The Cactus Club Killings (Joe Portugal) by Nathan Walpow Page B

resentment would have festered, grown unchecked, until one day he waited in her bathroom and plunged a plant down her throat.”
    “Haifa plant,” I said. “Which he later hid the rest of at my place.”
    “Not likely, huh? Where else did you go?”
    She got all excited about the two Schoeppes. “Let’s find out if they’re related.”
    “How do you propose to do that?”
    “Call the one in Madagascar.”
    “I don’t think they have phones there.”
    “You’re so Eurocentric. Of course they have phones there.”
    “Out in the bush?”
    “They could have cellular. Where’s that itinerary you got from Sam?”
    “At home.”
    “I need to put it in the spreadsheet.”
    “Stop with the spreadsheet.”
    “I want you to call Madagascar the minute you get home.”
    “What else do you want me to do?”
    “Question some more people.”
    “Who, for instance?”
    “Maybe you could go back to UCLA. Find some colleagues.”
    I picked up what was left of my burrito and stuck it in my mouth. Sour cream dripped on my shorts, threatened to run down, bounce off the elegant chair, splatter on the spotless carpet. Gina’s eyes went wide.
    I dabbed at the white stuff with a napkin. “All right, I’ll call Madagascar. Christ, maybe I ought to get on the Internet too.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    I told her about Sams little demonstration the day before. Her eyes lit up. She got up and headed for her bedroom. When she came out she was carrying her computer and a long phone cord. “What?” I said. “We’re going to call up the smugglers’ computer?”
    She was plugging in cables and pushing buttons. “Do you have any idea how the Web works?”
    “No, and I don’t want to.”
    “Pull your chair over and watch. And don’t roll your eyes at me.”
    The computer came to life. Gina moused around, boops and beeps sounded, and the computer presented us with a screen full of furniture.
Regina Vela Interiors
marched across the top. “What’s this?”
    “It’s my home page.”
    “What’s it for?”
    “People see it and call me up.”
    “People surf the Internet for an interior designer? How much business has this brought in?”
    “None yet, but—”
    “Who did this for you?”
    “I did it myself.”
    “You did? Very impressive. Show me some cactus stuff.”
    She keyed and moused some more. Now the screen displayed something called the Cactus and Succulent Mall. “Watch.” She moved down to where it said
Culver City Cactus Club
and clicked the mouse. After an interminable wait some more verbiage appeared. Factoids about the club. Halfway down were the words
Our President
, and suddenly I was staring at a picture of Brenda, with Lyle in the background in his bearded days, and a white spot I thought might be the top of Rowena’s head.
    “Weird,” I said.
    We bounced around for three quarters of an hour and ended up back at the Cactus and Succulent Mall. I saw something about Cacti_etc. “Hey, Sam mentioned that.”
    Gina clicked on it, read what appeared, and got all excited. “We have to subscribe.”
    “Why?”
    “Because its a mailing list.”
    “So Sam said.”
    “We can post a question, and whole bunches of cactus people will see it. We can ask about Brenda.”
    What could it hurt? “Sign us up.”
    She read the instructions, pressed, and clicked. “All done.”
    “Now what?”
    “Now we wait.”
    “How long?”
    “It depends on the listserv they’re using and—” She stopped when she saw me shaking my head. “What? What’s wrong?”
    “Gina, Gina, Gina. I knew you when you were a nice girl who didn’t use words like
listserv
. Look what’s happened to you.”
    “You have your hobby. I needed one too.”

     
    I left around midnight, got a reasonable night’s sleep, and rose at eight. I journeyed out to the greenhouse and was relieved to find my metaphysical connection with my plants was nearly back to normal, that Brenda’s death hadn’t forever soured my