Death of an Orchid Lover by Nathan Walpow Page B

community room on the second floor. At least seventy people milled around, more than I’d ever seen at any succulent function. A typical garden club crowd, with orchid modifications. Lots of old folks, in couples and in singles of both genders. A fair dusting of sturdily built middle-aged women. Some Asian-Americans, and a couple of guys who fit the gay cliché.
    To the right of the entrance, near a table full of plants, a tall skinny woman with a buzz cut was selling copious quantities of orange tickets. A raffle. We’d tried it in our cactus club and it flopped.
    Speaking of the cactus club, the plant display put ours toshame. There were well over a hundred blooming plants on the table. They were mostly in plastic nursery pots, black gallon ones and smaller green ones, with a few baskets sprinkled through. Quite unlike the cactus folks, who had a mania for presenting their show plants in bonsai pots and other fancy ceramics.
    Though one guy stood at the table with clipboard in hand, it didn’t look like the judging extravaganza Sam had led me to expect. I mentioned this to Gina. A voice at my shoulder said, “It’s downstairs.”
    It was Sharon Turner. She had a sundress on, all pastel colors and soft lines. I introduced her to Gina. They swapped appraising looks. I asked Sharon about the judging.
    “Do you want to see it?” she said.
    “Can I?”
    “If you can behave yourself.”
    “I will, Ma, I promise. You coming, Gi?”
    Gina shook her head. “I think I’ll hang around up here. Cover more territory that way.” She walked off toward the raffle table.
    “Territory?” Sharon said.
    “She’s helping me out with my helping Laura out.” Dottie Lennox cruised up. “If it isn’t my new friend.”
    “Hi, Dottie.”
    “You taking good care of him, Sharon?”
    “I am.”
    “Good. He doesn’t know anything about orchids. He needs someone to teach him. You remember, dear, how it was when you joined the club. How you didn’t know anyone, and how I had to take you by the hand.”
    “Of course, Dottie, but we have to go now. We’re going to watch the judging.”
    “How boring,” Dottie said, and rolled off.
    I turned to Sharon. “Didn’t you say a friend brought you to your first meeting?”
    “I did. Dottie’s a little bit, well, dotty. Come, let’s get downstairs.”
    At the bottom of the steps she stopped. “Look, about yesterday—”
    I shook my head. “Forget about it. I’ve gotten turned down before.” It came out more spiteful than I’d intended.
    She opened her mouth. Nothing came out. She shut it and walked down the hall, stopping at a gray metal door. When we got there she said, “Some of the judges are pretty uptight. Just follow my lead, all right? Supposedly the judging is open to anyone who can keep their mouth shut, but—”
    “My lips are sealed. And look, I didn’t mean to sound so nasty a minute—”
    She shook her head. “Don’t worry about it. I probably deserved it.” She pulled the door open.
    The judging took place in a utility room with cinder block walls and an unadorned concrete floor. Overhead pipes dangled from brackets, with valves and red handles here and there. A fan on a pole in one corner more or less pushed the warm air around. Four long tables sat under fluorescent fixtures, with six or eight people around each. One of the men caught my eye. Rather, his bad toupee did. Along with the thick black mustache inhabiting his lip, it made him look like Josef Stalin.
    More tables along one side of the room held several dozen plants that were evidently up for judging. A handful of people walked around distributing them to the tables, all women except for one guy with a ruddy face and a shirt buttoned up to the neck. He was saying something about “a delectablepaph” when we came in. One of the women was a nun, or enjoyed dressing like one.
    Sharon hesitated before selecting the table in the far right corner. We stood by while the judges there considered the