A Gambling Man

Chapter 44

The drive up would have given liberty Callahan a heart attack, thought Archer, as he piloted the Delahaye around the twists and turns and switchbacks and rising elevations, all while following Dash’s directions. They were running on a road parallel to the one the Kemper estate was on, but Sawyer Armstrong had built his home on even higher ground.

When the land finally plateaued and they went around a curve, Archer glimpsed a house. “Is that it?”

“That’s Armstrong’s place, all right.”

“After seeing the home he built for his daughter, I thought his residence would look like the Taj Mahal.”

“Nope. It’s a farm. He grows olives here. Don’t know if he makes much money off it, not that he needs to, but apparently the man has a passion for it.”

The home was about half the size of his daughter’s, which made it very large indeed, and was constructed of red cedar siding and stone. The yard in front was a sculpted landscape of flower beds, large native trees and bushes, and a pea gravel path up to the front porch, which had a hundred-foot-long tin metal overhang and comfortable chairs, upholstered and wicker, spread along its length. Striped awnings hung over most of the windows on the western side of the house, and Archer could see how they might come in handy when the sun started to set. It would be quite hot and powerful at this elevation and angle.

As impressive as the casual house was in size, Archer could see about a dozen large outbuildings behind it, all constructed of red cedar with either shake shingles or tin metal roofs. Farm machinery was neatly parked across this stretch of land. There were horses in corrals and cows in other pens. He watched as men carried various tools, or else drove pieces of equipment designed to help grow or harvest things in the dirt. Stretching out behind all of this was a sea of what Archer surmised were the olive trees. The land seemed to go on and on right up to the foothills of the Santa Ynez Mountains. He could see lots of people with straw baskets and ladders swarming over the olive orchards.

“Are they harvesting the olives?” he asked.

“Yep,” replied Dash. “It’s tough work. You pick them by hand. Armstrong probably has about a hundred pickers here now, those folks you see out there. Mostly migrants from Mexico. He doesn’t pay them much, but it’s a lot more than they can make back home. They live in some of those bunkhouses you see around here. Feeds them, too, before he sends them on their way back across the border.”

“Olives grow well around here, I take it.”

“Yes. But it can be tricky. They need a lot of deep, infrequent watering.”

“But you can’t use salt water?”

“No. Armstrong told me one time the saline burns out the tree roots, and compounds coming from it can be toxic to the leaves.”

Archer gazed out at the sea of green, healthy olive trees. “Where does he get his fresh water, then?”

“California has a complicated relationship with water, Archer. Orange growers need a ton of it, the cities need millions of gallons of drinking water every day, and farmers need it for their crops and livestock. There are pipelines and trenches and aquifers and a series of dams and reservoirs collecting water coming off the winter snow packs in the Sierras and the Cascades, and the Rockies, too. And folks fight over it. Some divert it, others outright steal it from their neighbor or duke it out in court. With regard to Armstrong, he’s never divulged his source to me.”

They drove up to the house and got out.

“What do you think he wants to see us about?” said Archer.

“I would imagine his son-in-law and his daughter.”

“And Ruby Fraser?”

“Maybe. We’ll find out soon enough.”

A woman answered the door. She was of Mexican heritage, matronly and reserved, and casually attired in denim jeans with the cuffs rolled up and a colorful flannel shirt with a matching bandana. She told them she was Mr. Armstrong’s housekeeper. And to follow her. And they did. The floors were polished wood and the walls were plaster. It was far cooler inside than out. Archer figured the walls were thick to make that the case. The interior decorations here were far less formal than at the Kempers’ place.

They were led all the way through the house and out onto the back porch, which was just as sweeping as the front. At a round table set off to one side sat Sawyer Armstrong. He had on reflective sunglasses, though the sun was not in his eyes, and the man had just clipped off the end of a fat cigar before lighting and then puffing on it. He wore faded jeans, a white shirt, and a dark green corduroy vest. A straw hat with an olive green band sat on the table. His thick, unruly hair fell nearly to his shoulders. Scuffed boots rode on his long feet. His legs were stretched out. Three glasses and a pitcher of what looked to be sangria were set on the table.

And to Archer’s surprise, Beth Kemper was also seated at the table, next to her father.

He waved them over.

They sat and took off their hats, and the housekeeper went on her way.

Armstrong poured three glasses and handed them out. “Nothing like a little Spanish honey in the afternoon,” he said, taking off his sunglasses and slipping them into a vest pocket.

Archer looked at Kemper. “But not for you?”

She wouldn’t meet his eye. “Sangria gives me migraines. My father insists that I learn to love it, but so far it just hasn’t worked.”

“Love the migraines or the sangria?” asked Archer.

Armstrong interjected, “I think we can move on from the chitchat.”

“Sounds good to me,” said Dash as he took out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. He took a puff and said, “You rang, Armstrong. We’re here. But before we get going.” He pointed to Archer. “Your boys didn’t have to put the hurt on my associate here. That didn’t show class.”

Archer glanced at Kemper, but she displayed no reaction.

To him, the woman was like a flower in full bloom that had wilted to nothing because someone had thrown something toxic on it.

Armstrong nodded. “Yes, Willie, I agree with that. And I’ve had a talk with them both.”

“Good, good. Now, Archer also told me that you want to hire us. Is that why we’re here?”

“In part, yes,” said Armstrong after taking a sip of sangria. “But it’s more than that, too. There was a girl killed up at my place, Midnight Moods.”

“Pickett himself is on the case, which I take to mean that you called him personally. Otherwise, he’d rather be back in his office banging that honey of a secretary.” Dash glanced at Kemper. “Sorry, Mrs. Kemper, that just slipped out.”

She smiled, briefly, then lowered her gaze.

“You don’t have a high opinion of Carl, do you?” said Armstrong.

“I like competence and honesty, and you can throw integrity in there, too, if you want. Carl fails on all three counts in my book. And I’m sure he feels the same way about me, only he’d be wrong and I’d be right. I’m not telling you anything I haven’t told him.”

“I see,” said Armstrong in a noncommittal tone.

“Now, we are looking into Ruby Fraser’s death,” added Dash. “We’d already talked to her because the case we’re handling for your son-in-law involved her.”

“You mean that they were ‘seeing’ each other? As I told Archer, it’s something that my daughter here can ably handle. Though I doubt Beth much cares what Douglas does with his time.”

Archer once more looked at Kemper. She finally lifted her gaze to his and said, “I believe I made my position on that very clear to these gentlemen.”

Her father patted her on the arm. “And it’s your right to do so, of course, Beth. If you remember, I told you to strongly consider not marrying the man, but you inherited your mother’s stubbornness and you went ahead and did it anyway. And now look at where you are.”

Archer watched as the pink rose in the woman’s cheeks, and not in a good way. She looked angry but said nothing.

Dash said, “Regardless, someone was clearly trying to blackmail Kemper into dropping out of the race and using Fraser to do it. Now she’s dead.”

Armstrong sat up a little straighter and finished his glass of sangria. “I hope you’re not implying that Douglas had anything to do with this girl’s murder. I can’t say that I like the man all that much, particularly after the way he’s treated my daughter. But murder? That’s preposterous.”

Archer shot Kemper another glance. There was no expression on the woman’s features. Archer could not reconcile the vivacious, quick-witted woman in the diner with this dull apparition.

“I’m not implying anything,” said Dash. “I’m just saying that he had an obvious motive to get rid of her. And he didn’t have to do the deed himself. There are guys who would do it for him for the right price.” He glanced at Kemper. “Again, I’m sorry. I had no idea you’d be here, but these are things we have to discuss. If you want to leave, this might be a good time.”

Archer saw the indecision on the woman’s face until Armstrong put a big hand on her shoulder. “Beth is strong. She can deal with this, Willie. Isn’t that right, my dear?”

Kemper glanced at Archer before saying, “I’m fine, Mr. Dash, please carry on.”

“All right, ma’am, if you’re sure.”

Armstrong said, “I don’t agree with that theory at all, Willie. Because now that she’s dead, people will assume that Douglas did have something to do with it. And while adultery is not a good look for a politician, murder is far worse. So don’t you see that this is an attempt to push the election to Alfred Drake?”

“So you really think Drake had her murdered?” said Dash, each word draped in more sarcasm than its predecessor.

“No, but politicians have backers. And Drake has his.”

“And who are Drake’s backers?”

Armstrong sat forward, looking pointedly animated now. “You should nose around about money men from Vegas, and mob types from New York who want to set up shop in Bay Town, Santa Barbara, Frisco, LA, and San Diego. There is a narcotics trade, Willie, that is very lucrative for the mob, and a lot of it comes over the border and over the water. These folks are invading this country, and nothing is stopping them so far.”

“Yeah, did you happen to mention that to Carl Pickett? Because he doesn’t even have a single police boat on the water. Maybe he likes the stuff coming in. Maybe he gets something from it. Maybe that’s how he can buy big-ass Chryslers and toothpicks by the bushel on a policeman’s salary.”

Armstrong sat back, looking surprised. “Are you accusing the chief of police of taking bribes?”

“Not at all. I think he slipped and fell on the street and a bunch of money ended up in his pocket. But if you tell him I said so, I’ll deny it.”

Armstrong waved this comment away. “I don’t care about Pickett at the moment. I care about this election, and I don’t want to see my son-in-law’s chances go down the tubes because someone is trying to frame him.”

“The son-in-law you don’t much care for?” said Archer.

Armstrong leveled his gaze at him. “I don’t have to like the man to like his politics. Douglas will be a good mayor, and, more to the point, he is the man we need at the moment. And I consider Alfred Drake to be certainly a socialist and perhaps a communist. He would be a disaster for this town.”

“You mentioned to Archer here that you wanted us to find the truth, no matter where it went. It didn’t sound like you had a dog in the hunt, Armstrong, but now it sounds like you do. So which is it? I’d like to know before deciding on your offer of engagement.”

Armstrong smiled and looked at his daughter. “I forgot how good Willie is at chess, Beth. I think he might have captured one of my pawns and one of my knights, and he’s now bearing down on my queen.”

“Is there an answer in there somewhere?” noted Dash.

“Look for the truth, Willie. And I do have a dog in the hunt, yes. But I’m confident of where the trail will lead you. How’s that for an answer?”

“I guess it’ll have to do, because I doubt another one will be coming along.” Dash took a sip of the sangria and wrinkled his nose.

“You don’t care for it?” asked Armstrong.

“I’m not much of a punch man. You introduce sweetness into alcohol, you’ve pretty much lost me. Liquor should burn, make a man feel alive. Otherwise, you’re just drinking something so you can piss it away an hour later. So, you had a look at the list we got from Kemper. Anyone on it look promising?”

“I’m not a detective.”

“Just your gut, then.”

“I think the list is pretty much worthless.”

“Interesting.” Dash rose and put on his hat. Archer did likewise. “So when did you and your boys leave Midnight Moods last night?”

“Right after our little encounter with Archer. You can check with the valet if you don’t believe me.”

“Okay, I will. You remember which one it was?”

“A man in a valet’s uniform looking for tips and drunk women leaving alone.”

“Thanks, that pretty much describes all of them. But it’s a start.”

“That’s quite a place you built for the Kempers,” noted Archer while looking directly at Beth Kemper.

“I built it for my daughter,” said Armstrong. He put a protective arm around Kemper. “Douglas just came along for the ride.”

“But you’re backing your son-in-law for the mayor’s race,” said Dash.

“One does not have to love one’s allies, Willie. One just has to use them.”