A Gambling Man (Archer #2)(108)

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, you know Hank and Tony gave me the once-over when your father learned that we had come up here to question you.”

“But I thought that was all forgotten and forgiven after we met at his house.”

“But then I was a bad boy a second time and gave them more reason to give me the treatment again.”

“And what exactly did you do now?”

“If I tell you, you’ll tell your father, right?”

“Not if you don’t want me to.”

A smile eased across Archer’s face. “Now that’s a good line, Beth. Although Willie doesn’t want me to call you Beth.”

She set her drink down, took out her cigarette case, tapped a smoke on the top of the coffee table, and lit up. “Why is that?”

“Something about different classes of people. You’re up here on the mountain and I’m down on Porter Street with the dirty rabble.”

“I don’t see it that way, Archer, I really don’t.”

“Anyway, your instincts were right the other night. I did follow you to that diner. Which meant I saw you and your father in the parking lot of the wharf. Which of course means I saw him come in on his boat from visiting that island that a company with your hubby’s fingerprints all over recently bought from the feds.”

Kemper sat back, tapped ash into an ashtray, and took a swallow of her Manhattan.

“You were a busy boy, then, although I have no idea what you’re talking about. I thought you were going to tell me you burned down one of my father’s olive trees.”

“So the island was owned by the feds. And now it’s not. It’s owned by your husband, apparently.”

“No, it’s damn well not.”

This didn’t come from Beth Kemper. It came from her husband. They both turned to see him standing in the doorway, his hat in hand. His necktie was undone, his shirt was wrinkled, his hair was disheveled, and he didn’t look like the sparkling golden boy at this precise moment in time.

Beth rose and said in a concerned voice, “Douglas, are you all right?” There was genuine concern in both her voice and expression.

“No, Beth, I’m not. I’m really not, honey.” He paused and looked at her. “I . . . I just need some . . . help.”

Douglas walked forward while Archer watched both of them closely.

Beth reached her arms out to him and Douglas did the same, and a moment later they were wound as tightly as wire on a coil. They stood like that for a full ten seconds before they stepped back from one another.

Wilma Darling was right—he does love his wife.

Douglas looked at Archer. “I have no interest in that island.”

“Paperwork filed in the town hall says otherwise. You’re listed as the chairman of the board.”

“Anyone can list anyone else.”

“Any idea who might have listed you?”

“No, no idea. What was the name of the company?”

“Stearman Enterprises.”

The Kempers exchanged nervous glances.

“Yeah,” said Archer. “That was the model of your mother’s plane. The Stearman 75. Someone’s being either ironic or downright cruel.”

She looked at Douglas. “Do you know anything about this? I want the truth!”

“No. I swear. I’m involved with no company by that name. And I . . . wouldn’t have named it that.”

“The money behind Alfred Drake, maybe?” suggested Archer.

“Maybe,” said Douglas doubtfully.

Archer shook his head. “Wrong. There is no money behind Drake other than his own. He’s getting swamped by the bucks you and your father-in-law are throwing at this election. He knows he’s going to lose.” He glanced at Beth before saying to Douglas, “Would you say your vision of Bay Town coincides with what Ben Smalls had in store?”

“I would say so, yes. I know what it’s like to be wealthy. But I also know what it’s like to be poor.”

“And Alfred Drake also admired him, or says he did.”

“I believe they were friends, yes.”

“And you were friends with Smalls, too, correct, Mrs. Kemper?”

Douglas said, “His father was partners with Sawyer. You two grew up together, and he was at that luncheon.”

“When my mother died,” said Beth, without looking at him. “But I met him other times, too. We were friends.”

“Now that’s interesting,” said Archer. “Would you like to tell us what those other times consisted of?”

“No, I wouldn’t,” she said heatedly, which answered the question for Archer pretty well.

Douglas fast-walked over to the bar and poured himself a bourbon on the rocks and swallowed half of it before he got back to his wife and looked at her in a way that surprised Archer. It wasn’t angry or hurt or full of bluster. It was a look of resignation, of hopelessness. They sat hip to hip in the same chair, one of her hands resting on his thigh, Archer noted, in a protective manner.

Douglas said, “I wish I knew more to tell you, Archer. But things are not adding up.”

“Sheen’s dying, for one,” noted Archer.

“I can’t understand who would want to hurt Wilson.”