The Gossiping Gourmet

by Martin Brown

  She shrugged. “You're probably right about that as well.”

  “I never told you this, but when I was delivering the Bradley eulogy, I was convinced that his killer was standing there in the church, watching me and listening to everything I said. And as you know, Commissioner Randolph was thousands of miles away.”

  “That old church doesn’t hold many people—probably less than two hundred. It would be pretty creepy if the killer were sitting there looking at you.” Karin shuddered at the thought, then stood up. “I’ve got to walk down to Sparrow Creek to pick up the children.” She walked over and kissed Rob on the cheek. “Even if the Randolphs had stayed in town this past week and Warren had not been murdered, I have a feeling they wouldn’t have gone to another outdoor opera event.”

  “Perhaps it’s a good thing Randolph got out of town when he did; that old church has high rafters. Alma herself would have provided the rope if she thought she could get away with some old-fashioned frontier justice.”

  “That’s my point. In a town this small, one bad misstep, and you’re guilty in the court of public opinion.” Karin sighed and shook her head in disappointment. “I wouldn’t be surprised if, make that when, this whole thing blows over, those poor people move back to New York. I guess they’re learning firsthand the downside of living in a town where everyone knows your name.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  When Rob returned to the office after lunch, Holly announced, “Your girlfriend, Alma, called. She hopes you have a moment to call her back,” Holly pursed her lips and made a kissing sound.

  “Hey, give the old lady a break. I don’t have any problem with Alma wanting to know who killed her favorite chef.”

  “Gosh, you’re a little touchy today!” Holly frowned as she headed back to her office.

  Rob felt terrible, knowing that he was taking some of his frustration out on his office mate. He was keenly aware that his readers were all waiting for answers. But if the cops didn’t have any, more specifically, Eddie, what in the world did Warren’s loyal fan base think he had?

  Nonetheless, Rob quickly called Alma, aware that this new détente between them could expand readership, resulting in increased advertising revenue—something he would happily welcome.

  Alma picked up on the first ring. Her tone was unusually pleasant. “I loved this week’s edition of The Standard,” she purred.

  At the top of the final “Heard About Town” column, Rob placed a brief statement: “Written by Warren Bradley, just hours before his death. This document was uncovered by law enforcement officials working on his homicide and was made available to readers of The Standard.”

  “It’s extraordinary,” Alma continued, “that he wrote about this dangerous man, Randolph, hours before his murder. If Warren were alive today his first question would be: Why is Grant Randolph not in custody?”

  Rob was sure this was Alma’s opening salvo in her hope of organizing a lynch mob.

  Cautiously, he said, “I heard that the Randolphs left for New York City early on the morning after Warren’s body was found.”

  “I had heard that, too, and I’m sure it sounds highly suspicious to you as well.”

  “If not suspicious, rotten timing at a minimum.”

  Both paused, realizing they might be on a path to expressing divergent points of view.

  “In any event, I was hoping that in your next edition you will keep a bright light shining on Grant Randolph’s whereabouts,” Alma said. “It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if they both decided to extend their visit to New York. What thoroughly distasteful people!”

  There were a few moments of awkward silence; Rob gazed out his window at passing tourists walking into the shops of Princess Court as he considered his response. “Randolph is certainly at the top of everyone’s suspect list. At the same time, it’s hard to second-guess where the investigation stands at any given moment,” Rob suggested. “The police are staying pretty quiet and that’s not making my job any easier.”

  “Well, sail on, brave soul. I just wanted to be sure you’re pursuing Warren’s killer without hesitation. I feel quite certain you’re doing exactly that. In fact, every member of the Ladies of Liberty is at this very moment singing your praises.”

  Talk about offering up a carrot as opposed to Alma’s usual stick.

  As Rob thanked her and hung up, he turned his swivel chair away from the window to the faded blue couch that sat on the wall opposite his desk. Holly sat there, staring at him with a mischievous smile. She arched a brow. “So, what did the queen of darkness have to say for herself?”

  “Sheesh! I haven’t seen you this excited since Paul Simon stopped his car on Princess Street to ask you for directions.”

  Holly waved away Rob’s jibe with a swish of her wrist. “If the least likely suspect is the killer—which is what happens all the time in murder mysteries—then I'm guessing Alma did it.”

  “If she killed Bradley, she must have hired one of the counter boys at Venice Gourmet as an accomplice. She certainly wasn’t the one preparing the wrist chops or tossing Warren's body around like an antique Ken doll.”

  “That might be it! She’s the dinner guest—no surprise there. She gets him good and soused. Then, she lets Benedetto—who can handle a cleaver on those old hard salamis like they’re butter—step in and finish the job.”

  “Alright Agatha, let’s get back to work. The Peninsula Standard is three hours from final deadline.”

  As Holly re-checked the completed layout pages for the Tiburon/Belvedere edition, she cheered herself by imagining Alma Samuels working in the laundry at a California state prison for the remaining years of her life.

  One week earlier, the day Warren’s murder was a top Bay Area news story, the Siricas made an urgent call to Grant and Barbara.

  “Are you sitting down?” Ray asked. “In fact, put your cell on speaker. Barbara has to hear this as well!”

  Grant did as Ray suggested and motioned Barbara over.

  “Hi, Ray. Hi, Debbie. What’s up?” Barbara asked.

  Debbie couldn’t contain herself. “Warren Bradley was murdered last night!”

  “What?” Barbara and Grant shrieked in unison.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Barbara murmured.

  “This is no joke,” Ray responded. “I’m reading about it right now, on the San Francisco Chronicle’s website. I'll forward you the article as soon as we get off this call. Grant, I hate to say this, but it may not look so great for you, considering it happened just hours before you left town. Not to mention the blowout you had with Warren at the opera event.”

  Grant was silent for a moment. Finally, he declared, “Ray, Debbie, hand to God, I had absolutely nothing to do with this.”

  “We would never suspect you of killing that old troll,” Ray assured him.

  “We love you both. I’m sure, before long, they’ll find whoever did this,” Debbie added.

  For a brief moment, after their call ended, Grant and Barbara were lost in their thoughts. But when they caught each other’s eyes, Barbara noticed the upturned corners of Grant’s lips. Soon, her smile matched his. “I think this calls for drinks,” Grant declared. “What do you say we go to the bar over at the Waverly?”

  Barbara laughed. “I’ll drink to that.”

  When they arrived and settled in, their first toast was to Warren's memory. “I know it’s sad,” Barbara said, “but he was a mean-spirited little louse! I couldn’t believe what he wrote about me. I’m trying to get a little publicity for myself about working a new job at a prestigious gallery, and he makes it sound like I thought the women in the league were a bunch of silly fools!”

  “He was a gasbag,” Grant said. “I’m not going to let myself feel sorry for him. Based on the experience we had with him, I would think the number of possible suspects the police are looking into could fill a jumbo jet.”

  A week later, when Ray and Debbie read them excerpts from Warren’s final column, the beleaguered c
ouple knew this was not the time to fly back to the Bay Area. Based on their itineraries, they had already decided to extend their stay in New York. Now, they thought it wise to continue their stay indefinitely. Being two more anonymous faces in a sea of humanity was an unexpected comfort.

  It was apparent from the number of readers’ letters arguing for Randolph’s arrest that Alma and her Ladies of Liberty had instigated a letter-writing campaign.

  On Thursday afternoon, Eddie called to say that the Randolphs had extended their stay in New York City another week.

  Eddie had not been able to make their usual Friday afternoon date at Smitty’s, but on Saturday, he pulled up outside of Rob’s home in his unmarked county sheriff’s car. Kissing Karin on the cheek, he asked, “Do you mind if I borrow your husband for a couple of hours?”

  “Fine with me. I was about to take the kids up to Cloudview Park. One of the Sparrow Creek kids, little Anna, is having her third birthday party up there.” Karin pointed toward Rob’s home office and said, “Get him out of the house. He needs some fresh air. He’s been spending way too much time in there.”

  Eddie found Rob at his desk lost in thought. With less than seventy-two hours before the next deadline for his Sausalito edition, he was feeling discouraged. His attempts to spin another Bradley story out of what little new information he had was harder than he had imagined.

  He was happy to accept Eddie’s invitation to go for a drive. Yes, a change of scenery would do him good. And, perhaps, he might get lucky and hear something that he could use to satisfy his readers' hunger for more revelations in a mystery that was still the talk of the town.

  The two friends drove to Mill Valley and went up a back road that climbed one of the flanks of Mount Tamalpais, which rises twenty-eight hundred feet and dominates the surrounding landscape.

  Eddie pulled off onto a dirt road and parked at a trailhead known mostly to locals. As Eddie had hoped, there were no other cars around. “Come on, let’s go for a little walk.”

  Rob smiled and nodded approvingly. “We haven’t been to this spot since we were in high school.”

  They walked along a trail that hugged the hillside. It offered great views but had a steep drop that was far too narrow for casual hikers. After going a half-mile down the path, they came to a dugout where a boulder had come to rest, perhaps centuries earlier. The rock was a perfect example of a bench placed by God for a select few to stop and enjoy the view.

  They pulled themselves up and sat down on the massive stone, which was warmed by the midday sun. As they looked out at a vista that included tree-covered hillsides and distant views of the Pacific, Rob said in a low voice, “Remember when we used to come up here with Trevor and Alex to smoke pot?”

  Eddie inhaled the fresh mountain air. “We were certainly young and dumb. Pot, beer, and steep drop-offs are probably not the safest combination.”

  “And let’s not forget the occasional mountain lion out for a stroll with her young cubs,” Rob laughed.

  “It’s amazing to think how many things we did as kids that we would never want our kids to do.”

  “Amen to that, pal.”

  They watched in silence as two hawks circled the steep canyon looking for prey far below. Finally, Eddie said, “I need your help. What I’m about to tell you can’t go any further than the two of us.”

  “Is it about the Bradley killing?”

  “Bingo.”

  “Whatever it is, Eddie, we’ve been like brothers most of our lives. Just tell me, and I’ll put into print only what you think will help to solve your case and certainly nothing that would hinder your investigation.”

  Eddie’s smiled as he patted Rob on the shoulder. “I know that. Let me start by telling you that Grant Randolph had nothing to do with the murder of Warren Bradley.”

  “You sound pretty sure about that.”

  “I’ve been close to the guys in the ME’s office for a long time. They can be your best friends in a murder investigation. When they know something, small or big, they get a hold of me right away.”

  “Yeah…and…”

  “It’s about 99 percent certain that Bradley’s killer was left-handed.”

  Rob gave a low whistle. “How did they figure that out?”

  “The angle at which that meat cleaver smashed through Bradley’s wrists gave it away. Even on a dead man, it takes a reasonable amount of force to cut through all those bones and tendons. It’s highly unlikely that our killer is right-handed but used his left hand to cut off Warren’s hands.”

  Rob shook his head. “How does the county’s medical examiner get to keep a gem like that quiet?”

  “Simple. This is an ongoing murder investigation. In pursuit of the victim’s killer, you’re not serving the cause of justice to turn over every card you’re holding to the public. If you all but eliminate right-handed individuals, approximately 90 percent of the entire population, and you consider the upper body strength of our killer and our relative certainty that Warren knew his killer, as over nine out of ten victims do, the pool of suspects drops to a much smaller number.”

  “Do the nitwits at the Sausalito Police Department know about this?”

  “Nope. There’s no real need to let them know. They don’t have an investigator working the case, so sharing that kind of information with them increases the chance of it getting out into the general public.”

  “I agree. Now for my sixty-four thousand dollar question: where do I come in? In other words, how can I help? And how is it that you know Randolph is right-handed?”

  “Let me answer your second question first. We went through the files of some previous art commission meetings. The powers at city hall, in league with Alma and her gang, are hoping that we’re closing in on Randolph. They were only too happy to help. There is a slew of photos of the commission at work…several of which show Randolph holding a pen in his right hand as he’s taking notes during a meeting. As for the other part of your question, you’re a damn good investigator, Rob, whether you realize it or not, and I’m going to need an extra set of hands—no puns, please—to cover possible suspects and motives.”

  “How many are there?”

  “Bradley fed on the minutiae of life in Sausalito. I suspect he either knew too much or said too much about one of his neighbors. Two-thirds of the town is looking for his or her favorite suspect, which, as we discussed, is fine with me. The more people convinced that Randolph is the killer the better off we are. We don’t want to do anything to spook the real killer into pulling a disappearing act.”

  “Given the strength the killer needed, I don’t suppose there’s any chance that the killer is a female?” Rob asked.

  “Not unless the killer is a left-handed female bodybuilder. I don’t know any women in Sausalito that fit that description. Do you? The longer the townies keep their focus on Randolph, the better I like it.”

  “So, what do you want me to do?”

  “I need you to be my go-to guy for in-depth information on our victim. The more we can learn about Bradley’s life, the closer we might get to identifying his killer. Right now, you’re on good terms with Alma and her gang of busybodies. Tell them you’re planning a retrospective on the life and times of Warren Bradley. Once you start digging into his past, hopefully some actionable information will fall into place. There are only a handful of people like Karin, you, and me, who grew up in Sausalito, living their whole lives in that tiny fishbowl. The vast majority of people in most Marin communities arrived ten, twenty, or thirty years ago. Bradley came to Sausalito approximately twenty-five years ago. Bottom line, Rob, we need to know more about Bradley’s life before he showed up in town.”

  “I’m fine with all this, if you think I can help,” Rob assured Eddie. “You’re right that there are a lot of people in town who would string up Randolph and be done with it.”

  “Fortunately for Randolph, he might appear to be the obvious killer, but this isn’t the Wild West anymore.”

  Rob chuckle
d. “That’s a good thing for me as well. Nosy, pushy journalists, asking too many questions, didn’t have a long life expectancy in the early years of California.”

  “Speaking of nosy, how long did Warren write his column for The Standard?”

  “About six years.”

  “Can you take the time to go back and give those old columns a closer look? I’m sure Randolph isn’t the only one who would have liked to murder that infamous busybody. We’ll probably follow a lot of leads that go nowhere, but hopefully, we can pull one thread that causes this whole thing to unravel.”

  “But what about those missing hands, Eddie? What the hell was that about?”

  “Trust me, pal. When we find the killer, the mystery of the missing hands will fall into place.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Rob was excited about Eddie’s request. He was right to ask that everything, at least for now, be kept between the two of them.

  “If there are any leaks, it could spoil our efforts and put us back at square one,” Eddie reminded him. “We have to keep this from everyone: even, Karin, Sharon, and that super sleuth assistant of yours, Holly.”

  While it was true that most of Rob’s work would bore a crime reporter to distraction, he wasn’t a complete stranger to the persistent and patient work of investigative reporting. He had uncovered several cases of bribery and misappropriation of funds in city and county agencies. Two recent examples: a Tiburon council member taking kickbacks in exchange for his vote; and a Mill Valley council member provided with the use of a Lake Tahoe vacation home by a local architect whose projects she consistently voted to support.