination fax-printer-copier-scanner,” Sam said. “Watch.”

He pulled open a drawer, riffled through some papers, withdrew one, fed it into the machine. A few seconds later I had a copy of Brenda’s itinerary in my hot little hands. I edged toward the door, but he stopped me. “Great things, these computers,” he said, “I can do things I wouldn’t have dreamed of ten years ago. And, of course, there’s the Internet.”

Ah, yes. The mighty Internet. I’d managed to ignore it up till then, and I didn’t see any reason to stop doing so. “I’m afraid I’m not very computer literate.”

“You don’t have to be. Let me show you.”

He got his computer going. A lot of gobbledygook flashed across the screen. I called upon my acting skills and displayed mild curiosity.

“And of course there’s cacti et cetera,” Sam said. “It’s what they call a mailing list. You can post questions, and well over a thousand members see them and can give you an answer.”

“Fascinating.”

He studied my face. “You really don’t care about this stuff, do you?”

“I’m sorry, Sam, it’s just not for me. Maybe some other time.”

“No, no, don’t worry about it. Here, come outside and I’ll show you what needs tending.”

Three quarters of an hour later I exited the greenhouse, carrying a list of plants that needed special attention. I also had five new plant fragments to shepherd but managed to turn down the wacky euphorbia on the grounds that I wasn’t worthy.

W
HATEVER GOD DECIDED THE CULVER CITY CACTUS CLUB
should hold its monthly meetings at the Odd Fellows Hall had a marvelous sense of humor. The building was on an especially dull stretch of Sepulveda Boulevard, flanked by a Fosters Freeze and a taco stand whose name changed every three months. It was a relic of the fifties, with a fading-wood-and-chipped-stone exterior overlooking a cracked parking lot. Inside, the dominant theme was paneling. The walls were paneled. The ceilings were paneled. The linoleum of the floor was patterned to look like paneling. Even the bathrooms were paneled, in an especially awful faux mahogany.

The walls were lined with plaques, proclamations, and photos documenting the history and good works of the Odd Fellows and their ladies’ auxiliary, the Rebekahs. After four years of going to meetings there, I had yet to determine what the purpose of the group was. All I knew was you had to be at least seventy and have no fashion sense to join.

I got there at
seven
, half an hour before the meeting was scheduled to begin and, most likely, forty-five minutes before it would. I’d brought a flat of cuttings and plants I’d grown tired of to give away, with a book I was returning to
the club library tucked in among them. I was about to lift it all out of the truck bed when a familiar Volvo zipped into the next spot.

“I’ve got a sandwich for you,” Gina said out the window. “Turkey breast, from Wild Oats.”

“How did you know I would need a sandwich?” “Because you never take time to eat a proper dinner.” She exited the car and beeped the alarm. She was wearing one of those flowery sundresses she looks so good in and some colorful dangly earrings. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She had the brown-paper-wrapped sandwich in one hand and her portable computer in the other. “What would happen to you if you didn’t have me to look after you?”

“I’d probably end up in a police interrogation room or something. What are you doing here? You still suspect one of the cactus people did Brenda in?”

“Could be. Also to give you moral support.” “What makes you think I need moral support?” “Joe.” She dumped the sandwich on top of the plants and put her hand on my shoulder. “You were nearly arrested today. You need moral support. Do you need a hug too?” I considered it. “Not now. Maybe later.” “Okay, just let me know. Anything to report?” I briefed her on my trip to Sams, then told her, “Let’s get inside before the teeming millions catch me and besiege me with questions.”

We found our veep Dick McAfee and his wife, Hope, inside, shoving tables around. They had my vote for couple of the year, that year and every year. They’d been married just short of four decades and were still as affectionate as the day they wed. Always holding hands, exchanging tender little words and gestures.

They saw us and came over. As we said our helios, some
errant breeze blew Dicks hair awry. It was the finest I’d ever seen, like a baby’s, and pale blond. You could barely tell where it ended and his scalp began. Blond hairs grew from his ears as well, but these were coarse and wiry. Dick was tall and angular and reminded me of Ichabod Crane. He had on an ugly shirt he often wore to meetings—a drab green and beige stripe—and some stretchy brown slacks.

I began to introduce them to Gina, but Dick remembered her. “Yes,” he said. “I met you the time we had the speaker on the succulents of Saudi Arabia. That was the night the cooks nose fell in the tourniquet.” Evidently Dick’s mumbling quotient was at its highest that evening. It was odd: When he put stuff down on paper, he communicated better than almost anyone I knew. He’d recently had a letter published in the national journal, taking to task those who illegally took plants out of habitat, and it was a model of clarity and brevity.

He kept rambling, and somewhere in there he switched the conversation over to Brenda. “Zubba-zubba-zubba, and with such a rare plant.”

“Apparently,” I said.

“And she seemed so young,” Hope added, brushing an invisible piece of lint from Dicks sleeve.

I smiled at her. “She was older than me.”

“As I said, so young.” She smiled back, a charming smile in a charming face. Hope was aging beautifully, and at sixty or so looked ten years younger. I knew she went to the gym regularly, but that didn’t explain how she’d avoided wrinkles as well as she had. Her blond hair came from a bottle, but it was the right kind of bottle. Maybe the way she dressed helped with the illusion of youth; this evening she wore jeans and a T-shirt featuring Pongo and Perdita from
101 Dalmatians
. Or maybe never having kids had kept her youthful.

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.