The Gossiping Gourmet: (A Murder in Marin Mystery - Book 1) (Murder in Marin Mysteries) (10 page)

“Oh, my God,” Clarice said,
while Oscar held his arm around her. “They seemed like such a nice quiet
couple.”

“Looks can be deceiving, my
dear,” Oscar said softly, as they both returned to bed.

After Chris Harding’s
retelling of early Sunday morning’s domestic violence call to the Randolph home
while he and his fellow officers were eating their way through Warren’s caramel
chicken, and after Alma and the Ladies of Liberty had turned Warren’s busy bee
gossip into a call for immediate action, Bradley had few, if any, options:

Either he would rise to
Alma’s expectations, or take a significant step down in her social hierarchy.
Either use this opportunity to show that his column could serve as the swift
hand of justice, or risk losing his most important readers and his biggest fans.

Then a thought occurred to
him: who might have witnessed the fight and/or its aftermath?

Late Monday, he called Bea
Synder, a walking who’s who of Sausalito volunteers. He asked her who lived on
Bulkley next door to, or close by, the Randolphs. Once he heard about Clarice
and Oscar Anderson, he asked Bea if they were active on any of the town’s
volunteer committees. Bea thought for a bit, and recalled their helping the
library foundation prepare for the community garage sale.

Moments later, Warren was busy
mixing up his irresistible cherry-fudge brownies.

In all likelihood, Oscar and
Clarice Anderson would never realize how helpful they had been. They had never
read Warren’s weekly column. Instead, when the
Standard
hit their
mailbox every Wednesday, they would give the front page a quick glance, and
then drop the paper in their recycling bin.

Random chance plays a
powerful hand in every life. If, for example, Beatrice, Ethel, or one of the
other Ladies of Liberty had observed what Clarice Anderson witnessed at nearly
one o’clock on a Sunday morning, the Sausalito gossip tree would have lit up by
noon the following day.

But the Andersons were a
quiet couple who had lived in Sausalito since 1970, raised two children, and
were strict adherents to the school of minding your own business.

Early on Tuesday, the
Andersons were surprised to find Warren Bradley on their doorstep with a
platter of cherry-fudge brownies.

“Warren, this is so nice of
you! Why the unexpected visit?” Clarice asked, as she welcomed him into their
house.

“Bea Snyder and I were
talking about how helpful the two of you were in organizing those stacks of
used books for the community garage sale last month, and I just thought it
would be nice if I made you a batch of these yummy treats.”

Oscar and Clarice said,
nearly in unison, “Then you must stay and have a cup of tea or coffee with us.”

Warren fussed, as though he
didn’t want to put them to any bother, but it was an invitation to sit and chat
for a while that he had hoped for. Hopefully, he thought as he entered their
ancient living room, the Andersons were not in bed with their hearing aids off,
missing the entire incident.

Over tea, they tasted
Warren’s creation. Both of the Andersons agreed that the brownies were
absolutely delicious.

Clarice asked, “Warren, would
you be kind enough to share the recipe? They’re just divine!”

Warren hesitated for a
moment, as though he was sharing something of great value. “They’re an old
family recipe…but alright, my dear. I’ll send you an email with it. But,
please, keep it just between us.”

Of course, this was all a
charade. The recipe came out of a stack of old copies of
Bon Appetit
magazines that were housed in the storage room of the Sausalito Library. 

Niceties aside, Warren
prodded them with a line he had dreamt up while standing over his stove,
whipping up the chocolate sauce topping for his cherry-fudge brownies. “One
thing I love about this part of Bulkley is how quiet it is up here.”

“Well,” Oscar said, “Not
quiet all the time.”

“Why, Oscar, whatever do you
mean by that?”

Oscar and Clarice looked at
each other, as if wondering who would speak first.

Clarice decided to enter the
void. “Sunday morning, past midnight if you can believe that, we had quite a
bit of excitement up here! Oscar was asleep and I was sitting up trying to
finish an old Agatha Christie
Miss Marple
murder mystery when I heard
what sounded like shouting coming from next door.”

“Oh my,” Warren said. “What
was that all about?”

“The Randolphs were having
one helluva fight,” Oscar said. “We both got up and went to the window to see
what was going on.”

“A moment later, when I heard
what I felt certain was Barbara Randolph’s scream,” Clarice said, “I
immediately dialed 911.”

Oscar and Clarice recounted
the rest of what they saw that evening.

“Grant Randolph in handcuffs,
Barbara being wheeled out on a stretcher, it was all so shocking and so sad,”
Clarice said.

After a further exchange of
pleasantries and mutually agreeing that “those two should get counseling so
nothing like this ever happens again,” Warren left and walked quickly back to
his car, trying not to dance for joy…fearing that the Andersons might be
peering out through their curtains.

His guess had paid off. He
couldn’t wait to get to his laptop.

Just hours before his final
deadline, Bradley scrapped the part of his “Heard About Town” column
admonishing littering tourists and surly teens, and substituted a new lead that
practically wrote itself. It was of course, the Randolph story, under what
Warren thought was an inspired headline: “Storm Warnings.”

“The peace and tranquility of
Bulkley Avenue, home to many of Sausalito’s best families, was suddenly
shattered shortly after midnight Sunday morning by a violent argument between
Grant and Barbara Randolph, as reported by their neighbors Clarice and Oscar
Anderson.

“Sausalito Police sources
confirmed that the argument led to Mr. Randolph’s arrest and Mrs. Randolph
being rushed to Marin General Hospital over concern that she had suffered
life-threatening injuries.

“Ethel Landau, longtime
member of the Sausalito Arts Commission, a group which Mr. Randolph was
recently made the chairman of, called the incident ‘shocking and
disappointing.’ Adding, ‘In light of these developments, it’s perhaps time we
reconsider Mr. Randolph’s participation.’

“Neither Grant nor Barbara
Randolph, who moved here from the often-dangerous streets of New York City,
were available at press time for comment. Undoubtedly, we’ll have more on this
story in the coming weeks.”

Reading Warren’s column before
press time, Rob, once again, was not pleased with what he read. But he knew
that this kind of celebrity magazine salaciousness was catnip for many of his
readers. Warren’s column, after all, was only read for the gossip.

Nevertheless, Rob called
Warren that afternoon to say, “I assume you’ve covered your back on this story,
and double-checked all your facts.”

“Absolutely, Rob!” Warren
said with a proud air of confidence. I got the bare bone facts on Monday from
one of the two police officers at the scene, Chris Harding, and then I visited
the Grant’s neighbors the Andersons on Tuesday, who watched the entire thing
from their bedroom window, saw Grant Randolph taken out in handcuffs, and
Barbara Randolph wheeled out to an ambulance.”

“I don’t think Grant Randolph
will be coming to your next birthday party, but I assume you’re okay with
that.”

“That’s fine with me, Rob.
I’d never invite the brute anyway.”

After Warren hung up the
phone, he sat back in his favorite chair. He enjoyed the sweet aroma of an apple
cherry crisp that was cooking in the oven. He had kept his promise to Chief
Petersen to not make his department the only source of information on the
Randolph incident. Of course, there was an additional public record of the
arrest. And if Barbara pressed charges, any subsequent trial would be in the
public court records as well.

But, as a local columnist,
the essential ingredient was the commotion disturbing the peaceful night of
their neighbors. The Andersons, awakened after midnight and horrified to see
what was happening at the Randolphs, was that simple touch of community that
made the story work. Best of all, with a tight deadline, Warren accomplished
all his goals in what was, for him, record time.

He brewed a cup of tea, and
sat down to enjoy that hot fruit crisp he had just created. The fall of the
Randolphs, and his culinary creation that offered a perfect blend of sweet and
tart tastes, made this a moment to savor.

“Heard About Town,” was
suddenly the talk of the town. Alma and the executive council of the Ladies of
Liberty had nothing but praise for what she heralded as “Warren’s courageous,
insightful, and powerful reporting.”

Warren could hardly contain
his joy. This was certainly a perfect week. He had inflicted real social damage
to the Randolphs, and he had endeared himself to those he called all the right
people.

But his elation was mixed
with some steps of caution. He made it a point not to drive or walk down
Bulkley Avenue, attend a meeting of the Sausalito Arts Commission, or an open
house at the Gate Six Artists’ Cooperative—all proof that, as he told himself
repeatedly, “investigative journalism is not without a price.”

“Are you at all concerned,
Warren, that you have most likely enraged a very dangerous man?” Bea asked.

“Reporting the facts is part
of any journalist’s job; you have to take certain risks if you’re ever going to
get the job done,” Warren proclaimed, as he pouted his lips forward and stood
with an air of resolve worthy of General MacArthur.

Three days before Warren’s
column rocked Sausalito’s social scene, the Randolphs sat down together for the
first time. It occurred before noon on Sunday, after Ray suggested to Barbara
that he go up to the jail to bring Grant back home.

Debbie, having returned from her
Saturday overnight trip to Sonoma County, went to check on her friend, Barbara.

Debbie winced when Barbara
opened her front door and the mid-morning light caught the discoloration and
swelling along her jaw line. Debbie put out her arms, and for a while, the two
women hugged and held each other in silence.

“What happened?” Debbie asked
in an urgent voice.

“It all seemed to happen so
fast that it just doesn’t make a lot of sense!”

Barbara recalled expecting to
find Grant home Saturday night when she returned from the city. He wasn’t. Far
worse, she suspected that he had been their earlier, likely when she was in the
city working at the gallery.

She then told Debbie of the
young woman named Kitty and the suspicions she had when she saw her and Grant
together at the Gate Six artists’ reception.

It occurred to Debbie to
express the thought that Grant would never do such a thing, but she thought it
wiser at this point to simply sit and listen.

Barbara explained that she
had made herself a margarita, then another, and another. That she drifted off
on the couch and awoke before midnight to find Grant was still not home.

“I was angry and
disappointed.”

Debbie held her hand and
continued to listen.

“I looked at the clock, and
then I looked at the front door. The longer I sat, the angrier I got. When
Grant came home, I just flew into a rage. It wasn’t what I thought I would do,
but all this anger just came out of me. I went at him, or threw something at
him; I just don’t remember exactly what I did. Then, bang, I’m on the floor,
and the next thing I know, this Sausalito cop is standing over me.”

Debbie squeezed Barbara’s
hand as her eyes welled up again. Then, in a soft voice, Barbara continued,
“There were more of these guys standing around me. They placed me on a
stretcher. I wanted to ask where the hell they were taking me, but my throat
just seemed to swell, and when it did, it swallowed my voice. Before that, I
looked over and saw Grant with his arms behind his back and a police officer
walking him out the front door. I thought I must have been having a nightmare.”

Barbara wiped tears away and
added, “It was all so totally unreal. Nothing like this has ever happened to me
or to Grant. Nothing, ever!”

“I know nothing about
Saturday, other than what I heard from Ray, but I can tell you this,” Debbie
said, as she continued to hold Barbara’s hand. “Grant and Ray went to the gym
in the late afternoon, and then they went back to our house, cooked out, and
both had, as Ray told me, way too much to drink.”

“Why didn’t Grant come home
after the gym?”

“I asked Ray that, and he
explained that Grant said you were staying late at the gallery for an open
house.”

“That’s next Saturday night.
I was home before seven and wondering why he wasn’t here,” Barbara said,
relieved that finally some of what happened the night before was beginning to
make sense.

On the 12-mile drive back
from San Rafael, where Grant had been processed and released after a bondsman
had posted his bail, Ray could not resist the overwhelming temptation to ask,
“What the hell happened? If I realized you were going to go home last night and
coldcock your wife, I would have told you to stay in one of our guest rooms and
sleep it off!”

Grant, who had spent a
sleepless night thinking about Barbara, wondered how in the world he had gone
from a respected name in the art world one minute to sitting in a jail cell the
next, charged with assaulting his wife. How could so much change in his life
and in their lives in a matter of moments?

“I spent the night trying to figure
out what happened. I know we both got kind of hammered. I know I came home and
Barbara came at me like I was an axe murderer who just broke into our house,
but the rest of it doesn’t add up.”

“Well, it sounds like a mess
to me. Debbie is over at your place right now. Maybe together we can figure out
what the hell actually happened.”

“I know one thing, Ray—as I
walked through the door, my head was buzzing. I heard Barbara scream out
something; I looked up and saw her coming at me with one of those oversized art
books we have all around the house. I swung my arm out in the asshole move of
my life to avoid getting whacked over the head, and caught her BANG, right on
the jaw. She screamed, went down, and everything else after that happened
pretty fast.”

“Okay, pal, I just gotta ask,
anything like this ever happen before?”

“No, absolutely not.
Absolutely not!”

When Ray walked through the
door of the Randolph home, both he and Debbie froze for a moment.

Grant stood by the doorway
and looked at Barbara.

Barbara silently stared at
Grant.

The silence for a few moments
was deafening. Then, Barbara stood and Grant rushed over.

They hugged and cried. Debbie
began to cry as well.

Ray put his huge arms around
Debbie’s shoulders and whispered to her, “I think that’s our cue to get the
hell out of here.”

Debbie sniffed, nodded, and
as she and Ray turned to leave, she looked back and saw her two closest friends
in Sausalito holding each other, completely unaware of the presence of anyone
else in the room.

After the Siricas left, Grant
and Barbara slowly began to unravel the mystery of what had happened just
twelve hours before. It took Barbara time before she could raise the issue of
Kitty. Grant acknowledged that there was a sexual tension between the two of
them, and that Kitty, in her free-spirited way, had made it clear that she was
open to their following their desires wherever they led.

Having said that, Grant
cuddled in beside Barbara on the couch and said, “Together, you and I have
spent a lot of time around artists; we know they can be pretty free spirits.
And I would be lying if I told you that I don’t find Kitty attractive and
tempting, but it’s like this…”

Grant gathered his thoughts,
and Barbara kissed him softly on the cheek.

“If you really love someone,
you’re invested deeply in the relationship. Temptation comes along once, or
more times than that, but if you give into that desire, it’s like cutting a
hole in the bottom of your pocket. Everything you are together is because of
what you have shared in the past and are likely to share in the future. If
you’re not careful, all of that, just like gold coins, can fall out the bottom
of your pocket and be lost forever.”

Barbara said, “Is that your
way of saying you don’t want to lose what we’ve built together?”

“Absolutely. That would be
such a foolish thing to do.”

Like any great challenge a
couple faces successfully, Barbara and Grant emerged more fiercely devoted to
each other than they had felt for a very long time. They spent the rest of
Sunday afternoon in bed naked, wrapped tightly around each other.

Moving his head up from where
his lips caressed her breasts, reaching for her mouth, Grant grazed her bruised
jaw and saw Barbara wince. He gently kissed the wound and told her how deeply
sorry he was.

“Perhaps I should lay off the
strength training.”

“Are you kidding? I love your
arms, and I love your shoulders! Just try hard not to take a swing in my
direction. You can pack a helluva wallop.”

“It’s a deal. And you promise
not to crown me with any coffee table art books because I’ve done something
stupid.”

They kissed and laughed.
Exhausted from two days and one very long night with little if any rest, they
fell into a very deep sleep.

For the next few days, the
Randolphs happily hid themselves from the world.

On Wednesday, with home
delivery of the
Standard,
the darker side of Sausalito found them once
again.