Death of an Orchid Lover by Nathan Walpow

me looking and smiled. “Not bad, eh?”
    “You look great, Laura.”
    She threw a sweatshirt around her neck, grabbed her Day-Timer, herded me to the door. As I reached to open it, she put a hand on my arm and spun me half around. “I want you to do something.”
    “And what would that be?”
    “Come to my scene study class tomorrow.”
    “Why would I want to do that?”
    “I thought you might want to get serious about acting again.”
    Joe Portugal, hero of several dozen commercials, returning to the stage. What a ridiculous idea. “That sounds good,” I said.
    “Wonderful.”
    “Where and what time?”
    “It’s on Santa Monica Boulevard, at the Richmond Shepard Theatre. That is, it used to be the Richmond Shepard, and that’s how I still think of it. Ten o’clock. You live where again?”
    “Culver City.”
    “Why don’t you come by at nine-thirty, and we’ll go together.”
    “Okay.”
    “Good. Co to the meeting tonight, would you?”
    “Are you going?”
    She shook her head. “There are auditions for a new show at the Tiffany. One of the parts is perfect for me, if you can believe what they say in Drama-Logue.”
    “Break a leg.”
    “Thanks.”
    She gave me an est hug and we went out. She got in her car. I was right about it being the Honda.

9

    I GOT HOLD OF G INA AND CAJOLED HER INTO GOING TO THE orchid society meeting with me later on. Then I drove over to my father’s house in the Fairfax district. Dad’s housemate Leonard answered the door. He’s legally blind, though slightly sighted. As usual, the blue yarmulke in the middle of his bald spot hung there by some special dispensation from God.
    He ushered me in. “Your father’s in the back with Catherine,” he said. “He’s planting posies again. Me, I’m watching MTV. You know that Carmen Electra? She’s a hot one.” He returned to his position six inches in front of the screen, tossed some popcorn in his mouth, fashioned a rusty lascivious smile.
    Out back, Catherine, the third member of the household, sat at the teak table reading the paper. She was dark-haired and feisty and looked more than a little like my mother, something my father continually denied. She said hi and went back to the sports page.
    Dad patted the soil around his latest patch of impatiens, pushed to his feet, came and gave me a hug. “So,” he said.“What’s the big special occasion that brings my son to see me?”
    “No special occasion, Dad. It usually isn’t.”
    “What have you been up to?”
    “Not much. I went to a plant show yesterday.”
    “A cactus show?”
    “Not exactly.”
    “What kind, then?”
    “An orchid show.”
    “I’m not surprised.”
    “Oh?”
    “No, it doesn’t surprise me one bit that my son should be getting interested in orchids at this time. Does it surprise you, Catherine?”
    She looked up from the paper. “Stop picking on the boy, Harold.”
    “Picking? Who’s picking?”
    “What are you getting at, Dad?” I said.
    “This.” He plucked the
Times
Metro section from the table, leafed through, pointed at a headline. DEATH OF ORCHID AUTHORITY STILL A MYSTERY. Dad cleared his throat and read to us. “‘Police refused to say if actress Laura Astaire, 53, who discovered the body, was a suspect in the murder.’” Fifty-three? Laura was older than I’d thought. “This Laura Astaire, she wouldn’t happen to be someone you know.”
    “As a matter of fact, I was just over at her place.”
    “Wasn’t nearly getting killed once enough for you?”
    “I’m not doing anything dangerous. Just asking a few people a few questions.”
    “I’m sure he’s being careful,” Catherine said.
    “Please, young lady, this is between my son and me.” Catherine gave him a look and went into the house.
    “She’s right, Dad. I’m being very careful.”
    “You were being very careful last time. Then the guns came out.”
    What could I say? He was right. The guns came out and suddenly my little investigatorial game