The Gossiping Gourmet: (A Murder in Marin Mystery - Book 1) (Murder in Marin Mysteries) (8 page)

Warren made it his mission to
keep a careful eye on both Barbara and Grant.

His seemingly innocent patter
would go something like this: “Have you met the Randolphs? They bought the old
McFadden home, up on Bulkley. They seem very nice. I’ve been told that he ran
an art gallery in Manhattan. In fact, Grant Randolph has become chair of the
art commission. I understand he has some exciting ideas.”

Warren would seed a
conversation the way farmers seed a cloud—drop enough words and ideas, and you
may be delighted to find that it’s suddenly raining information. Most of his
prodding would go nowhere. But there were those unexpected moments when a small
investment in time led to an unanticipated reward.

“I don’t know if I much care
for Barbara Grant,” Marilyn Williams said. “We invited her to a lovely luncheon
at the league, but then she turned down our offer of membership.”

“That wasn’t very nice of
her,” Warren said sympathetically. “Did she tell you why she didn’t want to
join?”

“Something about starting a
new job in the city at a place called Moss Gallery.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of the place.
Anna Ruth Moss is the owner. She’s one of the grand dames of San Francisco’s
Presidio Heights.”

Few things raised the ire of
the Ladies of Liberty more than the mention of a Bay Area neighborhood with
more expensive real estate than that of Sausalito. 

Warren was a walking
directory of the Bay Area’s wealthiest and most influential citizens.

“Well, she won’t be getting a
second invitation to the league any time soon! I’ll tell you that, Warren.”

“I should say.”

Warren begged off Marilyn’s
invitation for tea, and in a few moments he was on his way. He knew that their
exchange might have appeared to be all but meaningless, but to an astute
observer, it was clear to Warren that Barbara was not far from being regarded
as a social outcast. Most likely a great disappointment to a woman who had
hopes of fitting into Sausalito’s tight social circle.

Warren could exploit the tone
of these conversations with the highly trained touch of a first violist. It wasn’t
long before the first small rock he tossed in the water began to ripple back
towards him.

Beatrice Synder told Warren
that she had been hearing, “some discouraging comments about Barbara Grant. I
don’t know if she fits in well with the rest of the community.”

Even Alma joined the chorus,
telling Warren, “I have my doubts that Barbara Grant is one of us.”

The next morning, prior to
writing his column, Warren sat in his small kitchen stirring his cappuccino and
wondering how he could stir up trouble for the Grants. Clearly, Barbara was
standing on a precipice, close to proving, as Alma suspected, that she was
indeed not “one of us.” Surely, there must be some way to get behind Barbara
and give her a little push. Of course, he reasoned, his “Heard About Town”
column would have to serve as his most valuable asset.

Having reached Barbara by
phone at the gallery, Warren introduced himself and explained, “I want to do a
small piece for my column in the
Standard
about your new position at the
Moss Gallery.”

Of course, Barbara was
pleased to have something in the local paper alerting wealthy collectors that
she was now affiliated with one of San Francisco’s premier galleries. She
chatted happily about her new job.

Near the end of the
conversation, though, she was somewhat surprised when Warren said, “I
understand that you recently turned down an invitation to join the league.”

“Oh, yes,” she responded
cautiously. “I’d love to have time to do it all, but at my age, I have to place
my career above social engagements.”

Hearing the comment he was
looking for, Warren graciously expressed his thanks and hurried off the phone.
In trying to express to potential clients that she was a fully dedicated
professional, she had slighted the women of the league—something Warren would
certainly use against her.

Wednesday afternoon, when she
pulled the
Standard
from her mailbox, she turned quickly to Warren’s
column and found this small item:

Barbara Grant, who recently
declined an invitation to join Sausalito’s League of Women, has accepted a
position with the Moss Gallery in San Francisco as a new sales associate. She
describes herself as excited to be a part of the gallery’s team. As for the
league, she commented that, at her age, “I have to place my career above social
engagements.”

Warren then quoted Marilyn
Williams, the Women’s League membership chair, about the nature of the league’s
efforts at community outreach: “I’m sorry to hear that Barbara Grant considers
the league to be nothing more than a ‘social engagement.’ In our annual student
scholarship drive, and in so many other ways, the league is an essential part
of what makes Sausalito, Sausalito!”

As many of Warren’s cookbooks
pointed out, carving meat off a roast should be done neatly.

That afternoon, he reread his
piece. He was satisfied that he had dealt a terrible blow to Barbara Grant with
a very light touch.

Barbara was stunned with the
way the piece read. She toyed with the thought that Warren had set her up, but
decided she was being paranoid and just put it down to small town navel gazing
and let it go at that.

The same afternoon that Barbara
read Warren’s column, Rob sat at his desk and read the entire edition of the
Sausalito
Standard
. After reading the “Heard About Town” column, Rob barked to Holly
to come into his office.

“Do you think this guy Warren
is being a bit of an ass about this woman Barbara Grant? He pretty much trashes
her in his column this week.”

“I think Warren likes doing
that a lot,” Holly responded. “Some of the people in this town act like the
‘cool kids in school.’ They can never feel good about themselves unless they
know they have caused someone else to feel bad. Rob, I’m telling ya, pal, if I
were you, I’d dump his ass.”

“I’ve thought about it,” Rob
said, “but then Alma and her gang would be organizing another boycott of the
Standard,
and I’ve got enough on my plate to deal with.”

“Well, at least have a talk
with Bradley about some of these hatchet jobs that he does on people. I’m sure
this woman Barbara is wondering what hit her.”

During Rob’s walk home that
evening, Warren’s gossip column kept crossing his mind. In truth, he would
happily toss Warren off the paper’s community staff, but he knew that would
equal a loss of readership and a loss of sales…neither of which the
Standard
could afford. He resolved to leave the status quo for now, but made a promise
to himself to continue his monitoring of Warren’s weekly column. At some point
uncertain, he’d speak with Warren.

Barbara remained willfully
unaware that she was slowly devolving into a social outcast. But one day,
several weeks after Warren’s column about her had appeared, she went for a
Saturday afternoon walk with Debbie and heard for the first time that she was
not well thought of by many of the women in town.

Debbie, who had been a long
time member of the league—in fact, she was a onetime chair of the holiday
follies program—seemed shaken by it. “I was surprised to hear many of the women
in the league referring to you as the ‘ice queen.’ When I pressed them for what
that meant, the only answer I could ever get went something like, ‘Well,
actually, I didn’t say that, someone else told me.’”

Further, when Debbie asked
them to recall who they heard that from, she was dismissively told, “I really
can’t remember,” which Debbie took to mean, “I don’t want to talk about this
anymore; it’s not my problem.”

Debbie was annoyed by all
this nonsense. But, as she shared with Barbara, “I think they don’t like the
fact that you’re a professional woman with more on your mind than holiday
follies, cake sales, and silly gossip.”

To Warren’s view, damaging
Barbara’s social standing was the low hanging fruit. He was certain that he
needed to be more careful regarding what he said about Grant Randolph.

It was difficult to control
his urge to undermine Grant’s standing in town. He was intimidated by and
envious of Grant. Intimidated by the simple fact that, as much as he prided
himself on knowing all there was to know about fine food, music, and art, he
could never hope to compete with Grant’s knowledge of fine art.

During the arts commission’s
outing to San Francisco’s Legion of Honor to celebrate Grant’s appointment and
to see the well-reviewed retrospective on the work of Danish-French
Impressionist Camille Pissarro, it was to Grant that everyone directed their
questions, especially after he corrected the older man’s faux pas as they
walked along, viewing the museum’s impressive collection.

“It’s not Matisse you’re
referring to, it’s Manet,” was one of Grant’s admonishments of Warren. Another
time, he declared, “No, no, no, that’s not a portrait by the American master
John Singer Sargent. It’s the work of Anders Zorn, Sweden’s greatest painter…”

Catching the sly smiles of
the others, Warren realized that his unquestioned position as a learned man of
great culture and refinement was now in question.

It also didn’t help that
Grant looked the role that Warren so desperately coveted. The younger man’s
buff physique was envied by men and admired by women. His shirts fit him
perfectly, doing little to hide a strong flat stomach. Warren could just
imagine his rival’s washboard abs. His shoulders were massive, and when he
crossed his arms, his biceps were certainly as impressive as the rest of him.

All of which fed Warren’s
resentment of this obviously handsome and successful man.