The Gossiping Gourmet: (A Murder in Marin Mystery - Book 1) (Murder in Marin Mysteries) (16 page)

Rob was about to ask, but
Holly, who was perched at the edge of her chair, beat him to it. “So, knowing
that, where do you go from here?”

“It’s likely to be a long
slog, but we’re going to have to dig a lot deeper into Bradley’s life and learn
more about everyone he knew. Remember: the one saving grace in the business of
murder investigations is that nearly every victim knew their killer.” Deep in
thought, Eddie folded his cocktail napkin in half. “We have no evidence of a
break in, and the place wasn’t tossed. In fact, while he didn’t own much
outside of all his pots and high-end cooking utensils, none of his valuable
possessions appear to be missing. His wallet was in his top drawer with
one-hundred and twenty dollars inside. And there was an old but rather pricey
watch sitting next to it.”

“Nothing was taken? How about
his hands?” Holly chirped.

“Yes, the hands,” Eddie said.
He looked as if he was about to say something, but stopped.

The silence sat heavy between
them.

Rob and Holly looked at each
other, then asked in unison: “And the hands?”

Eddie shrugged. “It may have
just been a diversion.”

“Or maybe,” Rob said slowly,
“It was a statement or a warning.”

“Warning?” Holly asked.
“About what?”

He shook his head. “Who the
hell knows?”

“As long as I have you master
sleuths here, I want to bring something up.” Eddie leaned closer. “One of the
items we took from Bradley’s place was his laptop.”

“Do the cops usually do
that?” Holly asked.

“It’s pretty standard now,
given that people keep so much information on their computers. We would have
looked at his smart phone, too, if he had one, to check his calendar. We were
hoping he kept a calendar on his computer. The program was there, but he never
used it. His cell phone had no numbers, either going in or out, that we could
identify—except for two. Both were received from pay phones in Sausalito. We
got his home phone’s records as well. All the numbers in and out were
identified and cleared. You guys wouldn’t believe how many of the calls went
back and forth between Alma Samuels and Bradley, not to mention some of the
others in her clique—Bea Snyder, Robin Mitchell, the usual suspects.”

“It was pretty obvious that
he was their errand boy,” Holly said with a giggle.

“What about those pay phone
calls to his cell?” Rob asked.

“One was from the tiny
grocery on Caledonia Street. The other came from the Bridgeway Café. You both
know, I assume, that there are only a handful of those old pay phones left
anywhere in town. It’s merely guesswork at this time, but I think there’s a
reasonable chance that the killer made both of the calls. One of them was made
to Warren’s cell early on the afternoon he was killed. The other was made a
couple of weeks earlier.”

“That’s pretty interesting,” Holly
said, as she pulled her chair even closer.

“Warren had planned a dinner
for two. The killer made no attempt to remove the evidence of that. The dishes
had all been washed and put in the drainer, but unless he used two wine
glasses, two dishes, two forks and so on, Warren was not alone for his last
supper. Not to mention the voices that the neighbor heard around nine that
night.”

“Does it add up to anything?”
Rob asked, still desperately hoping for a story angle.

“Not yet, Rob. But it helps
us in the construction of some interesting theories, the biggest of which is
that the killer was probably not an amateur—and at the very least, no dummy,
either. Murders that are the result of, say, an argument, would never be as
methodical as this. Crimes of passion generally are pretty sloppy. If the
killer used a pay phone, my guess is that he or she knew that, after Bradley
turned up dead, checking his phone records would be one of the first things the
cops did.”

“Maybe the killer’s cell
wasn’t working. If so, a pay phone was the only alternative,” Holly suggested.

“Sure, that’s always
possible. But it would be a lot more credible if the other call from a pay
phone wasn’t made two weeks earlier. Most phones today can go months, or even
years, without receiving a pay phone call. Bradley got two in two weeks—and one
of those calls just hours before he was killed.”

“Why would that matter?” Rob
asked.

“We continue to believe that
Warren knew his killer. Since both pay phone calls originated in Sausalito, the
killer probably lives or works in or near Sausalito.”

“This is all sheer
speculation,” Holly said, looking disappointedly at her now-empty martini.

“Absolutely. I call it theory
development. Then again, unless you have a killer who staples a business card
to the victim’s sleeve, in the absence of actionable evidence, like prints,
tissue samples under a victim’s fingernails, and so on, educated guesswork is
where you have to begin.”

“And what about the laptop,
what did you find there?” Rob asked.

“Remember when you told me
that Bradley left a phone message about his column being late, but he was
certain that he’d have it to you well before the next day’s noon deadline?
Well, here it is,” Eddie said, as he pulled a folded printed sheet of paper
from his inside jacket pocket.

Rob’s eyes widened as he
opened the gossiping gourmet’s very last “Heard About Town” column.

Holly, who said, “Holy shit!
I’ve got to see this!” jumped up and ran behind Rob to look over his shoulder.

Both of them read the column
in silent amazement:

“Much has been said in the
past two weeks about the disappointing behavior of Fine Arts Commission
Chairman-Elect Grant Randolph. His arrest by police on suspicion of spousal
abuse has no doubt shocked many in our quiet and tight-knit community. While it
now appears clear that Mrs. Randolph has decided not to pursue the matter, it
is nonetheless shocking, and greatly discomforting, that an individual holding
an important position in our fair city's cultural life has been brought
handcuffed to county jail, facing possible charges of assault and battery…”

Both Rob and Holly were
transfixed by Warren’s final assault on Randolph—right through to its closing
line in which he suggested that it was time for his fellow art commissioners
who, “value the dignity of each and every individual, to rise up and expel this
viper from our midst!”

As usual, it was Holly who
broke their silence. “Wow, the guy could really write when he put his mind to
it.”

“What was the computer time
stamp on this piece?” Rob asked.

“Six-thirty-nine on the night
he was killed,” Eddie answered.

“So, maybe he called Randolph
for comment, and he came up to the house and killed him,” Holly suggested, and
then added, “Have you ever seen that guy? He’s jacked! If they lock him up and
throw away the key, I wouldn’t mind being his cellmate.”

“Not so fast, Miss Drew,”
Eddie said. “It’s pretty unlikely that Randolph shared dinner and two bottles
of wine with Bradley before cutting off the hands that had used a keyboard to
torment him.”

Holly, who by now was two
martinis into her evening and feeling no pain, picked up her bag and said to
Eddie, “You’ve got your theory, and I’ve got mine.”

As they watched her exit,
Eddie turned to Rob and said, “Holly is such a great character. She fits in
perfectly with all the other wing nuts in this town.”

Alma rarely called Rob. In
truth, they both knew she did everything she could to pretend he and the
Standard
did not exist.

All the more reason for his
shock when he picked up his telephone and found Alma at the other end of the
line.

“Poor dear Warren’s memorial
service is at ten o’clock sharp, Saturday morning,” she said, without even so
much as a
how are you
let alone
a good morning
. “I know how much
he meant to you—or I should say, to the
Standard
,” she said knowingly.
“Heavens! If not for his column, I presume there would be no reason at all for
the paper to exist! That being said, I presume you’ll want to give a eulogy at
his memorial service.”

Rob’s first instinct was to
reply in an Eastern European accent, “You must got wrong number,” and hang up.
He winced at the thought of attending a Ladies of Liberty farewell to their
dearly departed, but he knew that there was no graceful way for him to turn
down the invitation. Besides, this was a rare opportunity to prove to his
detractors that he was a responsible and established voice of reason for what
was often a discordant community.

Saturday was his one morning
to sleep in—his usual weekly gift to himself—but he knew it would needlessly
offend the Ladies of Liberty if he declined the offer.

“Yes, that would be fine.
I’ll see you—”

She hung up even before he
completed his goodbye.

Friday night after dinner,
Rob hastily put his comments regarding the late columnist down on paper, then
read them to Karin as she washed and dried the dishes.

“Whatever you want to say is
fine, dear,” Karin said, only half paying attention to Rob’s carefully crafted
remembrance. “Honestly, Rob, the guy always gave me the creeps, the way he went
around getting into everybody’s business…exchanging pot roasts and fruit
cobblers—for gossip! You know, it wouldn’t surprise me if he knew a little too
much for his own good.”

Later on, when they had both
gotten into bed, Karin turned to him and said, “Hey, maybe that’s why the killer
chopped off his hands! Maybe it was a warning to others to be careful about the
things they write.”

“Eddie and I talked about
that. Of course, Eddie thinks if that was the case, I might be the next one to
get the axe.”

They both shared a good
laugh, but as they turned out their nightlights, they wondered if they had
indeed locked the back door. Rob had almost drifted off to sleep when he
remembered something Eddie had said at Smitty’s: “Nearly all victims know their
killers.”

The idea was tantalizing
enough to keep Rob awake well past midnight.

Warren Bradley’s memorial
service was being held at the old Presbyterian Church at the top of Excelsior
Lane. It was one of those intimate wood structures, of which there were many in
Sausalito that had a Thomas Kinkade fantasy quality about them.

The crowd that turned out was
large enough that half of the mourners—those who arrived after nine-thirty—had
to watch the service on two large video monitors in the church’s basement
reception hall.

The Ladies of Liberty led the
effort to make the service as memorable as possible. Ethel and Marilyn were in
charge of floral arrangements for the church and the musical interludes. Bea
and Robin were in charge of organizing the potluck brunch reception that was
planned for after the service. Tissue boxes were tastefully placed throughout
the church, along with enlarged pictures of Warren: stirring a sauce, pulling a
roast out of the oven, decorating a cake, decanting a wine, and finally one of
him poised over his laptop’s keyboard, ready to strike.

Sausalito is a small
community. In New York, Dallas, Los Angeles, and a dozen other mega cities, a
killer can vanish into a crowd. But that was harder to do in a town of only
seven thousand souls.

I supposed that’s why Eddie
is here, too, Rob reasoned, as the two men exchanged the nods of acquaintances
as opposed to lifelong friends.

Rob had just come up to the
podium when he noticed that Holly was also there, tucked into a small space by
the church’s door. Her eyelids were half closed. Obviously, she also wasn’t
used to being up at this hour on a weekend. Now, Rob was certain that his
dogged production manager had become a dogged amateur sleuth.

“Warren Bradley brought
something special into our lives,” Rob began, not really certain what that
“something special” was. “His loss leaves a void in our lives. A void that will
not be easily filled.”

Rob noticed Alma and the rest
of the Ladies of Liberty dabbing the corners of their eyes with lace
handkerchiefs and nodding approvingly.

Rob had long been accustomed
to their disapproving glances every year at City Hall’s annual holiday season
gathering, or, individually, as they passed him on the street and pretended not
to notice him. Sometimes, it was the exact opposite. Last year at the annual
July 4
^th
picnic, they watched him like hawks, then whispered and
frowned as he passed by with his children.

“Like many of you, I always
enjoyed reading his column in the
Standard
,” he said, as he looked
toward the back of the church and saw Holly rolling her eyes and mouthing,
Oh
please!

Rob shifted his gaze so that
she was out of his sightline. The last thing he needed was to burst out
laughing.

“His love of life showed up
in everything he did, from all his volunteer work, to his loving preparation of
some of the best gourmet dishes many of us have ever had the privilege to
sample.”

Rob told of those times when
Warren would stop by the office with leftovers from a dinner he had served
guests the night before. “Warren, always generously thinking of the rest of us
at the paper, would call and say, ‘Don’t go out for lunch.’”

Rob knew this was Warren’s
way of angling for more space for his column, or a bigger byline, or perhaps
the chance to confirm or deny some gossip he had heard while buzzing about
town.

“In our grief,” Rob said,
coming to a conclusion, “let us take time to be thankful for a life that
enriched us as individuals, and greatly enriched our community. I’ll always
think of Warren as preparing a gourmet dinner for the many people who loved him
and who he loved in return. It is unlikely that any of us will meet someone as
unique and as gifted ever again.”

“Thank God,” Holly mouthed
silently for Rob’s benefit.

Personally, Rob didn’t think
it was a strong ending, but each one of the Ladies of Liberty made it a point
at the reception to go up and thank him for his “thoughtful and lovely words.”

Bea, a woman who wore a dour
expression every day of the year, walked over to Rob and said, “Thank you for
being here for Warren today. One of the very last times I spoke to him, he
said, ‘You have to take certain risks as a journalist if you’re ever going to
get the job done.’ I’ll always think of him when I see a man or a woman in your
profession risking their personal safety so that the rest of us can live in a
better world.”

“Yes…right,” Rob said, as he
bit his lip to keep from smiling over the idea that Warren was anything like
the reporter that Bea had just described. It didn’t surprise him that the
comment was out of proportion, or that it carried the obvious subtext that
Warren’s reporting on Grant Randolph had somehow led to his murder…a line of
reasoning he thought the ladies must be spreading to anyone willing to listen.

At the same time, Rob could
not help feel pleased by what he viewed as a momentary peace with his principle
detractors.

He was in mid-bite of a piece
of chocolate cake when Holly tugged at his sleeve. “Jeez, Rob. You were
shoveling it a bit thick up there, weren’t you?”

“Would you have preferred if
I got up there and called him an officious little snob with an overinflated
sense of himself who had a bad habit of airing other people’s dirty laundry?”

“That would have been a good
start.”

They both snickered at the
thought, then Holly stood on her toes and whispered in his ear, “I’m thinking
the killer is in this room! How about you?”

“That would be my bet,” Rob
said, as he returned the smile of one more of the Ladies of Liberty.

Holly scanned the room. “So,
let’s see…how about Randolph’s neighbor, Ray Sirica?”

“A little old, don’t you
think?”

“Yeah, but the guy works out
like five days a week! He may be in his fifties, but he’s still built like a
tree trunk. I don’t think he’d have any trouble propping Warren up on that
porch swing.”

Rob looked over at Sirica,
who had come without Debbie to the service. While he never gave a man’s shape a
second thought, he could appreciate Holly’s point. He had a benign smile, but
there was a certain air about him that suggested he could easily snap a man’s
neck if he felt it needed snapping.

“And, of course, that letter
he sent in about Warren spreading ‘half truths’ regarding the incident between
the Randolphs and saying, ‘none of us would want to be placed in the crosshairs
of the gossiping gourmet,’” Holly said, as she used air quotes. “I don’t know
him very well, but I wouldn’t want to have that guy pissed off at me.”

“How about the Randolphs
leaving for New York the morning after Warren’s body was found?” Rob asked.

In the middle of their
exchange, Karin walked in and asked, “What are you two doing? You look thick as
thieves.”

There was no jealousy in
Karin regarding Rob and Holly’s relationship. “Those two have been comrades
under fire for many years,” Karin told friends. She referred to Holly as Rob’s
office wife, and Karin knew better than most the stress of the job, having
worked alongside Rob prior to starting a family. “Believe me,” she explained to
any friend who asked, “Rob needs a woman to keep him in line, both at the paper
and at home.”

“We think there’s a good
chance that Warren Bradley’s killer is in this room at this very moment,” Holly
whispered in Karin’s ear.

“Really?” Karin said. “So,
you’re both going into the detective business as a side line?”

“No, sweetheart, but we’ve
bought into Eddie’s supposition—that Warren knew his killer. We’re thinking he
might be here, you know, hiding in plain sight,” Rob explained.

At that moment, Eddie came
over and joined the three of them.

“See any suspicious looking
characters?” Eddie asked Holly.

She gave a short laugh and
said, “If you ask me, they
all
look pretty suspicious.”

Chief Petersen cleared his
throat as he walked up and reached out his hand, “You did a good job, Rob.”

“These occasions really do
bring people together,” Holly whispered into Karin’s ear.

“Thanks,” Rob said. He thrust
out his hand and shook Petersen’s, who in turn greeted Eddie, Karin and Holly.

Flanking Petersen were patrol
officers Chris Harding and Steve Hansen.

“He was a very nice man,”
Chris said, as he also shook hands with Rob and Eddie. After introductions, he
nodded to Karin and Holly.

“We’re still talking about
that great caramel chicken he made for us a couple of weeks back,” Harding
said. “Gosh, that was good. Not to mention his
pasta with veal, sausage and porcini ragu.
”

“Yeah, that man really knew
how to cook,” Hansen added.

Rob was tempted to point out
that the only thing he did better than cook was to spread rumors about his
neighbors, but he kept that to himself.

“I suppose you’re going to do
a big piece about Warren and his death in next week’s paper,” Petersen said,
causing Rob to wonder if he was fishing to see how he would approach the story.

Obviously, Petersen was
hoping that this wouldn’t turn into a “Sausalito PD has once again dropped the
ball” story.

Or, in this particular case,
dropped the body.

“You know, in a murder
investigation, we’re pretty much sidelined. We don’t have the staff or the
resources to handle something like this.” Hansen and Harding, who, like
Petersen, were in dress blues, smiled wisely, and nodded in unison. “That’s why
we’re thankful to get the assistance of Eddie here and his department.”