The Gossiping Gourmet: (A Murder in Marin Mystery - Book 1) (Murder in Marin Mysteries) (20 page)

They climbed up and sat down
on the rock, which had been warmed by a noonday sun. As they stared out at a
vista that included tree-covered hillsides and distant views of the Pacific,
Rob said quietly, “Remember when we used to come up here with Trevor and Alex
to smoke pot?”

Eddie inhaled the fresh
mountain air. “We were definitely 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.” He laughed. “It’s amazing to think
how many things we did as a kids that you would never want your own kids to
do.”

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

“It’s about the Bradley
killing, right?”

“Bingo.”

“Whatever it is, Eddie, we’ve
been like brothers for most of our lives. Just tell me, and I’ll put into print
only what you think will help solve the case.”

“Thanks, bro.” Eddie’s smile
was one of relief. “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 pals with the guys
in the ME’s office for a long time. They can be your best friends in a murder
investigation, believe me.”

“Yeah…and…”

“It’s about a 99 percent
certainty 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—as in that one percent chance—that our killer would be
left handed, but still use his right hand to do that job.”

Rob shook his head. “How does
the ME’s office get to keep a gem like that to themselves?”

“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 hold to the public. If you
eliminate the ninety percent of right handed individuals, and you consider the
upper body strength of our killer, then if I’m right and Warren knew his
killer, as over nine out of ten victims do, our suspect pool 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 just increases the chance of that little gem
getting out to the general public.”

“Cool, Eddie. I could not agree
more. And now for the sixty-four thousand dollar question: where do I come in?
And how is it that you know that Randolph is not left-handed?”

“Let me answer the last
question first. We went through the files of some previous art commission
meetings. The powers that be at city hall, obviously hoping that we were
closing in on Randolph, were only too happy to help. Some of Randolph’s
handwritten notes are in the file. And there are a slew of photos of the
commission at work…several of which show Randolph writing with his right hand.”
He smiled. “As for the other part of your sixty-four thousand dollar question,
you’re a damn good investigator, whether you realize it or not, and I’m going
to need an extra set of hands—no puns, please—to cover the possible suspects
and motives.”

“How many are there?”

“Every bone in my body
continues to tell me that Bradley’s killer lives and/or works in town. Bradley
ate and drank the minutiae of life in Sausalito. I suspect he either knew too
much, or said too much, about one of his neighbors. Everyone is looking at his
or her favorite suspect, which, as we discussed before, is fine with me. We
don’t need to do anything to spook the real killer away. The longer these
people keep their focus on Randolph, the better.”

“So, what do you want me to
do?”

“You’re going to be my go-to
guy for in-depth information. The more we can learn about Bradley’s life, the
closer we should get to finding 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 turning over his past,
hopefully some actionable facts will fall into place. There are only a handful
of people—like you, me, and Karin—who grew up in Sausalito, living our whole
lives in this tiny fishbowl. But the majority of people in most Marin county
towns arrived ten, twenty, or thirty years ago. Bradley came to Sausalito
twenty-five plus years ago. We need to know more about the guy before that
time.”

“I’m fine with all this, if
you think I can help,” Rob assured him. There are a lot of people in town who
would string up Randolph and be done with it if they had the chance.”

“Fortunately for him, this
isn’t the wild west anymore.”

Rob chuckled. “That’s a good
thing, since nosy journalists didn’t have a very long life expectancy in the
gold rush days either.”

“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 take a closer look at those columns? I’m sure Randolph isn’t the only
one who would have liked to choke that little busybody. We’ll probably follow a
lot of leads that go nowhere, but hopefully we can pick up one thread that
causes this whole damn thing to unravel.”

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

“My guess is that is the
real
sixty-four thousand dollar question.”

Rob couldn’t help but feel
excited. And the more he thought about it, the more certain he was that Eddie
was right to keep everything, for now, between the two of them.

“If there are any leaks, it
could crush anything we’re working on and bring us back to square one,” Eddie
reminded him. “And, by that, I mean everyone, Karin, Sharon, and particularly
that super sleuth assistant of yours, Holly.”

While it was true that most
of Rob’s work would bore a crime reporter to distraction, it was also true that
he wasn’t a complete stranger to the persistent and patient work of an
investigative reporter. He had uncovered several cases of misappropriation of
funds in city and county agencies, like that of a Tiburon councilmember taking
kickbacks in exchange for the right votes, and a Mill Valley council member who
was graciously given the use of a Lake Tahoe home by a local developer whose
projects she faithfully voted to approve.

For this case, Rob began with
the investigative work that involved the least legwork, and the most reading.
He told Holly that he was going to do a retrospective on Warren, and asked her
to e-mail him the file containing all of Bradley’s past work.

In the evenings, and over the
next few days, he scanned all of the two-hundred-and-ninety-six “Heard About
Town” columns, including the last published prior to his death, which led with
the headline, “Additional Concerns Surface over Art Commission Chairman, Grant
Randolph.”

Looking at column after
column raised regrets in Rob’s mind as to why he published Warren’s column for
as long as six weeks, much less six years. But as he knew all along, this was a
marriage of convenience, similar to arrangements he had made with other
community reporters in Mill Valley, Ross, and other small towns in Marin
County.

Warren, however, took
cattiness to extremes, which might have been a reflection of the uniquely sharp
elbows found in Sausalito society.

Most of Warren’s items and
columns dealt with his musings about “modern day life,” or his mentioning
special birthdays, never missing those of Alma Samuels, Bea Snyder, Ethel
Landau, Robin Mitchell, or other Ladies of Liberty superstars. He also covered
a rundown of the highlights of various Sausalito Women’s League
events—particularly the annual holiday follies—and coverage of the endless game
of musical chairs for seats on the town’s boards, commissions, and the grand prize,
the city council, were all finely ground grist for the gossip mill.

Every now and then, Warren
unsheathed the cutting edge of his words, turning his column into a weapon, as
opposed to idle chatter.

In the column’s second year,
Warren fired directly at a recently elected member of the city council, who, in
a nasty encounter with one of his apparently disappointed supporters, suddenly
slapped her in the midst of a heated exchange. The gentleman doing the slapping
called it nothing more than “an admonishing pat on the cheek.”

The one on the receiving end
of that “pat” called it a “hideous act of violence.”

Subsequent columns made it
apparent that Warren’s mailbag was overwhelmed with demands for the young
councilmember, Robert Allan, to resign. The man did just that, and soon after
moved out of town. His departure caused Warren, in his usual biting fashion, to
wonder out loud, “Will Mr. Allan be missed?”

It was unlikely that Allan
was driven to murder Warren, but this was certainly a name to be added to
Eddie’s list.

The following year, in an
event 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 gym equipment for “our brave men and women of the Sausalito
Fire Department.” In his usual style, he stopped just short of making an actual
accusation, and used the comments and concerns of others to help build his
case—often without attribution.

Writing, for example,
“sources who wish to remain anonymous have told this reporter that…”

At first, Kahn 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,” who she went on
to refer to as, “a mean-spirited little man.”

Her decision not to pursue
Bradley could have been for a number of reasons, but the two most likely were
that she did pocket some of the raffle money, or she did a lousy job of keeping
all her ticket stubs alongside of accurate running totals. Having realized
that, in a libel suit, it is the burden of the accuser to provide evidence that
there was no basis for Bradley’s claims, she was left with no logical choice
but to live under the cloud hanging over her, thanks to the thoughtless actions
of Hurricane Warren.

In his notes, Carrie earned
another nomination for Eddie’s list of suspects.

And, of course, there were
others, all of whom Rob concluded were likely suggested for Warren’s court of
public opinion by his patroness Alma Samuels and/or her lieutenants.

When Rob finished reading of
all the columns, he thought, “If Warren Bradley was alive today, I’d dump him
and his column!” Too often, he chose to look the other way. Perhaps if he had
not, Bradley would not be dead today, and a number of people who acted
carelessly or impetuously would not have been exposed to Warren’s form of
public humiliation.

Rob knew to keep that quiet
for now. Having picked up nothing that would logically drive one of the injured
targets of Warren’s columns to commit such a violent murder, it was time for
step two: Who was Warren Bradley before he moved to Sausalito?

When Rob called up Alma and
explained he’d like to interview her for a Warren Bradley retrospective, she
was utterly delighted. Without hesitation, she suggested that Rob come up and
join her for tea at four that afternoon.

Rob was certainly familiar
with the Samuels’ mansion, and the lovely piece of property on which it stood.
Nevertheless, when he rang the doorbell and Louise showed him into the waiting
room, he was greatly impressed with his surroundings.

Alma entered, and reached out
for 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 sly 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 simply
fade from memory. I, and my friends in the Ladies of Liberty, have been talking
about erecting a statue in his honor, in Vina Del Mar Park. Perhaps a bust on a
tall pillar. There are many groups, charities, and organizations in Sausalito
that I’m certain would join our cause.”

Rob hid his discomfort at the
thought of such a tribute, particularly after he had just read nearly three
hundred of Warren’s columns. Perhaps half of the town would like a bronze bust
on a marble pillar, while the other half would happily settle for his head on a
spike.  

Alma thanked Louise for the
tray of tea and cookies she had brought and placed on the antique coffee table
between them.

“Now, Rob, fire away. I’m
hoping you do a very thorough job in making Warren come alive again for
everyone who knew him.”

“I hope so, too. Let me begin
by asking if you remember when you first met Warren.”

“I’ve been thinking about
that; I was certain you would ask. My best guess is that it was approximately
twenty-five years ago—or perhaps a little more.”

Rob nodded. “Then that would have
been close to the time he settled in Sausalito, but perhaps it was a little
later. I’m also uncertain as to where he lived before that. 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 was at either place.”

“I believe he was over
seventy at the time of his death.”

She nodded. “That’s my
understanding as well.”

“I reread all his columns to
see if he mentioned his childhood, or his life before Sausalito, but
unfortunately, he never did. My guess, however, is he grew up back east. Did he
ever discuss with you where that was?”

“I’m sorry, Rob, I don’t
know. 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 never thought to ask him
about 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. When they got to the topic of Warren’s columns, Alma was clearly
upset. “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, what I call a truth teller.”

Realizing that the
conversation had devolved into a series of endless homilies, and stories about
Bradley’s “extraordinary generosity,” and his “remarkable culinary skills,” Rob
thanked Alma for her hospitality and generosity.

But before he could make a
hasty retreat, Alma took his hand in both of her hands and, staring intently up
at the smile he had placed and kept upon his face, she said, “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. I can’t imagine what the loss of a
second 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 be able to set aside the frustration of blind
alleys and lost time and keep moving forward.

On the short winding drive
back down to Princess Street, Rob thought about his next move. At least one
benefit, however, came out of the Alma meeting: he suspected that, on some
level, she, too, was uneasy with the thought that her beloved Warren entered
her close circle of friends without bringing a past.

From Ethel Landau to Beatrice
Snyder, and from Robin Mitchell to Marilyn Williams, Rob came away with a lot
more of nothing.

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 of help in “any way that
he could…” with those causes that were nearest and dearest to the league’s
members’ hearts.

Warren Bradley, to this
point, was an impenetrable mystery.

On Friday afternoon, Eddie
had to work a late shift. Once again, he bowed out from their standing
end-of-the-week meet-up at Smitty’s. Before leaving the office, Rob asked Holly
if she wanted to join him. 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.