The Sniper's Wife by Archer Mayor

Author:Archer Mayor [Mayor, Archer]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Mystery, FIC022000
ISBN: 0446613215
Publisher: Warner
Published: 2002-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

Joe Gunther stepped off the commuter train onto the platform and looked around. Across the parking lot, the village of Mount Kisco, New York, spread out to the right and left, a bustling, upscale, redbrick town with a seemingly bulletproof look of security about it. Most of the cars he saw going past were the rolling equivalent of a year’s salary.

“Wow,” Sammie muttered. “Suburbia.”

“High-end suburbia. Big distinction.”

“And Bob Kunkle can afford to live here? Must be doing all right.”

“He doesn’t live here, Sam. He works here.”

“Ah, right,” she said. “Big distinction number two.”

They crossed the parking lot, squinting against the bright morning sun. The train trip north had been leisurely and pleasant, since they’d been running against the commuter flow, and the village seemed equally peaceful, temporarily empty of most of its high-power residents. Gunther was struck with how, even in these modern times, most of the people he saw shopping or strolling along the street were wealthy-looking women, the only men being shopkeepers, a road crew, or the odd man in uniform, from a cop to a UPS driver. It was like taking a trip back to the fifties, albeit accompanied by a herd of modern SUVs.

“His store’s on the main drag,” Gunther explained, heading that way. “When I phoned him last night, he said to look for a London wannabe.”

“I take it from that he’s not the owner,” Sammie commented.

“Manager,” Joe explained briefly.

They found it easily enough, not just from the sign, but in fact from its faux-Brit aspirations. Crossing the threshold, he and Sammie were embraced by the smell of wood oil, rich wool, and the faint odor of pipe tobacco, although Gunther couldn’t swear that last part wasn’t his imagination.

“How are you?” asked a young man in an immaculate pin-stripe suit, silk tie, and a shirt with French cuffs.

“We’re fine. We’re here to see Bob Kunkle.”

“Of course. Please wait here a moment. I’ll go fetch him. Whom shall I say is calling?”

“Joe Gunther.”

“I’ll be right back,” he announced unctuously, and slid soundlessly off toward the rear of the store.

“There’s an eligible man for you, Sam,” Joe said. “Once you were done with him, you could park him in the closet till next time.”

Sammie was already wandering around the place, giving the fabric a feel and ogling the price tags. “Can you believe this stuff?”

A shadow emerged from the gloom at the back and another perfectly dressed man, older than the first, stepped forward, looking like a modern-day English butler, complete with vest and elegantly rounded stomach.

“Mr. Gunther? I’m Robert Kunkle.”

With the younger salesman lurking in the distance, Joe introduced Sammie by name alone.

But Kunkle caught his meaning and suggested, “Why don’t we talk somewhere more private?”

He led them down the length of the store, but not to his office. He’d taken his brother back there years before when he’d dropped by for a visit, and Bob had never forgotten the look in Willy’s eyes at the contrast between the ancient, feudal glow of the sales area and the fluorescentlit concrete gulag where Bob tallied the books.

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