The Gossiping Gourmet: (A Murder in Marin Mystery - Book 1) (Murder in Marin Mysteries) (15 page)

Holly, who could never resist
a pun, jumped in and said, “I’d be happy to lend you a
hand
, but we’ve
got another edition to get out.”

“Somehow, Holly, I just knew
you were going to say that,” Eddie muttered.

Rob frowned. “Why was there
no blood? I’ve got to figure that getting your hands whacked off would cause a
bloody mess.”

“The theory we’re working on
now is that Bradley was suffocated, most likely with a pillow, shortly after
midnight,” Eddie explained. “In all likelihood, the killer spent twenty or
thirty minutes rummaging through his place looking for something, then perhaps
wiping the place clean of any prints. Then, before he leaves, he decides to
take Bradley’s hands as a souvenir. Or maybe he didn’t want us to have his
victim’s fingerprints. I already checked and found there are no prints on file,
by the way.

“Now, remember, this all
happened approximately nineteen hours before you went to check on him. But, as
far as blood, Rob, dead people don’t bleed.”

“Yeah,” Holly added, nudging
Rob’s arm with her elbow. “Don’t you read any murder mysteries, pal?”

“No, Holly, I’m too busy
working.”

“Holly is right,” Eddie said.
“When the heart stops pumping, the blood that flows out of us quits. It turns
pretty quickly into a kind of thick goop and stays inside the arties and veins.
You can get some minimal leakage, depending on gravity, but that’s about it. In
all likelihood, Bradley’s hands were cut off ten minutes or so after his death.
And in Bradley’s house, gourmet chef that he was, there were several weapons
that could do the job. Most likely it was a…” Eddie paused and flipped open his
note pad, “it was a Victornix Forsheiner Rosewood Meat Cleaver, which we found
sitting on the kitchen counter. It looked almost spotless, but it was one of
many items we bagged for the lab team to take a closer look at.”

“Eww! Kind of like scalping
him, only different!” Holly’s eyes opened wide. She sat down at her computer.
In a moment, her screen filled with the cleaver maker’s product description,
which Holly enthusiastically read aloud: “A high carbon stainless steel blade
made to the highest standards by expertly trained Swiss craftsmen. Eww! This
product is ideal for cutting through joints and bones. Double eww!”

“Aren’t you enjoying this a
little too much?” Rob asked, half annoyed and half amused.

“I’ll tell you both this
much,” Eddie continued, “This killer was no amateur. A whack job, for sure—but
not a sloppy one. If his only aim was to kill Bradley, suffocation potentially
leaves no telltale signs. Unless there was a struggle, there’s a good chance he
might have gotten away with it. However, the house shows no sign of a fight and
no sign of forced entry. That being said, the hands were taken as souvenirs.
Or, perhaps in a brief death struggle, Bradley scratched the arms of his
assailant. Skin or fiber evidence can be hard to clean out from under fingernails,
so you could argue that the killer wanted to take the evidence with him.”

“Maybe the hands were taken
as some kind of cult thing, or a warning?” Holly murmured. Rob and Eddie
exchanged glances. They could tell Holly loved playing junior detective.

“Let’s not forget that the
killer took the time to dress up his victim and prop him up on the porch swing
like a department store mannequin,” Eddie said.

“Wow. This is really going to
stir up some shit,” Rob said, imagining increased ad sales for the paper as
long as this case dragged on.

“You’re very right, my
friend,” Eddie said, patting Rob on the back. “And I think this shit is going
to stay stirred for quite some time to come.”

A work week can pass quickly
when you’re putting out four different editions of weekly community newspapers.
Yet, it was hard for Rob to keep his focus on such major news stories as:
“Expansion of the Children’s Section of the Mill Valley Library Begins,” or
“Ross Common Landscaping Budget Goes Under a Second Review,” when, as Rob
expected, Sausalito was pulsating with the story of Warren Bradley’s demise.

By Friday afternoon, less
than seventy-two hours after the discovery of Warren’s body, Alma had sent a
letter to the
Standard
, co-signed by each member of the Ladies of
Liberty, demanding increased police manpower for the murder investigation.

“One of our community’s most
distinguished citizens has been cut down in his prime,” she wrote. “We are
bereft at the loss of a charming and gifted friend. Can we honestly believe
that any of us are safe in our homes while this deranged killer remains at
large? The lovely hills and beautiful vistas of Sausalito by day must not be
overtaken by the dark and menacing forces of night!”

Alma concluded dramatically
by borrowing from Shakespeare’s Hamlet. “This case of ‘murder most foul,’ must
be guided to a swift and satisfactory conclusion by our police and community
leaders. Their actions now will assure us or deprive us of the confidence and
trust we have placed in them.”

“Wow,” Holly said to Rob
while reading over his shoulder. “I guess we’ve got no shortage of mail for the
letters section this week. Half of them already want to know why the cops
haven’t arrested Grant Randolph by now.”

“The Internet has become this
era’s version of a lynch mob,” Rob said. “Let me see them. I’ve probably got to
run a couple of them, but I don’t want to add to the hysteria by running a page
worth of letters calling for Randolph’s head. The thing that worries me even
more is, right now, we don’t have much of a story beyond what the dailies
covered days ago.”

Just about everyone in
Sausalito—with the noteworthy exception of the police— had a theory about
Bradley’s slaying. Eddie had theories too. But because his job was to deal in
fact, not fantasy, he found himself on a frustrating ride that, to this point,
was taking him nowhere.

As was their usual custom, he
and Rob met Friday after work, at Smitty’s, to have a couple of beers and toast
the coming weekend.

They weren’t in much danger of
being overheard. It was a quiet time inside the poorly lit watering hole, which
catered mostly to old sailors and longtime Sausalito residents who preferred to
share a drink only in the company of fellow locals, as opposed to the myriad of
tourists who flooded the bars on Bridgeway during the weekends. In every sense,
it lived up to its reputation as a dive bar, and its local patrons wanted it
that way.

While it was half empty in
the late afternoon, in another four hours it would be packed and pulsing to
old-fashioned rock ‘n roll, blaring from the jukebox in the corner. The place
had the permanent scent of beer, perspiration, cheap perfume, and aftershave.

“No progress with Bradley, I
assume?” Rob asked.

“Not much. Some plausible
theories about the time and sequence of the murder, but killer and motive…all
pretty thin,” Eddie said, shaking his head and looking down in frustration.

“I’d love to come up with
something more than the dailies had over the last couple of days.”

Just as Rob suspected, as far
as the San Francisco media was concerned, the story had already lost most of
its allure. If not for the gruesome detail that the victim was missing both his
hands, the story would have died in less than twenty-four hours. But now, with
nothing new to report, the story was placed on the back burner.

After a long thoughtful
pause, Eddie said, “We’ve got some interesting pieces; we just don’t know how
they fit into the puzzle.”

“Like what?”

“Bradley had at least two
guests that night. One was Ray Sirica.”

“Whoa! That’s Randolph’s
pal—the one who wrote that great letter to the
Standard
a couple of
weeks ago complaining about Bradley. I loved it when he called Bradley, ‘the
gossiping gourmet.’ It certainly gave Holly and me a good laugh.”

“That’s the one,” Eddie said,
trying hard to hold back his own laugh. “I can only imagine the drama that
would have continued to cause
if Bradley had not been dispatched to that
great culinary institute in the sky.”

“So, who spotted Ray Sirica?”

“Around six-thirty on Monday
night, one of Bradley’s neighbors was walking his dog. He recognized Ray as he
drove past, and followed the car down to the end of Prospect as it pulled onto
Bradley’s deck.”

“How did you hear about it?”

“I rang all the neighbors’
doorbells, checking to see if I might get lucky. You never know when someone
sees something that they think is nothing, but it turns out to be something…or
they just don’t want to get involved, particularly in a murder investigation.”

“You think it might be a
break in the case?” Rob asked eagerly.

“No, newsboy,” Eddie said,
using one of his pet names for Rob. “But it’s something. When you don’t have
much, you’re happy to follow any scrap of information that comes your way.”

“Did Sirica come forward to
the police?”

“No. I went looking for him.
I interviewed him Wednesday afternoon at his home. He seemed a little uneasy. I
can see why. He goes up to plead with Bradley, as he explained, to ‘back off
his pal,’ and the next thing you know, the guy is found murdered.”

“Could Sirica have done it?”

“The timing is off. A
neighbor who was putting out the trash around nine that night saw the lights on
at Bradley’s place. A door or window must have been open, because he’s pretty
certain he heard voices and the sound of Bradley laughing. One more reason—Sirica’s
story holds up that he spoke to Warren for ten minutes, got nowhere, and then
went back home.”

“Does Sirica suspect
Randolph?”

“He didn’t say, but by the
way he winced, I think it’s pretty likely. Then again, half the pinheads in
town think that Randolph killed Bradley, particularly after that public
confrontation they had at opening night of opera in the park.”

“Trust me, if Karin and I
knew that was going to happen, we would have gone in spite of the music.”

“You and me both, Rob.”

“What else?” Rob asked, with
a hint of disappointment in his voice.

“Right now I—and our friends
at the Sausalito PD at the other end of Caledonia Street—have no more than
that. It’s not all that surprising. Bradley’s house is at the very end of a
poorly lit road, and the sight lines are lousy.” Eddie leaned in. “There was
one other thing. The ME suspects that death was suffocation, and that the old
boy never knew what hit him. Often, when a person has a pillow held over their
face, there will be signs of a struggle…bruising to the victim’s cheeks and
mouth, perhaps a broken nose. Most commonly, skin and hair of the killer under
the victim’s fingernails—evidence we obviously don’t have, as you know. And his
face doesn’t show any bruising, which means Bradley was sound asleep, drunk, or
likely both.

“What will you do about
Randolph?”

“For now, I’ll just keep an
eye on him. In the old west, a dispute like his with Bradley might have ended
in a gunfight. Today, it ends when both parties tire of exchanging pointed
barbs.” 

Rob was still hoping for
something he could go with for his coverage of Bradley’s slaying. In an effort
to loosen Eddie’s tongue perhaps just a little more, he offered, “Let me get
you another beer.”

Eddie happily agreed.

When two more beers were
delivered, Rob toasted to “Murder most foul.”

Eddie laughed “You can say
that again. Minus the victim’s hands, these aren’t usual circumstances we’re
dealing with. No facial wounds or contusions, that’s pretty surprising. But
there was still enough of an elevated blood alcohol level in Warren’s body to
indicate that he had been drinking before his death. However, the two empty
bottles of Chianti on the kitchen counter pretty much told us that.” Eddie took
a swig of his beer. “It’s possible that the suffocation was forceful enough and
the victim was in a deep enough sleep, possibly alcohol related, that it was
all over pretty quickly. Let’s put it this way, if Warren did become aware he
was being suffocated, it was most likely in the very last moments of his life.”

“Could there have been any
fibers of the bedding inside his mouth or nostrils?” Rob asked.

“A swab for fibers inside the
nose or mouth is pretty inconclusive. Most mornings, all of us have a fair
number of fibers on our lips, noses and mouths—from our bedding.”

“So, what you’re saying is
that every road leads to a dead end?” Rob asked.

“Not at all. But in the
absence of the kind of physical evidence that would make it an easier crime to
solve, a good investigator has to start constructing scenarios based on
plausible theories.”

“Are you boys discussing
murder without me?”

Both Eddie and Rob turned
around to find Holly Cross standing behind them. She was holding her usual
drink—a martini.

“Since when do you come to
Smitty’s this early in the evening?” Rob asked.

“Not very often,” Holly
admitted. “But I know you two have this little standing date every Friday after
work, so I thought I’d drop in. Room for one more?” Instead of waiting for an
invitation, she grabbed a chair from the table behind her and sat down.

“What is it with you and
murder?” Rob asked.

“Look, I’ve read Sue Grafton
from A to Z! Maybe I’ll have something to contribute here.” She took a dainty
sip—followed by a less dainty gulp—then leaned in conspiratorially. “So, are
you closing the circle, tightening the noose, ready to check the killer into
the gray bar hotel?”

“Who do you think you
are—Sausalito’s answer to Nancy Drew?” Eddie asked.

“Nah. I’m just a girl hoping
to enjoy a cocktail with a side of murder. So come on Eddie, spill! Poor Warren’s
soul is calling out for justice.”

“I told you both on Wednesday
that this one’s not going to be a slam dunk. But I was just explaining to Rob
that we’ve got some good theories—always an important first step in tracking
down a killer when all the obvious clues are just not there.”

“Goody.” Having reached the
end of her martini, Holly waved at the waitress, while pointing to her empty
glass.

“Hangar 1 vodka, two olives
and one onion,” Holly called out.

The waitress rolled her eyes.
“I know, Holly, I know!”

“Sounds like you’re a
regular,” Eddie said teasingly.

“I’ve been here once or twice
before.”

The proof was in how quickly
her drink appeared. “Here you go, doll, just the way you like it,” murmured the
waitress, as she put down the fresh martini in front of her.

Rob and Eddie exchanged
knowing glances.

Holly shrugged. “What can I
say? She’s a fast learner.”

Rob sighed. “So, Eddie, what
kind of scenarios are you considering?”

“Let’s go back to what we
logically know: high-quality meat cleaver or not, an elderly arthritic is not
going around whacking off the hands of their murder victims.”

“What does that tell ya?”
Holly asked, as she sucked on an olive.

“For starters, it tells us
that approximately half of Sausalito’s population did not commit this crime.”

That brought a shared snort
from both Rob and Holly.

“Let’s keep the obvious front
and center. In life, Warren was around a hundred and sixty pounds, and about
five-foot, nine. Dead bodies that size need a big, pretty strong guy to move
them around. And from the point that Bradley was suffocated and laid out on the
floor, it’s reasonable to assume that he had his hands chopped off, and then—”

Holly was just about to say
something, when Eddie jumped in and said, “Wait for it,” shaking his finger
back and forth. “And then dressed Bradley, or at least cleaned him up, carried
him outside, then placed and posed him on the back porch swing…that’s likely a
male with a strong back and in pretty good shape. I suspect he frequents the
gym, and has a particular fondness for strength-building exercises.”