A Gambling Man

Chapter 25

Archer drove back toward town and then up a road that zigzagged as they passed canyons with clefts that crept through the rock like capillaries inside the body. As they reached a plateau in the rise and the ground flattened out like a skillet, he was then directed by Dash to pass through a pair of impressive wrought iron gates embossed with the letter A in scrollwork that appeared when the gates were closed and the two halves came together. The gates were mounted on two enormous stone columns. With the ocean on the left and the foothills of the Santa Ynez Mountains on the right, the Delahaye roared along on a curved, pale cobblestone road.

The trees up here were lush and covered the ground like a vast, decamped army. Fifty-foot-tall live oaks with their jumble of branches lined their way. Spanish moss hung off them like veils on blushing brides.

This botanical spectacle held forth until they rounded a bend where the columns of trees retreated. There the greenest, widest patch of grassy lawn Archer had ever seen commenced; it led up to a peninsula of land on which sat a long two-story structure that was built of limestone block, round gray and brown stone, and other elements thrown in for interesting architectural measure. A sea of French doors ran along the front and were anchored by a pair of massive wrought iron doors with impressive scrollwork that served as the main entrance. On either side of them were lit gas lanterns about the size of Archer’s torso, and still they seemed small next to the doors.

Thick, plush, variegated ivy covered much of the home’s lower front façade. Throughout the landscape were well-tended flower beds creating patterns of color, green hedges, and lush topiary bushes set in either pots or the ground. It was an idyllic setting powered by money, and presumably a lot of it. Along with a ton of sweat labor.

As they turned and came up the long drive running along the face of the house, Archer got a glimpse of the rear grounds, which faced the ocean and held a stunning vista of the Pacific. There was a tennis court with a tented seating area on one side and an oval-shaped pool with deep, dark blue water on the other. A long stone wall ran along the rear perimeter of the property, which presumably ended in a cliff. The Pacific stretched out nearly a thousand feet below like a private body of water.

Next, he looked at a large metal-roofed barn from which two men in denim work clothes were coming out, while another man pushed a wheelbarrow full of brush; a fourth man hosed down a dark blue Triumph Roadster with its canvas top up. A green John Deere tractor sat idle near the barn; a man had the engine cover open and was tinkering with the motor.

Archer pulled to a stop in the paved motor court next to a red-and-black Bentley with a topless front compartment for the chauffeur. Next to that was a silver-and-black Rolls-Royce Phantom.

As Dash got out he said, “Hey, now your ride’s in good company.”

“I’d say so,” replied Archer. “Nice place the Kempers have.”

“Didn’t you note the letter A on the gates? Sawyer Armstrong built this place for his daughter as a wedding present but couldn’t resist putting his ‘name’ on it.”

Dash breathed in the sea air that rose up from below like it had taken an express elevator car to get there. “Smell that, Archer?”

“Yeah. Fish.”

“Bet you never seen a house this big before?”

“I have.”

“Get outta here, you’re having one on me.”

“The one I saw back in Poca City was bigger than this place, but not by much. But it was also phony and so were the people in it. The jury’s still out on this one.”

“It won’t be much longer. But I wouldn’t call Beth Kemper a phony.”

“How do you know she’ll see us?”

“I phoned Connie from Midnight Moods and had her set up an appointment. She called back to confirm it. That’s what I was waiting on.”

They walked up to the massive double front doors. They, too, were embossed with an A, but here each door held its own letter.

Archer said, “Boy, the guy likes to remind people of the origins of this place.”

Dash said, “For me, it’s a sign of insecurity, but I could be wrong.”

He poked at a buzzer. From somewhere distant they heard the peal of a bell, its sound dulled by distance.

About twenty seconds later footsteps approached.

The opening door revealed a Chinese man who wore a waist-long white tuxedo jacket, black pants with lighter black stripes down the sides of the trousers, and a bow tie the color of the pants. His skin was tanned, and he had three moles that marched across his forehead like a line of ants. His dark hair was trimmed with silver at the temples, like the best character actors in the movies, and was slicked back. He had a long, tapered mustache that dovetailed around his mouth and ended in a stringy goatee. He had the sort of face that made it hard to guess the correct age. Archer put the range at forty to sixty.

“Willie Dash and Archer to see Mrs. Kemper. We’re expected.”

“May I see identification, please?”

“Oh, so you’re one of those butlers? Okay, pal, feast your eyes.”

Dash held out his ID card and the man examined it long enough to have copied out all the information it contained three times over. He handed it back and motioned them in. He closed the door, and they followed him down a marble hall that had a cushiony Oriental rug running right down the middle of it for what seemed like miles. The walls were festooned with enough paintings that Archer could have been forgiven for believing he had mistakenly stepped into a museum. They passed large rooms that were all furnished with just the right amount of furniture and not a smidgen more. White, gray, and pale blue were the dominant colors. Archer could see how that scheme would play well off the California sun that was streaming in through all the windows and French doors that also lined the rear of the home.

The interior was as quiet as a tomb and nearly as joyful, Archer thought as he walked next to Dash. Even with all the beautiful things, he couldn’t imagine living here.

The man stopped at double curved doors made of walnut, which shone with elbow-greased polish, and knocked on one of them.

“All right,” said the voice within. To Archer it sounded dulled and joyless, like a knife blade left outside to rust.

He steeled himself to meet Beth Armstrong Kemper.