The Gossiping Gourmet: (A Murder in Marin Mystery - Book 1) (Murder in Marin Mysteries) (23 page)

She kissed Rob on the cheek.
“I’m excited for you, hon. And, frankly, it would be nice to see an end to the
whole town’s hysteria over the guilt or innocence of Grant Randolph. I think
the Randolphs will be the happiest when all this craziness comes to an end.”

An hour later, Rob and Karin
were off in two different directions. She headed up 101 for Napa County, as he
drove across the Richmond Bridge, and then south, toward Oakland Airport.

He’d waited only a few
minutes in the “cell phone waiting area” when Eddie rang for pickup. Rob could
not remember a time he was so excited to see someone. All he could hope was
that this really was the big break.

“Good flight?” Rob asked
Eddie as he tossed his overnight bag and his briefcase on the back seat.

“That’s not what you drove
down here to ask me, Rob.”

“Gee, you really can see
right through me.”

“Let’s go over to
Francesco’s, right outside the airport off of Hegenberger. I think they open at
four. I’m starved, and I could go for some nice Italian comfort food and a
double Scotch.”

“I’ve got to wait until
then?”

“It’s five minutes from here,
and besides I’m not going miss the expression on your face when you hear this.
Hell, I might take a snap of your puss with my phone. I want to see if your
chin can actually fall all the way to the floor.”

“Okay, I won’t say a word
until we’re seated. Hopefully, in the meantime, my head won’t explode.”

“Shit, I hope not; you’re
driving.”

Eddie slid into one of the
restaurant’s leather upholstered black banquettes, and he let out a sigh of
relief. “I feel like I’ve been going nonstop for thirty-six hours.”

“Sounds like it was worth it,
though.”

“That’s an understatement.”
With a tired smile, Eddie waved down a waitress for, “A Johnnie Walker Black,
on the rocks. Make it a double,” he told her.

“Having the good stuff, I
see.”

“I deserve it.”

Rob waited impatiently,
sipping on water, while Eddie gulped his scotch and worked his way through a
plate of lasagna.

When, finally, he had only a
few bites left, Rob, who came only with an appetite for information, muttered,
“Okay, give! I’ve been holding my breath for hours by now—no, make that days.”

Eddie nodded, and put down
his fork. “I met with two of Benedict’s co-workers, the only two who are still
there on staff.” He paused. Benedict was, shall we say, eased out of his
position at NAU. There was quite a stink about that. He was living with a woman
named Elaine Hayden. They met at NAU; she worked in student services.”

“And?”

“She died, just a year after
Benedict moved in with her. It was a violent death, and the Coconino County
prosecutor’s office tried him for murder one, but based on the evidence, it was
perhaps an overreach. They probably would have had a better shot with the jury
if they had gone for a manslaughter conviction.”

“How did she die?”

“Broken neck. Fell down a
flight of steps in her own house.”

“Wow.”

“He claimed it was an
accident. The Flagstaff police and the county sheriff’s department had reason
to believe it was a homicide”

“How about the boys in the
pictures?”

“Turns out that the older one
in those two pictures was Hayden’s son, from a previous marriage. The younger
one was a foster kid who was placed in the house at the age of six, around
eighteen months before all this shit came down.”

“What made the cops think it
was anything more than an accident in the first place?”

“Just two weeks before she
died, Elaine Hayden went to child welfare services, claiming that Benedict had
molested both of her boys. Of course, Benedict denied everything. He insisted
that both boys fabricated the stories because he was strict with them, and it
was their way of driving a wedge between him and their mother.”

“Then what?”

“Child services brought in
therapists to talk with both the boys. The older one, James, who had just
turned twelve at the time, said he had been molested on and off during the time
Benedict lived in the home. But Topher, the youngest, was age seven; he denied
ever having been touched by Benedict. Interestingly enough, however, it was the
younger one who told investigators that the man we knew as Bradley had pushed
Hayden down the steps, but the defense shredded the kid’s story on the witness
stand.”

“What about the older
brother?”

“Bad luck for the prosecutor,
great luck for Benedict on that score. James was at a sleepover the night of
the incident. He would likely have been a much more convincing witness then the
little guy. He did testify, quite credibly from what I could tell, about the
molestation, but getting a murder one conviction on Benedict, based on a seven
year old foster kid who came from a very challenging background, wow, that’s a
tall order to pull off.”

“What a sad story,” Rob said.

“The jury deliberated for
four days, and then voted for acquittal. If it had been a hung jury, he could
have been tried again. Unfortunately, the prosecutor went for all the marbles,
and walked away with nothing. But, despite being acquitted, Benedict lost his
job.”

“Having been acquitted,
couldn’t he have sued NAU?”

“Yes. But I guess in this
case, he felt as if he just beat a hangman’s noose, and thought it was a better
idea to thank God he was a free man and just get the hell out of town and start
his life over again.”

“Where did he go after
Flagstaff?”

“Well, one of the guys in the
sheriff’s office took a particular liking to the boys, both of whom were placed
in separate homes after Hayden’s death. Like a lot of small counties, Coconino
has limited resources, but the sheriff did his best to keep tabs on Benedict.
The last he heard of Benedict, he was living a thousand miles east of
Flagstaff, in Tulsa, Oklahoma. That’s where I tracked down the name change he
filed to go from Benedict to Bradley.”

“Doesn’t law enforcement keep
a national database for child predators?”

“Yes, but remember, he was
acquitted of the murder. As for the molestation accusation, well, somehow, the
new name became his loophole.” Eddie sighed. “At least the kids were placed far
away from Benedict, regardless of what he did or did not do. Things calmed
down, new cases started up, and old cases began to fade into the background.
Flagstaff was glad to be rid of William Benedict. Most of them were not overly
concerned about where he went, as long as it was far away from them.”

“So, any idea what happened
to the kids?”

“Hayden’s son, the one who
was twelve at the time of her death, later died of a drug overdose. Poor kid.
From what I read in his file, he had a pretty miserable life after his mom
died. Went to live with grandparents, but got in with a bad crowd. I would love
to have spoken with him about William Benedict before he became the Warren
Bradley we knew.”

“What about the younger boy?”

“Poor kid bounced from one
foster home to another. By fifteen, he caught a break. He wound up in San Jose
with a really good family, and stopped acting out. He went to San Jose State,
studied criminology, and his foster care dad got him a position with the San
Jose police department. Could have been a happy ending, but…”

“But what?”

“You don’t know the name of
that troubled little seven year old boy. Remember the little Topher who got
chewed up by Benedict’s defense team? He decided to take the last name of his
San Jose family, Harding. He now goes by his given name, Christopher, you know,
Chris, as in Chris Harding.”

“What?” Rob, realizing how
loud he had said that single word, grimaced. Fortunately, before five in the
afternoon, Francesco’s was still pretty quiet.

“The new kid with the
Sausalito PD? You mean, Chris?”

“Si senor, one in the same,
Patrol Officer Chris”—he emphasized the last name—“
Harding
.”

For a few moments, Rob was
simply speechless. He mumbled in a low voice, “Oh, my God,” as he flagged down
their waitress and ordered a vodka tonic. “This is just incredible. I don’t
suppose there’s any chance this is an enormous coincidence.”

“Anything is possible, Rob.
You might get a call tomorrow from the Pope saying he just can’t keep the
church running without your help, but I doubt that’s going to happen.”

“So, what’s next?”

“Chris will most likely be
arrested Monday morning before going to work. A request for an arrest warrant
has to be presented to one of the county’s judges, and then I’ll have to
contact SPD, so that two officers can accompany me while I make the arrest, and
at least one of those officers will ride along with Harding while he is
processed through, and into, the county jail to await an arraignment hearing.

“Instead of going to the
suspect’s home, I could go to Sausalito police headquarters, but that might get
very messy. That many poorly trained officers standing around with firearms,
yikes! I’d hate to see the situation turn into a circular firing squad.”

Rob frowned. “Won’t going
through channels, as you put it, take time? What if he gets wind of the arrest?
He’s got a lot of buddies on the force, and none of them can keep their damn
mouths shut. He may vanish.”

“In the weeks since Bradley’s
killing, he has gone about his normal everyday life. My guess is that he thinks
he got away with this, particularly with about one third of the population demanding
Randolph’s arrest, and the Sausalito PD maintaining a twenty-four-hour watch on
the Randolph house. If Harding was going to run, he would have done so by now.”

“I guess you’re right about
that,” Rob said, as he felt his head spinning with how much he had learned in a
very short time.

“Oh, I don’t want to forget
to mention,” Eddie said, “you and I have another run to make early tomorrow.”

“Where now?”

“Mr. Bradley’s cottage, where
else? I think there is one little gem we might have missed.”

“What’s that, Eddie?”

“Oh, come on, Rob. You don’t
want me to take all the surprise out of it, do you?”

Before dropping Eddie off at
his house the two agreed to meet the next day at that same ungodly hour:
five-thirty in the morning. Rob ached at the thought of missing a chance to
sleep in, with the family out of the house and Karin not pushing him to get the
kids ready for church. But the excitement of closing the Bradley case—not to
mention the anticipated embarrassment all of this news would soon cause Alma
Samuels and the Ladies of Liberty—was more than enough to compensate Rob for a
few lost hours of sleep.

The moment Rob was alone,
visions of headlines danced in his head. “The Secret Life of Warren Bradley,”
was his favorite one for now, but there was plenty of time to tweak that. Sure,
if the arrest occurred on Monday, the dailies would beat him by a day with that
small part of the story.

But the story of William
Benedict was all his.

Rob got into bed by ten, and
set his alarm for five. He drifted off as excited as a kid the night before the
last day of school.

Holly was amazed. She had
sailed through all of Saturday in a cloud of bliss. Chris was not only a
gentleman; he was tender, considerate, and attentive to her needs.

Saturday night, the newly
minted twosome decided to leave their love nest to go to the movies, and
afterward to Marin Joe’s, a famous spot for great burgers and great drinks. The
two of them kissed and held hands while sharing the same side of the booth.

Holly felt certain she’d
found her Mr. Right.

For the first time, they
spoke about their jobs. Chris shared his view that Sausalito was nice, but a
big change from the fast-paced world of San Jose. “Let’s just say that your
shift went by a lot faster in San Jose than it does up here.”

“Do you miss it?” Holly
asked.

“In some ways, I honestly do.
You felt more like a cop there.”

“And in Sausalito?”

“I feel like a cross between
a school safety guard and a tour guide for visitors.”

Holly laughed.

Chris gave her a quick kiss.
“So, what’s it like, working at the
Standard
?”

“It’s pretty cool. It can get
crazy, but I’m used to the pace. And, let me tell you, the days go pretty fast
when something is going on all the time.”

“How about this Bradley
killing?” Chris asked nonchalantly. “Has that been keeping you busy?”

“You have to remember—we put
out four different publications every week that land in homes on different days
in different parts of the county. Bradley’s a huge story in Sausalito, but not
very important in the other towns.” She shrugged. “What do you think, who
knocked off the old busybody?”

Chris laughed. “Busybody!
That’s a good one. I heard some guy wrote a letter to the paper, calling him
the ‘gossiping gourmet.’ Down at the department, he was just a nice old guy who
made the whole department great lunches once a month.”

“Some people thought he was a
real pain in the ass.”

“Do you think this arts
commission guy did it?” Chris asked.

“I thought there was a good
chance of that at first, but I don’t know now.”

“What’s changed your mind?”

“My boss, Rob, has been
trying to put together a piece about Bradley’s life, but he’s having a damn
hard time finding out anything about him prior to his arrival in Sausalito,
which was about twenty-five years ago.”

“Must be frustrating. Maybe
the paper should just put the story aside, if your boss isn’t getting anywhere.
Sounds like you’ve got enough to do every week without having to play
detectives.”

“You know, sweetie, I think
he would do that if it wasn’t for Alma Samuels and her Ladies of Liberty
breathing down his neck.”

“Oh,” Chris frowned, deep in
thought, as he munched on a French fry. “I hear she’s got a lot of clout around
town. I know Chief Petersen hates it when she’s breathing down his neck.”

“Believe me, Alma deserves to
be whacked over the head with a shovel.”

“Wow, you’ve got a lethal
side to you! I better watch myself.”

Holly squeezed Chris’s leg as
she teasingly fed him one of her own fries, then leaned in and whispered
seductively in his ear, “Oh, you don’t know the half of it, baby. I can be a
dangerous lady when I want.”

“I’m starting to find that
out, and I think you’re turning me on. Let’s get back to my place.”

Holly signaled the waiter for
a check. Five minutes later, they were on their way back to Sausalito.

Rob woke to another
picture-perfect sunrise over the East Bay. He did some warm-up stretches while
waiting for Eddie to appear. Before long, the two of them were back following
the same circuitous route they had taken just six days before.

Jogging down the final half
mile along Prospect, Rob realized that in thirty minutes they had not passed a
single car, hiker, jogger, or dog walker.

“Wow, at six on a Sunday
morning,” Rob said, “this town is really dead.”

“Don’t you love it, man? I
think we might want to start doing this a few days a week,” Eddie suggested.

“Fine with me, just as long
as it’s not on a day when I can sleep in,” Rob muttered.

“Sorry, bro, but I’m hoping
we strike gold a second time.”

“May the gods of law and
order be on our side.”

Eddie winked. “We’re on a
roll, Robbie boy, we’re on a roll.”

Once inside, having  again
donned their surgical booties and gloves, Rob immediately said, “Okay,
Sherlock, what are you up to this time?”

“When we were last here, I
was hoping to find something substantial, so I kind of rushed through a lot of
other stuff. As I said to you, I can bullshit my way around why we’re here if
we get caught, but I would prefer not to have to do that.”

“And?”

“The last time we were in
this place, I quickly flipped through that big binder over there on the kitchen
counter next to the Cuisinart. It’s filled with recipes, alongside of which
Bradley scribbled a lot of little notes in the margins. It mostly looked like
names, dates, additions and deletions of different ingredients. It would have
been a lot to cover in a small amount of time, so I put the book back, and I
moved onto more promising hiding places, thinking that Bradley wasn’t going to
hide anything from his past in there. And then, I’m on the plane yesterday
flying back to Oakland, and I keep trying to remember what it was that Chris
Harding was telling us about Bradley at the reception after the memorial
service, and then it came to me: it was how much he enjoyed that caramel
chicken. Remember? Warren made it the day of the last luncheon he served down
at the Sausalito PD.”

“You’re right, Eddie. He did
talk about that chicken.”

“If he managed to get himself
invited for dinner, perhaps that’s what Bradley cooked. I want to see if he
scribbled anything in the margin alongside that particular recipe.”

“Shit. You really are smarter
than I ever give you credit for.”

“Thank you, my good man. Now,
go over to the door and keep an eye out for any of the neighborhood snoops,
while I spend a little time in the late master chef’s kitchen.”

“I’m on it, bro,” Rob said,
and positioned himself to the side of the weathered hinged French door.

Eddie said a little prayer,
and opened the aged binder. He turned the pages carefully, many of which had
yellowed over time and stiffened with the grease that inevitably was absorbed
by paper sitting so close to a kitchen range.

The sections all started with
a tab, but were not themselves arranged alphabetically. Through the C’s, Eddie
went page by page, past the Clams Oreganata, and the Clam Chowder, the Cous
Cous with Garbanzo Beans, and then a half dozen chicken recipes from the making
of chicken sausage to Chicken Parmesan. Nearly every page had a date on it.
Many of them had several dates. Eddie hoped that the book doubled as a kind of
diary, reminding Warren how many times he’d made a special recipe and often who
it was made for. Some notes said things like, “Alma’s favorite,” or “Women’s
League Holiday Luncheon.”

When he came to the page that
held the recipe for his popular Caramel Chicken, the last note was “Sausalito
PD,” and the date of that final lunch, but there was no date after that.

“Damn it, there’s nothing
here,” Eddie said pounding his fist down on the counter.

“Well maybe he never got the
chance to write it down.”

“Yeah, could be. Still it
would have been sweet to have had one last nail in the coffin.”

“Wait a minute,” Rob said
suddenly, “Harding also mentioned, ‘
pasta with veal, sausage and porcini ragu.’
”

“How the hell did you
remember that?”

“Because I thought it sounded
great and I suggested to Karin that we should try making that one night.”

“What the hell, it’s worth a
try,” Eddie said as he started searching again.

For several more minutes he
methodically turned over each page in the binder and then:

“BINGO,” Eddie said loudly.
Alongside his veal sausage recipe there was one last entry, “Chris Harding.” Underneath
Warren wrote the date. It was the night that he died.

“Something tells me you got
it,” Rob said.

Eddie pulled his smart phone
out of his nylon running jacket and snapped a photo of the page.

“Let’s get the hell out of
here,” Eddie said. “It’s time to get a warrant for Chris Harding’s arrest.”

When Rob walked back in his
front door just a few minutes after seven, he was no longer interested in
sleep. The sky was bright now, but the streets of Sausalito were still quiet.
The house was blessedly silent as well. Karin and the kids were likely still
tucked in and fast asleep at her folks’ place in Calistoga.

There were so many good
places to start his story. How should he explain to his readers the mystery of
Warren Bradley’s life and death? He was indecisive for a time, knowing there
were so many ways to begin. But, as he’d learned over the passing years,
turning out one story after another, there are times when you just start
writing and allow the story to take shape on its own.