The Gossiping Gourmet: (A Murder in Marin Mystery - Book 1) (Murder in Marin Mysteries) (19 page)

Ray sighed. “Thank you for
that, Rob.”

As they hung up, Rob felt
better, too.

“Don’t you think you went a
little hard on Grant Randolph?” Karin’s question had Rob choking on his lunch.
The latest issue of the
Standard
had just been delivered.

“How so?” he asked
cautiously.

“Well…you go into the run-in
he had with Warren at the opera park event.”

He shrugged. “And?”

“I don’t know…It’s just that
it puts him in such an unfavorable light! Frankly, I kind of feel sorry for the
guy.”

“Look, sweetheart, I agree
with you. But it’s a part of the story. If a week before some guy gets killed,
a third of the people in town see you having a confrontation with the
soon-to-be victim who’s murdered, and then dismembered, it’s not going to put
you in a good light. And it’s probably nothing more than rotten timing that the
Randolphs left for New York only twelve hours after Bradley’s body had been discovered.
But those are the facts, and they need to be reported.”

Karin looked at the paper,
looked back at Rob, and thought some more. Obviously, she wasn’t sure what to
say.

Rob jumped into the void.
“When you’re the publisher and the principle reporter for a small town
newspaper, you’re swimming in a fish bowl. That’s one of the things I most like
about doing the other editions, in Tiburon, Mill Valley, Belvedere, and Ross; I
don’t know near as many of the people I pass in the street whenever I’m in any
one of those places. Sausalito is obviously different. Both of us grew up here.
We’re the third generation of the Timmons family to live in this house and the
Standard
has been published in town since the nineteen-fifties.”

“…And, so?” It was Karin’s
turn to ask.

“More so than any other town
in Marin County, what I do here is looked at under a microscope. I’m either the
local kid who made good, or I’m one more disappointment in a long family line.
In a town that’s less than one hundred and fifty years old, three generations
goes a long time back. I guarantee you: for every one person who asks me why I
mentioned Grant Randolph in the Bradley story, there would be another nine who
asked why I did not mention that confrontation.”

“You’re right, Rob. I can see
that. But then running that last column of Bradley’s…Wow! Isn’t that rubbing
salt into the wound?”

“Just between us, that was
Eddie’s contribution to this week’s edition.”

“You don’t mean he wrote it,
do you?”

“No, of course not.” He
laughed. “It is Bradley’s actual last column. But Eddie knew it would stir up
more shit about Randolph. He believes that Bradley’s killer walks among us. The
more attention that’s focused on Randolph, the greater the possibility that the
real murderer will let down his guard—in other words, hopefully get careless.”

“No one but you and Eddie
know this?”

“I haven’t even mentioned it
to Holly. To her favor, she too thought I’d lost my marbles when I told her
that I was running Bradley’s final column.”

“I just can’t imagine what
the Randolphs are going to think when they see this coverage, not to mention
the column. Bradley really went over the top with that ‘viper in our midst’
routine.”

“Like Alma, his mentor,
Warren had a flare for the dramatic. Personally, I think Randolph is probably a
decent guy. But he’s certainly got a temper issue. Maybe he should cut back on
all the weightlifting—you know, maybe a little too much testosterone.
Seriously, though, going from having some anger issues to doing what was done
to Bradley is a pretty big stretch. But I’ll tell you this much—if, God forbid,
Grant Randolph did kill Warren Bradley and I never mentioned that night at the
opera incident, I’d be laughed out of town.”

She shrugged. “Okay, you’ve
made your point.”

“I never told you this, but when
I was delivering the Bradley eulogy, I was convinced that his killer was
standing there in the church, watching me and listening to everything I said.”

“Well, that old church
doesn’t hold many people—probably less than two hundred. It would be pretty creepy
if the killer was sitting there looking at you.” Karin shuddered at the
thought, then stood up. “I’ve got to walk down to Sparrow Creek School, to pick
up the children.” She walked over and gave Rob a kiss on the cheek. “Even if
the Randolphs were in town on Sunday, as opposed to New York, I have a feeling
they wouldn’t have been there.”

“Perhaps that’s a good
thing,” Rob said. “The old church has high rafters. Alma herself would have
provided the rope, if she thought she could get away with a public lynching.”

“That’s my point. In a town
this small, one misstep, and you’re guilty in the court of public opinion,”
Karin sighed. “I wouldn’t be surprised if, when this whole thing is over, those
poor people move back to New York. I guess they’re learning firsthand the
downside of living in a town where everyone knows your name.”

When Rob returned from lunch,
Holly greeted him with the news, “Your girlfriend, Alma, called. She hopes you
have a moment to call her back.” Holly pursed her lips and made a kissing
sound.

“Hey, give the old lady a
break. I don’t have any problem with Alma wanting to know who killed her
favorite chef.”

“Gosh, you’re a little touchy
today!” Holly frowned as she headed back to her office.

Rob felt bad, knowing that he
was taking some of his frustration out on his office mate. He knew his readers
were all waiting for answers. But if the cops didn’t have any, he thought, what
in the world do they think I have?

Nonetheless, he quickly
called Alma, aware that this new détente between them could expand readership,
which eventually would lead to increased advertising revenue—something he
wasn’t opposed to in the least.

Alma picked up on the first
ring. Her tone was downright pleasant. “I loved this week’s edition of the
Standard
,”
she purred.

Rob was glad that he had
placed at the top of the final “Heard About Town” column a brief statement that
explained: “Written by Warren Bradley, just hours before his death. It was
found by investigators to the Bradley homicide, and has been made available by
law enforcement authorities for the benefit of his many readers.” 

“It’s extraordinary,” Alma
continued, “that he wrote about this dangerous man, Randolph, hours before his
untimely demise. I can’t help but imagine that if he were alive right now, he
would want to know why Grant Randolph has not been arrested for his murder.”

Rob knew this was the first
step in Alma’s efforts to organize a lynch mob.

Cautiously, he murmured, “I
heard, that the Randolphs left for New York City early on the morning after the
murder.”

“I had heard that, too, and
I’m sure it sounds highly suspicious to you as well.”

“If nothing else, it was
rotten timing.”

Both paused at that point,
realizing they might be on the path to expressing different points of view.

“In any event, I was hoping
in this next edition that you will keep a bright light shining on Randolph’s
whereabouts,” Alma said coolly. “It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if the
Randolphs decide to extend their visit to New York. What thoroughly distasteful
people!”

There were a few moments of
silence; Rob gazed out his window onto passing tourists walking into the shops
of Princess Court, as he considered his response. “Randolph is certainly at the
top of everyone’s suspect list. At the same time, it’s hard to second-guess
where the investigation stands at the moment. All the investigators are staying
pretty tightlipped. It’s not making my job any easier.”

“Well, sail on, brave soul. I
just wanted to be sure you’re pursuing Warren’s killer without hesitation. I
feel quite certain this is exactly what you’re doing. In fact, every member of
the Ladies of Liberty is at this very moment singing your praises.”

Talk about a carrot, as
opposed to Alma’s usual stick in the eye.

A further exchange of pleasantries
was short, and similarly sweet.

As Rob hung up, he turned in
his swivel chair away from the window, to the faded blue couch that sat on the
wall opposite his desk.

Holly was sitting there,
staring at him with a mischievous smile.

She arched a brow. “So, what
did Lady Vader have to say for herself?”

“Sheesh! I haven’t seen you
this excited since Rod Stewart stopped to ask you for directions outside the
office.”

She waved away his jibe with
a swish of her wrist. “If the least likely suspect is the killer—that happens
all the time with murder mysteries—then I guess Alma did it.”

“If she killed Bradley, she
must have hired one of the counter boys down at Venice Gourmet. She certainly
wasn’t the one tossing his body around like it was an aging Ken doll.”

“That might be it! She’s the
dinner guest—no surprise there. She gets him good and soused. Then, she lets
Benedetto—who can handle a cleaver on those old hard salamis like they’re
sticks of butter—go in and finish the job.”

“Alright Ms. Christie, let’s
get back to work. The
Peninsula Standard
is three hours from deadline.”

As she rechecked final layout
pages for the Tiburon/Belvedere edition, Holly cheered herself for the balance
of the afternoon imagining Alma Samuels working in the laundry at a California
state prison for the final years of her life.  

On the day Warren’s murder
was announced to the public, the Siricas made an urgent call to Grant and
Barbara.

“Are you sitting down?” Ray
asked. “In fact, put your cell on speaker. Barbara has got to hear this too.”

Grant did so, and motioned
Barbara over to him.

“Hi, Ray. Hi, Debbie. What’s
up?” Barbara asked, curiously.

Debbie couldn’t contain
herself. “Warren Bradley was murdered last night!”

“What?” Barbara and Grant
shrieked in unison.

“You’ve got to be kidding,”
Barbara murmured.

“This is no joke,” Ray
responded. “I’m reading about it right now, on the
Chronicle’s
website.”
He paused, then added, “Grant, I hate to say this, but it may not look so great
for you, considering it happened hours before you left town. Not to mention the
blowout you had with Warren at Opera Night.”

Grant was silent for a
moment. Finally, he declared, “Ray…Debbie…hand to God, I didn’t do it!”

“We would never suspect you,”
Ray assured him.

“We love you both; I’m sure,
before long, they’ll find the real killer,” Debbie added.

For a brief moment after the
call, Grant and Barbara were lost in their own thoughts. But when they caught
each other’s eyes, Barbara noticed the upturned corners of Grant’s lips. Soon,
her smile matched his. “I think this calls for drinks,” Grant declared. “What
do you say about the Waverly?”

Barbara laughed. “I’ll drink
to that.”

They arrived at the
restaurant, and took a corner table.

The first toast was for
Warren. “I know it’s sad,” Barbara said, “but he was a mean-spirited little
shit! I couldn’t believe what he wrote about me. I’m trying to get a little
publicity for myself…that I’m working at a new gallery in the city, and he made
it sound like I thought the women of the league were all a bunch of silly
fools!”

“He was a gasbag,” Grant
said, loudly enough to turn the heads of a few diners nearby. “I’m not going to
let myself feel sorry that he got himself killed. Based on the experience we
had with him, I would think the list of suspects for his murder could fill a
jumbo jet.”

Several days later, when Ray
and Debbie read them excerpts from Warren’s final column, they knew that this
was certainly not the time to fly back to the Bay Area. Based on their
itineraries, they had both already decided to extend their stay in New York.

Now, they might just extend
it further, they both decided.

And while it unnerved
Barbara, the growing number of letters to the
Standard
not-so-subtly
suggesting Grant’s apprehension, it did not surprise him in the least. “If they
wanted me off the commission because we had a bad argument, I’d think they’d be
ready to hang me for a murder, no judge or jury needed!”

It was obvious to Rob by the
letters slipped through the office mail slot every morning arguing for Randolph’s
incarceration that this was part of a letter-writing campaign instigated by
Alma and the Ladies of Liberty.

On Thursday, Eddie called to
say that the Randolphs had extended their stay in New York City another week.

Eddie had not been able to
make their usual Friday afternoon date at Smitty’s, but on Saturday, he pulled
up outside of Rob’s home in his unmarked county sheriff’s car. Kissing Karin on
the cheek, he asked, “Do you mind if I borrow your husband for a couple of
hours?”

“Fine with me. I was about to
take the kids up to Cloudview Park. One of the Sparrow Creek kids is having her
birthday party up there.” She pointed toward Rob’s office. “Get him out of the
house. He needs some fresh air. He’s been spending way too much time in there.”

Rob was lost in thought.
There were less than seventy-two hours before the next deadline for the
Sausalito edition of the
Standard
. His attempts to spin another Bradley
story out of what little new information he had was even harder than he had
imagined.

He was happy to accept
Eddie’s invitation to go for a drive. Yes, a change of scenery would do him
good. And, perhaps, he might be lucky enough to hear something that he could
use.

They went up a back road in
Mill Valley that climbed up one of the flanks of Mount Tamalpais, which rose
twenty-eight-hundred-feet, and dominated southern Marin County’s landscape from
every angle.

Eddie pulled off onto a dirt
road and parked at a trailhead. As Eddie hoped, there were no other cars
around. “Come on, let’s go for a little walk.”

Rob nodded appreciatively.
“We haven’t been to this spot since we were high school seniors.”

They stopped along a trail
that hugged a steep drop that was far too narrow for visitors to the area to
find, let alone be comfortable hiking along. After a quarter of a mile down the
path, they came to a place where a boulder had come to rest, perhaps centuries
ago. The rock was a perfect example of a bench placed there by God.