A Gambling Man (Archer #2)(69)

“Did your father tell you about the time window?”

“I don’t remember who did.”

“And if your father did know, how would he know?”

“He has a direct line to the chief of police. They’re old friends.”

“And what’s his name?”

“Carl Pickett.”

“If the dinner party ended at midnight, what did you do between leaving there and coming here?”

“I went to a place with the thought of going to bed and then decided I wanted to get out. I like the coffee here.”

“What place did you go to with the thought of going to bed?”

“It’s here in town. I’ve owned it since before I was married. It’s my little hidey-hole.”

“Over ninety-nine percent of all dirty laundry gets lost in them.”

She puffed on her cigarette. “What a wonderfully lurid imagination you have.”

“When you were deciding to go to bed were you alone?”

“Don’t get cute, it’s not a good look for you.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that line before.”

She stubbed out her smoke in the ashtray. “It really was quite masterful how you handled those men. Three against one.”

“I probably could have huffed and puffed and blew them all into the Pacific from here.” He tapped out his smoke, too. “Does your husband have an alibi for tonight?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him.”

“Does he have a hidey-hole in town, too?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

He cocked his head as he peered at her. “Why do you put up with it? They have divorce in California, I take it.”

“It’s not as easy as you might imagine.”

“If you can prove he two-timed you, Mrs. Kemper, you can get a divorce.”

“Maybe I like my life how it is. He goes his way and I go mine. How would divorce change that?”

“If you’re okay with it, who am I to judge?”

“But you will anyway.”

“Nah, I’m too busy. Besides, he must have some feelings for you.”

“What makes you say that?” she said quickly. Her features tightened, and the look on her face was, at least to Archer’s mind, caught between hopeful and hopeless.

“I saw a bottle of his wine. The BK. Stands for ‘Beth Kemper,’ right?”

Her features relaxed and all the light went out of her eyes. “Wrong, it stands for ‘Best Kemper.’ ”

He studied her closely before saying, “Sorry. My mistake.”

“Yes, it is.” She rose and looked down at him. “Do you need a lift back to where you’re staying on dear old Porter Street?”

“Your Triumph’s not very big, Mrs. Kemper. Things might get pretty tight in there.”

“Make it Beth. And don’t you know? Wonderful things come in small packages.”





HAVE YOU ALWAYS LIVED IN BAY TOWN?” asked Archer as Beth Kemper started the Triumph and pulled out from the curb. He had helped her put the top down because it was such a fine night.

The wind whipped Kemper’s hair, and a few errant strands landed across Archer’s face. Lilac, he thought as he leaned away from its clutches.

“Yes. My father was born here. His family’s been here for generations.”

“Willie Dash mentioned something about the cattle business from a long time ago.”

“My grandfather, Atticus, raised and sold cattle, as did his father before him and so on and so on. Then he started investing in real estate, among other things. My father took over the family business when Atticus died. This was a long time ago. My grandfather died before I was even born. That’s when my father and Andrew Smalls started working together. My mother, Eleanor, was born and raised in Seattle, but her family moved here when she was a teenager. She and my father met here and got married.”

“I understand she died in a plane crash. Was it a passenger airliner?”

In a somber tone, Kemper said, “No, it was her plane. She was a licensed pilot.”

“Female pilot? That’s pretty nifty.”

Kemper smiled sadly. “I used to go up with her all the time. My father was quite a bit older than she was. She had me when she was twenty-one. I couldn’t imagine having a baby of my own at that age. She volunteered to fly during World War II, but they said she was too old. She was really upset about that. She used to be a barnstormer and trick pilot in the 1920s. She was really amazing.”

“So what happened?”

“We don’t know. It was a terrible accident. She was flying in her plane, a Stearman 75. It was a military trainer plane, but after the war they were sold to civilians and my mother bought one. She named it . . . she named it Elizabeth, after me, her only child.”

“She must have loved you very much,” observed Archer quietly.

She shot him a glance as though to check whether he was being sincere or not. “No more than I did her. Anyway, it was a two-seater single prop biplane. She could make it do anything she wanted. I was supposed to go up with her that day. It was beautifully clear, but Douglas had arranged a luncheon with some important clients and insisted that I be there. So, my mother went up . . . all alone.”