After I’d searched my house and found no further evidence of pillaging pirates, I decided to breakfast at a sidewalk café in the harbor.
Newport Beach lay on the southern coast of California. Wealthy, young, nouveau riche, and silver-haired landed gentry—shallow and pathetic creatures all of us—populated this opulent harbor town. Our smug and aloof hamlet was comprised mainly of high-end retail boutiques, herds of foreign luxury cars cruising everywhere, and a world-famous marina with ten miles of man-made beaches.
Balboa Island lay in the center of this over-rated, insanely priced harbor. The island was really nothing more than a giant sandbar inhabited by a population of shut-ins. It was the kind of small land mass one could throw either a rock or an insult across and hit only the sea. Various dwellings filled the petite atoll, cottage-like bungalows mostly in the interior with larger homes like mine built on the shoreline.
The red sky had disappeared with the sun now sweltering through a milky-white haze with a promising breeze waxing in from the sea. I stood at the terminal, waiting for the incoming ferry that crossed the harbor from the peninsula.
Like a window to a curious puzzle, one I felt I had a strange and tantalizing viewpoint through, I held this morning’s Orange County Register and browsed through a front-page article:
The latest in a pair of slash murders occurred late Monday evening at the Beach Drive Motel located at the five hundred block of Third Street in Newport Beach. Thirty-year-old Kenneth Flint was found naked and brutally murdered. The body of the victim had been disfigured beyond recognition by extensive lacerations and a fire that had gutted the motel room...
“Number two,” I muttered. That would explain the smoke earlier this morning. I knew the victim, a New Zealander who had migrated here with his breakthrough bioengineering idea looking for venture capitalists to help him turn a small company into a larger one, which they did.
Kenneth became smitten by the wealth and notoriety, a handsome, brilliant thirty-year-old who’d lost track of his ideals and instead fooled around in nightclub scenes, all comped through shady business arrangements.
In fact, I’d just seen Kenneth last night when I was out with Carmella at a club. He had that stoked look in his face of someone way too inexperienced at being rapidly rich, not to mention the gaze of cocaine hopped in his eyes. I scanned my thoughts: a dim lounge, pulsating lights, throngs of gratuitous, well-dressed revelers trying to leach themselves onto the ignorant host, the up-and-coming Kenneth Flint. I tried to remember an unfamiliar face, a leering grim reaper lurking in the shadows. Nothing. The poor bastard played with fire and got burned, literally.
I recalled the other murder a week ago regarding the late Dr. Bernhard who had been here for a medical convention and had also made frequent visits to the local clubs. The murderer’s routine and timeline were methodical, and the comparison of victims was obvious: young, wealthy, up-and-coming bachelors, known at the local party scenes as high-stakes players, and now known by the local police as hapless vics who stepped on the wrong toes.
I decided to exchange the typeset of bad news for a more mundane dose of sunshine and surroundings, and so I lifted my head and stared back toward the busy sidewalk of giddy tourists and a few of my smug neighbors getting to and fro. Then, as if a wisp of air had just carried in something both supple and statuesque, a woman passed by me. She stopped at the boarding gate for the ferry. Every pair of eyes, sun squinting and shaded, giddy and smug, angled a captivated gaze toward her.
She was one of the new dance instructors at a ballroom dance studio where I attended, a woman I’ve never met but have been observing clandestinely for the past month with the help of my hired investigator, Sam Ivy. Like a sudden twist of fate—the perfect game coming into range—I aimed my sights.
Off in the distance, a black, unmarked police sedan moved slowly along the road that entered the ramp for the ferry. I knew the car and the two detectives inside. One of the detectives, Lieutenant Frank Sullivan, sat on the passenger side while the other detective, Mick Balosky, drove.
I moved closer to the woman, staying out of her sight. Her shoulder-length blonde hair glowed like a beacon in the hazy sunlight. She donned a black cardigan over a white-button blouse combined with gray skirt, all fitting superbly to a fine symmetry of line and curve.
The porter lifted the gate and called out for the boarding. The woman paced ahead of me across the gangplank and onto the ferry. She stopped at the rail, giving it a soft touch.
“A morning tango?” I said.
She turned and fixed her jade-green eyes on me. I added, “You’re teaching dance today, right?”
“Yes, I’m giving lessons.”
“I’ve seen you at the studio. Your name is Catherine, isn’t it?”
“It is, Catherine Fleming to be precise.”
“I’m afraid we’ve never met.” I reached out and squeezed the firm softness of her hand. My attention darted helplessly between her eyes, gilded hair, and partially opened blouse. Around her neck hung a small crucifix. I said, “My name is Jack Kidd. My friends call me Jack.”
“Yes, I know. You’re a regular at the studio. Would you happen to have a fag?”
“Excuse me.”
She touched her lips with forked fingers, gesturing the act of smoking.
“I don’t smoke,” I said.
“A match then or better yet a lighter?”
“I’m afraid not.”
She pulled a lighter from her purse and then a black cigarette, hand rolled, it appeared.
“It seems you had your fag after all,” I said.
She ignited the tip of her cigarette. “I do like to conserve what I have. You seem both credulous enough and rich enough to bum one off.” A hint of strawberry traced through Ms Fleming’s blonde tresses, paired well with a spray of faint, rouge freckles that caressed the bridge of her nose and nicely set cheekbones. Her mouth, perfectly shaped and oh, so supple, was the kind of feminine embellishment I could both listen to and nibble on for hours.
The unmarked police cruiser rolled onto the ferry with the two detectives positioned in the front seat in shadowy silhouette. As the ferry began to shove off, my thoughts were the kind any man would have standing next to a beautiful woman, sexual yet cautious; and she, as all women have when being pursued, had a look about her that was aware of all starts and endings.
“I noticed you with your instructor a few days back,” she said. “You did well in your tango practice.”
“Do you think I’m ready for competition?”
“Not yet. You need to thrust more with your hips like a sexually charged male cat. The tango is a dance of passion.” A plume of smoke streamed from her pursed lips.
“I should sniff more catnip then, huh?”
She looked at me without answering.
I said, “Anyone ever told you, you have an uncanny resemblance to the actress Catherine Deneuve? When she was in her prime, of course, and without the brown eyes.”
“I have been told as much, without the brown eyes.”
I smiled, but she didn’t respond. She turned her head and gazed toward the mainland.
“So what did you do in England and New York, Ms Fleming—the Ms is for Miss, isn’t it?”
She turned back toward me. “It is. I don’t recall telling you that I was from England or New York.”
“It’s your accent, and that fag remark. You’re British but you’ve lived in the States, the east coast or thereabouts.”
“I have crossed the pond a few times.”
“What line of work were you in?”
She turned to flick the ashes from her cigarette into the water. A look of gamesmanship came back with her face. “I danced on Broadway, Mr. Kidd, and yes, I have lived in New York.”
“Call me Jack, please. From Broadway to ballroom dancing, that’s quite a step down.”
“Money is not important to me.”
“Then you’re in the wrong harbor.”
We both s
miled, tight-lipped and leading.
“And what line of work are you in, Jack?”
“I’m in Sales.”
Her eyes narrowed as she puckered another smile and a slow drag from the cigarette.
“So what brought you to California?” I asked.
“Your sunshine mainly and this location. It’s like being at the edge of the earth here, a good jumping off point, if one needs it.” Another plume of smoke billowed in the air. “I must say, though, this miniature ferry boat resembles more an attraction at Disneyland rather than a serious transport.”
I nodded, holding my smile. “California is a spurious hybrid, and it can change by the minute.”
“Indeed. I might add it’s without genuine culture, annoyingly cookie-cutter, and rather unexciting. In fact, it makes me want to itch, itch enough to scratch.”
“You’re in trouble then.”
“Trouble?”
“An itchy dermatitis is a tell tale sign of remorse, or maybe you just need a good scratching post.” I smiled again; my genteel gestures were useless.
“It’s rather sophomoric for a man your age to tease in such a manner, Mr. Kidd.”
“Jack, call me Jack, and I wasn’t teasing. Will you be all right when we cross? Do you need a ride?”
“I’ll be all right. But I do need to scratch out this cigarette. Haven’t you any ashtrays in California?”
“Allow me.” I took the burning cigarette and doused it in a half-used coffee cup sitting on a nearby bench. An impulse then struck me, prodding me to keep the half-used cancer stick. I faked a drop in a nearby trashcan and slipped the crushed butt into my pocket.
Detective Frank Sullivan got out of the sedan and leaned against the rail of the ferry. The other detective, Mick Balosky, stayed in the car.
I drew my attention away from the black sedan and said, “Two detectives paid a visit to the dance studio yesterday, causing quite a scene.”
“Oh? I’ve been gone a few days and just arrived this morning from New York.”
I nodded, recalling the last three days and how Ms Fleming was indeed nowhere inside the dance studio or in town. I said, “These detectives were in the studio owner’s office for a while and came out with another instructor, I believe her name is Lena, and escorted her out the door. You and Lena started at the studio around the same time, and you both seem...” I held my tongue, enjoying the way her eyebrows arched and how her lovely face sculpted shadows in the sun.
“You were saying?” she said.
“Like colleagues, two women on a mission.”
Either ignoring my remark, or to simply soak up her daily dose of sunshine, she closed her eyes and raised her face toward the sun. Meanwhile, as the Disneyland ferry chugged along, I glanced toward Lieutenant Sullivan who was now angled our direction. With pencil in hand he began scribbling on a folded newspaper. I lifted mine.
“These two recent murders here in Newport Beach are interesting.” I said. I tossed the newspaper onto the bench with the article facing up.
She broke from her prayerful pose and looked down at the paper for a moment until our eyes met.
“What murders?” she asked.
“You haven’t heard?”
“As I said, I just arrived from New York this morning.”
“It’s kind of crazy, really, how these killings seem premeditated, yet done viciously as if the killer took the murders personal.”
Her eyes went back to the newspaper, then back to me. “And why would you say that?”
“The bodies were savaged, suggesting a crime of passion or an act of revenge. The kind of weapon was peculiar, too, cutting devices close to the hands, like claws. I thought you said you had just arrived from New York.”
“I did.”
“Then how do you know about these murders? This is local news.”
“Why do you think I know anything about these murders?”
“Because you seem in between.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“In between stops like a tourist who needs a first-rate tour guide.” I tried another smile. I began to feel like a clown staring at a faceless audience. “Forgive me,” I said. “I have this bad habit of playing silly chat games with people I don’t know but would really like to know.”
Her eyes locked on me, looking through me more than at me. “Does that article even say that claws were used?” Her voice slowed.
I shook my head.
“Then you’re a man of conjecture, Mr. Kidd, and you seem far too interested in that article. In fact, along with being a wiseass, you strike me as the type who has his nose into just about everything, as long as you’re safely outside looking in. Am I right?”
“Better a wiseass than a dumbass, I always say, and better a voyeur than a victim.” I thought I had her for a moment on the verge of a genuine smile. She instead continued her frosty stare and stepped toward me.
“What do you really do for a living, Jack? You have a look about you and it’s not sales, but more the approach of a man forever walking along a beach. A perfect fit of manly, casual grace yet loathsome enough to always be searching for a woman’s approval.”
A half-bent smile formed my face.
“My guess, you’re just shy of forty years old. You are tall, the kind of tall most women notice, athletic build, a brooding, handsome face that you wear quite naturally. She drew closer. “Are you a bad boy, Jack?”
“Most say I am.” Up close she had the kind of eyes a man enjoys seeing on a woman, principled to a certain depth, yet lost to chance.
The ferry landed on the peninsula and docked. The porters raised the gate for the automobiles first. Next, the crowd began to file on shore. Both detectives were now sitting in the sedan with the windows down waiting for a herd of tourists to cross the intersection.
Catherine and I paused just outside the terminal along a public sidewalk. The tourists began to fill the stores and walkways of Newport Beach’s famous landmark, The Fun Zone. Its street-long row of venders and distinctive Ferris wheel all stood ready on this cusp of another summer season.
“Do you live on the island?” I asked.
“Yes, in the center away from the water. I started renting a small cottage just last week, actually.”
“Some pricey real estate. Dance instruction must pay well these days.”
“I’m well compensated.”
“Then we have something in common and we’re neighbors too.”
“I know. You’re the wealthy indolent living in the large house on the island’s bend with a sailing yacht slipped outside.”
Like a bloodhound picking up a scent, I tilted my head. “Do you have a boat?” I asked.
“Of course not.”
“Then how would you know what the back of my house looks like? One can only see it from the water or from across the harbor. But that would require a pair of binoculars. Have you been spying on me, Ms Fleming?”
“A magazine…I must have seen your boat dock in a publicity rag of some sort. You are one of the most eligible bachelors in California, so I’ve read.”
That was a bullshit reply, but not even a slight tell moved her face—this lure sparkled cunningly. “Since I’m so eligible, would you care to have dinner with me one evening, maybe tonight? I’m the best tour guide for miles.”
“I’ve only a temporary visa. I won’t be staying long.”
“Not even long enough to eat? How about a temporary drink then?”
“Sorry, I’m booked with lessons.” She began to take off her cardigan. “It’s turned rather warm this morning,” she said.
“The June Gloom is burning off,” I said. “It’ll be summer for the rest of the day.” I assisted in the stripping of Ms. Fleming’s cardigan and noticed the two detectives in the sedan each with a sly gape our way. Lieutenant Sullivan turned his head away from us quickly, dislodging a pencil from his ear. The number two soft lead bounced then rolled several feet across the pavement.
Catherine st
epped toward the car, and before the detective could get out and remedy his fumble, she picked up the pencil, grinned pleasantly toward him, then turned and strolled back to me. She handed me the pencil and kissed my cheek.
“So long, bad boy. See you on the dance floor.”
Both detectives returned to stalwart profiles with Detective Balosky steering the sedan through the now clear intersection.
I furled the pencil gingerly in my fingers, watching Catherine Fleming glide away across the terminal, this time on a loftier wisp of air.
4
Later that day I drove the only car I owned, a silver Porsche Carrera, 911 Turbo, eastbound along La Palma Avenue toward my ranch. The groves were located in a city called Yorba Linda in the northeastern part of Orange County. Here, the warmer interior climate allowed the Valencia oranges I grew to ripen into a premium fruit.
At one time my family owned three-thousand acres in Yorba Linda, before the massive growth and development of the 1960s and 70s had plowed up every orange, lemon, and avocado tree in sight. Three-thousand acres is roughly four square miles, and the feeling I have each time I approach my now tiny Ranch was that of a prince coming upon his once mighty kingdom.
My great-grandfather, either by luck or geological astuteness, planted his groves in the deep, alluvium topsoil that was deposited here from centuries of annual flooding from the nearby Santa Ana River. The land, at one time, had provided a carton of orange juice inside millions of refrigerators worldwide. In fact, in its beginning, Orange County had sixty-seven thousand acres of Valencia oranges alone, five-million trees, not including other citrus ranches of lemons, limes, and grapefruit.
And although most of my family’s ranch had been sold off and subdivided in prior decades, I, the lone survivor of the family Kidd, still retained a substantial holding of the liquidated wealth along with the aforementioned remaining one-hundred-and-sixty acres. Whether calculated by the box or the kilogram, the meager income I received from my annual harvest all went to charity; because, truth be told, I deserved none of it.
The Irresistible Muse of Jack Kidd Page 2