by Martin Brown
Rob began his task by explaining to Holly that he was doing a retrospective on Warren. "Please e-mail me his entire file of columns."
"Are you sure, Rob?" Holly asked in surprise. "That's a lot of garbage to search through!"
"Don't worry. I haven't lost my mind. I want to scan through Bradley's work and get a better feel for what he wrote."
"Okay, boss. It's your call."
During his spare time in the evenings, and over the next few workdays, Rob reviewed all of Warren's two hundred and ninety-six “Heard About Town” columns. Once again, it stirred Rob's regrets as to why he had published Warren’s column for so long. He realized, however, that it had been a marriage of convenience, similar to arrangements he had made with other retired seniors in his small corps of community reporters. Fortunately, his other writers did not have Warren's love of gossip, or the desire to settle personal scores with a variety of fellow citizens.
Warren, however, took cattiness to extremes, which might have been a reflection of the uniquely sharp elbows found in Sausalito's political and social scene.
Most of Warren’s items and columns dealt with his musings about “modern day life” or his mentions of special birthdays. In this regard, he never missed those of Alma Samuels, Bea Snyder, Ethel Landau, Robin Mitchell, or other “Ladies of Liberty Superstars." He faithfully provided reporting of various Sausalito Women’s League events—notably the annual holiday follies—and coverage of the endless game of musical chairs for seats on the town’s commissions, committees, and the grand prizes: the city council, planning commission, and design review board. All of it was grist for Bradley's gossip mill.
Now and then, Warren unsheathed the cutting edge of his words, turning his column into a weapon as opposed to a platform for idle chatter.
In the column’s second year, he aimed his fire at a recently elected member of the city council, Robert Allan, who in a nasty encounter with one of his disappointed supporters suddenly slapped her in the midst of a heated exchange.
Allan explained it as nothing more than “an admonishing tap to her cheek.” The one on the receiving end of what Warren called “the slap heard round the world” declared it “a hideous and unprovoked act of violence.” Subsequent columns made it apparent that Warren’s mailbag was overwhelmed with demands for the young Mr. Allan to resign. The gentleman did just that and, soon after, moved out of town. His departure caused Warren, in his typically snide fashion, to wonder aloud “if Mr. Allan will be missed?”
It seemed unlikely that Allan returned to Sausalito to murder Warren, but he was indeed a name to be added to Eddie’s list.
The following year, in an event far less public than the infamous “slap heard round the world,” Warren implied that Carrie Kahn was pocketing a portion of the raffle money raised for the purchase of new fitness equipment for “our brave men and women of the Sausalito Fire Department.” In his usual style, he stopped just short of making an accusation and used the comments and concerns of others to build his case—often without attribution. He wrote, for example, “sources, who wish to remain anonymous, have told this columnist that…”
At first, Kahn and a few of her friends complained loudly in letters to the editor. But, as she later explained, she chose “not to pursue legal remedies for the wrongs committed by Mr. Bradley,” whom she went on to refer to as “a mean-spirited little man.”
Her decision not to pursue Bradley could have been for several reasons, but the two most likely were she had pocketed some of the raffle money, or she did a lousy job of keeping all her ticket stubs alongside final running totals. Having realized that in a libel suit, it is the burden of the accused to provide evidence that there was no basis for the stated claims, she was left with no logical choice but to live under the cloud that now hung over her. For that reason, Rob nominated Carrie to Eddie’s list of suspects in spite of Eddie’s belief that only a male killer could have had the brute force to chop through Warren’s wrists so cleanly and, more significantly, move Bradley’s body onto that swing.
Of course, there were others, all of whom Rob concluded were likely suggested for Warren’s court of public opinion by his patroness, Alma, and her lieutenants.
When Rob finished reading all the columns, he mumbled to himself, “If Warren Bradley were alive today, I’d dump him and his column!”
If he had put an end to Warren’s column a year or more ago, would Bradley be alive today? Perhaps some people who acted carelessly or impetuously would not have suffered Warren’s public form of humiliation. But what was done was done. Rob knew there was little value in crying over spilled ink. To run a small newspaper in one or more small towns comes with its share of regrettable moments. This was one more regret that Rob needed to put behind him.
Having picked up little that might have driven one of the injured targets of Warren’s past columns to go as far as murder, it was time to move on to the next step: Who was Warren Bradley before he arrived in Sausalito?
When Rob called Alma and explained he’d like to interview her for a Warren Bradley retrospective, she was delighted. Without hesitation, she suggested that Rob join her for tea at four that afternoon.
Rob was undoubtedly familiar with the Samuels’ mansion and the lovely piece of property on which it stood. Nevertheless, when Louise showed him into the home’s sunroom, he was impressed with his surroundings.
Alma entered and reached out to take his hand. She immediately said, “Mr. Timmons, I’m delighted to welcome you to my home.”
“Call me Rob, please.”
“Of course—Rob,” she said with a faint smile. “Let me start by saying how pleased I am that you are doing a piece on dear Warren’s life. His death is an unspeakable tragedy, and he should never be forgotten! He was too kind, and too vigilant a journalist to be forgotten. The Ladies of Liberty have been discussing where we might erect a statue in Warren’s memory. Perhaps, a bust sitting atop a pillar in the plaza outside of city hall would be the best choice. There are many groups, charities, and organizations that I’m certain would contribute to the project.”
Rob felt a shiver go down his spine over the thought of a Warren Bradley memorial, particularly after completing his review of Warren’s columns. Perhaps a third of the town would like a bronze bust on a marble pillar, a third would agree to a likeness of Warren’s head placed on a spike, and the final third would remain undecided as they were on nearly every local issue.
Alma thanked Louise, who placed a tray of tea and cookies on the antique coffee table between them. “Now, Rob, fire away. I hope you’re doing a thorough job in making Warren come alive again for everyone who knew him.”
“I hope so, as well. Let me begin by asking if you remember when you first met Warren.”
“Confident you’d ask, I was thinking about that this morning. My best guess is twenty-five years ago—or perhaps a little more.”
Rob nodded. “That would have been close to the time Warren settled in Sausalito. I’m also uncertain as to where he lived before he arrived here. Did he ever share that information with you?”
Alma frowned. “Warren and I discussed many things over the years, but I don’t recall the topic of his years before Sausalito coming up. He did mention that he studied at the Culinary Institute, in Saint Helena. He also said that he majored in finance, at Carnegie Mellon in Pittsburgh. But I don’t have any idea of the actual years he attended either of those distinguished institutions.”
“I understand that Warren was over seventy at the time of his death.”
She nodded. “That seems about right.”
“I reread all his columns to see if he mentioned his childhood, or his life before Sausalito. Unfortunately, he never did. My guess, however, is that he grew up back east. Did he ever discuss with you where that was?”
“I’m sorry, Rob, not that I recall. I guess there is very little I know about Warren’s life before Sausalito.” Her eyes opened wider at this realization. “It’s always been said that he was in the world of
banking, or finance. But I cannot recall our ever discussing that time of his life.”
Trying to put a smile on his face to cover his disappointment, Rob shifted his focus to Bradley’s more recent years.
But when they got to the topic of Warren’s columns, Alma became agitated. “Warren sat in the very chair you’re sitting in now when I told him that I was concerned for his safety. Just one look at that Grant Randolph and you could tell he was a brute! But Warren was simply fearless. He was, by his very nature, a truth teller.”
Realizing that the conversation had devolved into a series of endless stories about Bradley’s “extraordinary generosity” and his “remarkable culinary skills,” Rob thanked Alma for her hospitality. But before he could make a hasty retreat, Alma took his hand in both of her hands. Staring intently up at the smile he had fixed on his face, she declared, “Whoever wanted to harm dear Warren may want to harm you as well. But, unlike Warren, you have a wife and two children, so please be careful, Rob! I can’t imagine what the loss of a second great journalist would mean to our small town.”
As Rob backed out of the driveway, he wasn’t sure whether to take Alma’s performance of tea and sympathy as kindness or gamesmanship. What he did know was that he had no more actionable information regarding Warren’s past than he had when Eddie asked him to dig something up on his background.
But, as every investigative reporter knows, you have to set aside frustrations over one or more blind alleys and keep pushing forward.
On the short winding drive through Sausalito’s labyrinth of steep hills leading down to his office, which was located steps away from the edge of the bay, Rob thought about his next move. At least one benefit, however, came out of his meeting: he suspected that, on some level, Alma too was uneasy with the thought that her beloved Warren entered her close circle of friends without a known past.
From phone interviews with Ethel Landau, Bea Snyder, Robin Mitchell, and Marilyn Williams, Rob came away with nothing more than the sparse facts Alma Samuels had already shared.
He endured the pain of their endless stories concerning Warren’s “noble efforts and volunteering spirit” in bringing food for one event or another, and offering help in any way he could with those causes that were most important to the Ladies of Liberty.
But Warren Bradley’s life before Sausalito remained a mystery.
Eddie worked a late shift on Friday. Once again, he bowed out of the end-of-week meet-up at Smitty’s with Rob and Holly.
Still, before leaving the office, Rob asked Holly if she wanted to join him for a drink. They had both worked a long week, and Rob’s increasing frustration with Bradley’s empty past led to his being short with her for most of the week.
“Is this your way of saying you want to kiss and make up?” Holly teased. “If it is, then yes, I’ll allow you to buy back my affections with a martini.”
“Good! I was hoping you’d say yes, so grab your bag and let’s get out of here.”
Ten minutes later, after they settled in on the quiet, far end of Sausalito’s most popular downtown watering hole, the No Name Bar, Rob took a long pull on a bottle of Guinness while Holly took a much-needed sip of her beloved martini.
“So, what’s up, boss? You’ve been more than your usual grumpy self this week."
“I’m sorry about that. I told you I’ve been trying to put together a piece about Warren Bradley’s life, and—”
“Are you sure you want to do that?” She frowned.
“I have to! His murder is the biggest news story we’ve had around here in a long time, and for six years he wrote a column for the newspaper. Sausalito readers expect me to do a complete piece on his life,” Rob explained, using the same line he’d used with each member of the Ladies of Liberty.
“Okay, so what’s the problem?”
“I keep running into the same blank wall! No one knows anything about Warren before he showed up in Sausalito. Nothing other than the couple of stories, attending Carnegie Mellon in Pittsburgh, and later the Culinary Institute of America up in Napa, that I think he seeded. Neither school has any record of him attending. Even in the career he supposedly retired from—a position in finance—I can’t find any link to him holding any position in that field. It’s like the guy one day just popped up out of the ground.”
“Gosh! I guess he was even creepier than I imagined.”
“Alma and her entire gang all spin the same story, but by now I’m pretty certain it’s all fiction.”
“Fiction that Warren must have created.”
“So, Holly, I was thinking—”
“Say no more, boss. I’ll see what I can do to track the guy down—hopefully, get us some idea of where he came from, and what he was doing before he landed here and started delighting some people and irritating others.”
“That would be great. I don't think there’s anything sinister to all this, but his past seems to have been buried, and I’d love to know why.”
“Happy to do it. Maybe I’ll get lucky and turn up something nasty on the old busybody. I’d love that, after all the misery he stirred up for others.”
“Boy, you seriously did not like Bradley.”
“In addition to his not-to-subtle suggestions that I was a libertine woman—based on the fact that I’m mid, uh, early thirties and single—there’s the whole thing with Carrie Kahn and the supposed raffle money embezzlement nonsense. Carrie’s a bit dippy; I do not doubt that. But so are half the people in this town. I don’t think she did a great job of separating the cash she got from tips working behind the bar at Bob and Herb’s from all the tickets she was selling to customers. Still, that jerk’s innuendoes just tore her up! She thought the real reason Warren humiliated her is she didn’t come rushing over every time his wine glass needed refilling. I know it’s not a big deal, Rob, but I’m telling you: the guy was a sneaky, creepy, SOB.”
“I only wish I’d been paying more attention to what he was writing each week. I probably would have put an end to his column long ago. Too many editions and too many columns getting produced every week is my only excuse.”
“It helped Warren’s cause that the column was a favorite with so many readers. And where would we be without readers, not to mention advertisers?”
Rob waved to the bartender. “I think you need another martini, Holly. Let me get us another round.”
“Good idea!” Holly said as she finished the rest of her first. “Well, here’s to Warren—wherever he is, and whoever he was.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
In Rob’s view, running a chain of weekly community newspapers was like jumping on a treadmill that started running early Monday morning and kept going until Friday afternoon. And then there were those times when the job ran all seven days of the week. But for all its frustrations, there were moments of unique pleasure when you stumbled onto a story that everyone else missed.
Rob was quickly coming to the conclusion that the mystery of Bradley’s past might well be one of those overlooked, but nonetheless amazing, stories, made all the more shocking and relevant if a connection could be made between Warren’s murder and his undiscovered past.
As more letters landed on Rob’s desk asking why Grant Randolph was not in custody for the killing of Warren Bradley, the more Rob thought how ridiculous that idea was.
Unlike Bradley, Randolph had a well-documented past. From his childhood in Providence, Rhode Island, to his attending Brown University, to his developing one of SoHo’s most successful art galleries, it was all there through the Internet, easily accessible.
On the other hand, Bradley's past disappeared like San Francisco behind a veil of summer fog. If indeed he was over seventy at the time of his death, then Warren was probably in his mid-forties when he arrived in Sausalito. Rob reasoned that Bradley must have had a hand in obscuring his past. Why else did he create a tangle of lies about his life, all of which led nowhere?
Late Saturday, a frustrated Holly called Rob and provided further reason fo
r his growing suspicions. “Wow, Rob, you were right! I spent the day coming up with blanks on Bradley. This has to be a case of a name change, and it must have occurred outside of California because the state’s database of application filings for name changes is pretty darn good. Unfortunately, California has nothing on the Warren Bradley we’re looking for.”
“Thanks, Holly. We’re both on the same page in believing that something stinks about all this, and it’s pretty clear at this point that Bradley played an active role in covering up his past. The big question is why?”
“When you or Eddie find out something nefarious about this guy, please let me know. And whatever you do, don’t tell the Ladies of Liberty until after they erect that statue. I want to be there when they have to tear it down.” Holly laughed at her own joke. “Ciao,” she added quickly and clicked off.
Rob stared at the first few paragraphs of the story he was trying to cobble together on his late columnist. After writing and then abandoning four story openings, Rob reasoned it was time to talk with Eddie.
On Sunday morning, they met for breakfast at a café in the small town of Larkspur. Being ten miles north of Sausalito, there was a very slim chance that they would run into any of their neighbors, let alone someone curious enough to listen in on their conversation.
“From everything I can put together, Bradley didn’t exist before he landed in Sausalito,” Rob said with a shake of his head.
Eddie smiled. “I’m starting to think poor Warren might have been a bad little boy. Maybe something—or more accurately someone—finally caught up with the great chef.”
“What do you guys do when you hit a wall like this? I mean, it’s got to be a name change or something like that, right?”
“Pretty likely. Every year, more about us ends up online. Bradley probably wanted to hide from prying eyes, and he probably started hiding before the Internet became a go-to resource. Unless you’re paying attention, there’s an awful lot of information about us that leaks out from social media and search engines. Of course, that wasn't the case back when Warren arrived in Sausalito.”
