Death in the Orchid Garden by Ann Ripley Page A

time in front of the camera.”
    For Marty Corbin, this Linnean lingo of genus, species, and cultivar was the last straw. He looked in despair at Joel Greene. The young associate producer nonchalantly murmured to the producer, “ No problema. ” Her producer was going to give in.
    â€œSure,” said Marty, “we can tape a scene with the three of you. You can talk over your business and how you do it.” A tight little grin and he continued, “God knows it’s a big enough business to be worth talkin’ about.” The producer looked at Anne Lansing standing there, ignoring Christopher Bailey. “But don’t forget what your boss said—you might end up on the cutting room floor.”
    Anne Lansing smiled demurely and said, “I’m sure your cutting room floor is an interesting place to be.”

7
    Thursday evening
    Â 
    M arty Corbin looked like a big, angry bear as he sat on the hotel terrace and drank his Lava Flow. Though bears, Louise realized, did not perspire like Marty did. He was muttering something to Steffi and Louise was just as glad that she couldn’t quite hear it.
    Steffi reached over and grabbed her husband’s hand in hers. “Now, dear,” she advised him quietly, “don’t be profane. You’re just making it worse.” She turned to Louise and smiled indulgently. “He goes to St. Thomas’s almost every Sunday with me, you know. But he does lapse into profanity. I don’t know why he puts a middle initial in Jesus’s name.”
    Louise sipped her tonic water. “Maybe he has a right to be upset.” She looked around the dimly lit terrace and noted the dress code hadn’t changed from last night. It was a little bit of everything: a woman or two in coif, jewels, and stylish gown; most people in laid-back sports outfits; and quite a number of couples in ponchos and rough shorts. These last had probably blown in from all-day boat and snorkling trips to the rugged northwest Na Pali coast. Louise felt she was dressed up just the right amount in a sleeveless navy blue pantsuit trimmed in white, worn with a bulky white necklace.
    As if he were talking to himself, Marty growled, “That man Bouting, who does he think he is?”
    â€œMillionaires think differently,” calmly retorted Louise.
    â€œAnd how would you know that?” grumped Marty.
    â€œFrom reading the business section of The Times .” She added, “And certain books. The Smartest Guys in the Room. Confederacy of Fools . It’s in their genetic code to think they can get away with things. That’s why so many of them are being prosecuted.”
    â€œAll I know is that now I got three goddamn segments to tape tomorrow and a whole flock of last-minute logistics. Where the hell’s Joel when I need him?” He frowned out at the world, as if the young man were lurking about. “No, he had to go home. Probably having his mother change his diapers, he’s so young.”
    â€œMarty,” she cautioned him, “Joel’s twenty-three; he told me. And he’s acting like a real pro and you know it.” She didn’t know why her producer was still upset about having his shoot disrupted. The cutting room floor seemed a fine solution to her; it wouldn’t be the first time the crew had deliberately taped demanding people who were summarily cut from the tape during editing. Instead of talking about this ad infinitum, she looked at her producer and ran a hand across her throat and made a gutteral noise.
    â€œHuh?” he said and then smiled. “Okay, Lou. So I just cut ’em out.”
    â€œWhatever. Let’s order. I’m hungry.”
    It wasn’t the way Louise had pictured a luau, complete with roasted pig in a pit. This one was in hotel style. It commenced immediately after the holy moment of sunset, with the trio of ukuleles, a singer, and two hula dancers performing as the torches