The Gossiping Gourmet: (A Murder in Marin Mystery - Book 1) (Murder in Marin Mysteries) (7 page)

Grant turned to his right to
find the outstretched hand of that frumpish man with the unruly mustache. Grant
smiled and nodded. With pleasant smiles, both men turned back toward the
commission, who all nodded politely in return.

The two other guest attendees
were there to present proposed agreements for tent rentals and catering
services for the annual art gala. By the meeting’s conclusion, only Warren and
Grant were left as guests.

Ethel took Grant aside and
told him that Bingham, as she earlier had suspected, would retire after this
term.

“Please do consider getting
involved; we need some young blood in the mix, and you’ve got the credentials
to make a marvelous addition to the commission.”

Warren did not appreciate
what he was seeing and attempting to overhear.

“With all the cobblers I’ve
prepared for this group, I should be the next commission member,” he thought.
Regardless of wounded feelings, however, Warren reminded himself to smile as he
suggested to Grant that he help himself to some cobbler. Grant’s refusal,
patting his flat abs and saying that he had not yet had dinner, was one more
slight in Warren’s view.

At home, as they talked over cocktails,
they quickly realized that they had both come away from their social
interactions with different points of view.

Barbara sighed. “After seeing
the Sausalito Women’s League in action, it’s all too silly for me.”

Grant shrugged. His meeting
had left him considering the commission’s future potential. “The commission is
well-intentioned, and they have an idea of what they want to do. I think they
just need a little help getting there.”

“What are they hoping to
accomplish?”

“I think they see themselves
as a way of bringing greater attention to the fine arts that are already here
in Sausalito and Southern Marin. They have an art history here that runs pretty
deep, and there’s an old marine construction building at the north end of town
that now houses the studios of some twenty or so local artists. I had heard
about it, but never gave it much thought until tonight.”

“I’m surprised your radar for
emerging talent didn’t take you over there before now.”

“I think I’ve it switched
off, at least as it pertains to the marketing of fine art.”

“Well, I think it’s grand
that you’d like to get involved,” Barbara said, with what he thought sounded
like a hint of disappointment in her voice.

“We could get involved
together. There’s certainly a lot to be done.”

“I’ll think about it, Grant.
Your favorite part of the business was always cultivation of emerging artists.
What I enjoyed most was client cultivation—bringing collectors and artists
together. And even better, introducing people of means into the world of collecting.”

“Sweetheart, any time you
want to look at some of the galleries in San Francisco, to either work at or
affiliate with independently, I’m totally open to that.”

Barbara smiled, kissed Grant
on the cheek, and then passed her hand over his chest. “Wow, these pecs of
yours are getting harder by the week!” She moved her index finger around his
shoulders and down his strong arms. “All of this fresh air must agree with you.
You’re turning into a werewolf.”

“I don’t think it’s the fresh
air. It’s Ray, kicking my butt every time I try to slack off.”

“Well, I like the results.”

Barbara pulled Grant closer
and kissed him deeply.

“A girl could get carried
away by a guy like you.”

Inspired by her admiration,
Grant bent down wrapped his arms around the back of her thighs and lifted her
off the ground.

Barbara, in jest, slapped his
back and said, “Put me down, you brute.”

“Tarzan like Jane. Take Jane
to cave.”

“Alright, you beast, just
remember to be gentle with me…well, not too gentle.”

One month after he attended
his first meeting, Grant was invited to apply for Arthur Bingham’s vacated
position on the commission. Hearing that Ethel Landau had reached out to Grant,
Warren chose not to apply for the same seat. Grant was unopposed and selected with
little discussion. The other commissioners suggested that Ethel resume the
position she had held previously as the commission’s chair.

To the surprise of everyone
in the room, she said, “I’d like to nominate Grant Randolph for the position of
chair. I think he’s superbly qualified and would bring a new level of energy to
the commission.” The other three commissioners, who had long grown weary of the
demands of serving on the commission, happily deferred to Ethel’s suggestion,
and to the surprise of everyone in the room, Grant was suddenly the new chair
of the city’s art commission. It was an all but unheard of ascension,
considering that he was relatively new to the city and new to the commission.
But, of the many positions sought after by Sausalitans, service on the arts
commission was near or at the bottom of the town’s many political plums. You
did have a star turn one night a year during the annual art commission gala,
but a year’s worth of twice-monthly meetings more than negated that honor.

Warren repeated Ethel’s
comments about and praise for Grant in his column of that week, gritting his
teeth with each word he wrote. He had to satisfy himself with the thought that
the man he now thought of as “pretty boy,” would one day fall from the lofty
pedestal that Ethel had placed him upon. Warren never imagined how soon that
fall would come.

To Barbara’s amazement, Grant
really got into his work with the fine arts commission, of which his favorite
part was meeting the promising young artists who made up Sausalito’s Gate Six
Artist’s Cooperative, all of whom he encouraged to apply for his new program of
funding artists in residence.

Meanwhile, Barbara had to
come up with an acceptable excuse for ducking the offer to join the Sausalito
Women’s League. When Marilyn Williams, one of Alma Samuels’ lieutenants and a
charter member of the Ladies of Liberty, eventually did call, Barbara was
prepared to be perfectly charming—and completely dishonest.

“Oh, Marilyn, this is so
sweet of you to call…Yes, I had so much fun at the luncheon. But since I last
saw all of you, I’ve accepted a position with the Moss Gallery on Post Street,
in the city.”

Marilyn sounded like she was
getting ready to say something, so Barbara kept speaking.

“I’ve been so busy settling
into my new job and adjusting to the commute back and forth from the city. I
hope the invitation to the club will remain open so I may reapply when things
at my new job settle down.”

“Oh, absolutely, my dear,”
Marilyn assured her, although her tone hinted at her dismay. “Just let me know.
And I do have to tell you that I’ve been hearing so many good things about
Grant’s work on the arts commission. He’s making quite a name for himself with
all the right people.”

Barbara hummed and purred her
way through the rest of the conversation. During her time in town, she’d begun
to learn that warm welcoming smiles could turn into disapproving frowns with
one social misstep. Turning down the invitation to join the league was pushing
the envelope for anyone who wanted to remain on the right side of proper
society.

Even though it was a tiny
town, when compared to their lower Manhattan social set, neither of the Grants
appreciated being viewed as social outsiders, regardless of the arena they were
playing in. As for the position at the Moss Gallery on San Francisco’s Post
Street, her story was something of an embellishment. Barbara had interviewed
just two days earlier for the position of gallery sales associate with Anna
Ruth Moss, the seventy-two-year old founder. The Moss Gallery was considered by
most aficionados to be the city’s leader in both the purchase and the sale of
works by California’s diverse body of established and emerging artists.

Given her years of previous
experience in Manhattan, the nation’s most competitive fine arts acquisition
market, more than likely the position could be Barbara’s for the asking. What
had been a convenient excuse to avoid the vacuous delights of the Sausalito
Women’s League was perhaps a reasonable step forward in her life.

This was an omen, Barbara
thought.

She and Grant had decided
long ago not to go down the endless path of parenthood. While their choice had
never been doubted by either of them, it was more keenly questioned now that
they had stepped away from the daily demands of their own gallery and the
frenetic pace of Manhattan.

Both of them were still very
much in love with the picture book place they had chosen to call home. But now
that their cottage by the bay was looking just as they imagined it would one
day, the obvious question they both faced was, what next?

Plus, between Grant’s newly
found body building passion and his curatorial side emerging in his nearly
daily visits to the artist’s co-operative—not to mention his position on the
arts commission—their time together had transitioned from too much to perhaps
too little.

Anna Ruth Moss was delighted
to hear that Barbara Randolph wished to join her team. Barbara was equally
delighted that she would be reconnecting with the art world from a west coast
perspective.

Perhaps, best of all, three
days a week she would once again be surrounded by the vitality of a great city.

She missed Manhattan more
than she had ever imagined. While San Francisco and New York were as different
as Paris and London, it was that buzzing rhythm of a busy city center that gave
Barbara the feeling of being back home.

Grant was pleased with
Barbara’s choice of galleries, yet found himself asking repeatedly, “But you
are happy with our choice of Sausalito, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

“Oh, absolutely, Grant. I
can’t imagine a more idyllic place to live. But I do miss the gallery business,
and I need to get back to something that challenges me to be at my best. I’ll
be forty-three in a few months, and that’s a little young for retirement,” she
explained.

She could tell that Grant did
not like the sound of that. “Well, I’m forty-eight. You don’t think of me as
retired, do you?”

“Not exactly…”

Grant frowned. “Okay, maybe
in a sense I am, but I’m at least keeping busy.”

Barbara came close to saying
something, but held back. While Grant was certainly in the best physical shape
she had ever seen him in, the competitive business of fine art acquisition and
sales kept him sharp in ways that he simply was not anymore. There had always
been a lean hungry look in his eyes when he was about to make a significant
acquisition, knowing that he had several buyers who would eagerly compete
against each other to add a particular piece to their collection. That hunger
seemed to have all but vanished.

Like the campfire
extinguished by a small bucket of river water, all that was left were puffs of
steam hinting of what had once been there.

On some level, Grant knew
this too. It was the likely reason he had embraced his involvement in the
city’s small but thriving art scene.

It was a discussion about
their future that neither Barbara nor Grant was willing to have. With the
passage of time, Barbara wondered if Grant loved their new life too much.

Grant thought perhaps Barbara
did not love it enough.