The Gossiping Gourmet

by Martin Brown

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

  Warren fussed over accepting their invitation, pretending he didn’t want to interrupt their day, but it was precisely what he had hoped would happen. He followed the couple into their cluttered and dated living room and said a silent prayer that the Andersons were not in bed with their hearing aids turned off when the police came to Barbara Randolph’s rescue.

  Over tea, they tasted Warren’s creation and agreed that the brownies were delicious. Clarice asked, “Warren, would you be kind enough to share the recipe? These are 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 the ingredients and directions. But, please, keep it between us.”

  In truth, the recipe came out of a stack of old Bon Appétit magazines housed in the storage room of the Sausalito Library.

  Warren probed 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 upper part of Bulkley is how quiet it is up here.”

  Oscar frowned. “Well, it’s not quiet all the time.”

  “Why, whatever do you mean by that?” Warren asked innocently.

  Oscar and Clarice looked at each other wondering who would speak first. Clarice decided to enter the void. “Sunday morning—a little 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 mystery when I heard what sounded like shouting coming from next door.”

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

  “The Randolphs were having one heck of a fight, that's what,” Oscar declared. “We got up and went to the window to see what was going on.”

  “When I heard what I felt certain was Barbara Randolph’s scream, I immediately dialed 911,” Clarisse added. “Seeing Grant Randolph in handcuffs, Barbara Randolph being wheeled out on a stretcher, it was all so shocking and so sad. They seemed like the nicest couple.”

  Warren shook his head sadly.

  After further chitchat and mutually concluding that “the Randolphs should get counseling, so nothing like this ever happens again,” Warren left.

  Walking quickly back to his car, Warren had to fight an impulse to jump for joy just in case the Andersons were peering out from behind their living room curtains.

  Just hours before his weekly deadline, Bradley scrapped the part of his “Heard About Town” column on the ongoing dispute over permitting local restaurants the option of providing sidewalk dining, and substituted a new lead that practically wrote itself. It was, of course, the Randolph story:

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

  Sausalito Police confirmed that the violent dispute led to Mr. Randolph’s arrest and Mrs. Randolph being rushed to Marin General Hospital over concern that she had suffered possibly life-threatening injuries during their altercation.

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

  Neither Grant nor Barbara Randolph, who recently relocated to Sausalito from the often-violent streets of New York City, were available at press time for comment. Undoubtedly, we’ll have more on this story in the coming weeks.

  This time, Rob read Warren’s column before it went on press.

  Once again, he was not pleased. Still, Rob knew that this kind of celebrity magazine salaciousness was catnip for many readers. Warren’s column, after all, was only read by most for its occasional items of local gossip.

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

  “Absolutely, Rob,” Warren said with great confidence. “I got the bare bone facts on Monday from two police officers who responded to the 911 call. I then visited the Randolphs' neighbors, the Andersons, on Tuesday. They watched the entire thing from their bedroom window. They witnessed Grant Randolph being taken out in handcuffs, and Barbara Randolph wheeled out on a stretcher and placed in an ambulance.”

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

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

  After Warren had hung up the phone, he sat back in his favorite chair.

  He had kept his promise to Chief Petersen not to make his department the only source of information regarding the Randolph incident. Of course, there was now an additional public record of the arrest. And if Barbara pressed charges, any subsequent trial would be in the court's public records as well.

  But, as a local columnist, the essential ingredient was the commotion disturbing the peaceful night of the Randolphs' elderly neighbors. The Andersons, having awakened after midnight and horrified to see what was happening next door, were the simple touch of community that made the entire story work perfectly.

  Best of all, even with a tight deadline, Warren accomplished all his goals in what, for him, was record time.

  Warren brewed a cup of tea and sat down to enjoy his reward: a just-baked fruit crisp, which had the perfect blend of sweet and sour tastes.

  Chapter Eleven

  This week’s “Heard About Town” column was suddenly the talk of the town. Alma and 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 undoubtedly a perfect week. He had inflicted real social damage to the Randolphs, and he had endeared himself to those he often referred to as, “All the right people.”

  But his delight was mixed with some caution. He knew that for a time it would be ill-advised for him to drive or walk down Bulkley Avenue, attend a meeting of the Sausalito Fine Arts Commission, or an open house at the Gate Six Artists’ Cooperative—all proof that, as he told himself repeatedly, good investigative journalism often comes at the price of one’s personal safety.

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

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

  Bea, admiring his determination, felt deeply moved to be in the presence of such a fearless individual.

  Three days before Warren’s column rocked Sausalito, the Randolphs sat down together for the first time. It occurred before noon on Sunday, two hours 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 directly to check on her friend Barbara. She winced when Barbara opened her front door. The mid-morning light caught the discoloration and swelling along her friend’s jawline.

  Debbie put out her arms, and for a while, the two women hugged and held each other in silence.

  “What happened?” Debbie asked in a soft, but urgent, tone.

  “It was so fast, it seems like a blur now. To be honest, it doesn’t make a lot of sense!” Barbara admitted.

  She recalled expecting to find Grant at home Saturday night when she returned from the city. He wasn’t. Far worse, she suspected he had been in their home earlier with another woman, undoubtedly when s
he was working in the city. Barbara then told Debbie about Kitty Collins and her suspicions regarding Grant’s attraction to her.

  It occurred to Debbie to say that Grant would never do such a thing, but she held back, deciding it would be wiser to quietly listen.

  Barbara explained that she had made herself a margarita, followed by a second and a third. Afterward, she drifted off on the couch, waking near midnight to find Grant still not home. “By that point, I was very angry and very 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 there, the angrier I got,” Barbara added. “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. I went at him or threw something at him. I don’t remember exactly what. Then, bang! I’m on the floor. I must have blacked out for a bit because the next thing I know, this Sausalito cop is standing over me.”

  Debbie squeezed Barbara’s hand as her eyes welled up again. In a soft voice, Barbara continued. “Then 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 shut, and 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 this must be a nightmare.” She wiped tears away. “It was all so unreal. Nothing like this has ever happened to Grant or me. Never!”

  “I know nothing about Saturday night other than what I heard from Ray,” Debbie admitted. “But I can tell you this. 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. He said Grant told him 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. I called his cell, three times at least. He never picked up,” Barbara explained, relieved that at least some of what happened Saturday night was beginning to make sense.

  Ray picked up Grant after a bondsman posted his bail.

  On the twelve-mile drive back from San Rafael to Sausalito, 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 a matter of minutes, he’d gone from a respected name in the art world to sitting in a jail cell charged with assaulting his wife.

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

  Ray winced. “It sounds like a big mess to me. Debbie is over at your place right now. Maybe together we can figure out what the hell happened.”

  “I know one thing. 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 dumbest move of my life to avoid getting whacked over the head and caught her right on the jaw. She screamed, went down, and everything else after that happened pretty fast.”

  “Okay, pal, I just have to ask: Has anything like this ever happened before?”

  “No, absolutely not! I would never intentionally injure my wife.”

  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 toward her.

  They hugged and cried. Debbie dabbed away tears from the corners of her eyes.

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

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

  That afternoon, Grant and Barbara unraveled the mystery of what had happened fourteen hours earlier.

  It took Barbara time before she could raise the issue of Kitty. Grant acknowledged that there was sexual tension between the two of them and that Kitty, in her free-spirited way, had made it clear that she was open to both of them following their desires wherever they led.

  Having explained 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 casual about intimacy. I’d be lying if I told you that I don’t find Kitty attractive and tempting. I think a lot of guys would. But, it’s like this…”

  While Grant gathered his thoughts, Barbara kissed him softly on the cheek. Finally, he began: “If you love someone, you have to be invested deeply in your relationship. Temptation comes along one or more times, 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 hoping 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. Perhaps, forever. That's not a smart thing to do.”

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

  “Absolutely! With all my heart.”

  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 neck, reaching for her mouth, Grant grazed her bruised jaw and saw Barbara wince. He gently kissed her and told her again 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 don't take a swing in my direction and I'll be happy. You don’t know it, but you can pack one helluva wallop.”

  “It’s a deal. And you promise not to crown me with any oversized 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 both fell into a deep sleep.

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

  On Wednesday, with home delivery of The Standard, the darker side of life in a town where everyone knows your name found them once again.

  Chapter Twelve

  Ray was the first to notice the lead in Bradley’s “Heard About Town” column.

  He called out, “Oh my God! Debbie, you’ve got to get in here!”

  As Debbie read, all the color went out of her face. She became so angry at what Warren had written that she started to shake.

  “That malicious little man! This is just disgraceful! Raymond, what are you going to do about this?”

  “What do you mean, what am I going to do?”

  “I don’t know what I mean,” she retorted. “When we were telling Grant and Barbara what a beautiful and peaceful place Sausalito is, we never dreamed of anything like this.”

  “What I’d like to do,” Ray said, “is pick up that nasty little troll by the scruff of his neck and slap him senseless.”

  “But what you’d like to do, and what you can do, Ray, are two different things.”

  They both sat silently for a moment, staring out at a picture book view of the bay.

  “Should we call Barbara and Grant?” Debbie asked.

  “I’ve never heard them say a word about looking at The Standard, although I guess Grant checks it for coverage of the arts commission if nothing else.”

  They toyed with
the thought that perhaps their friends would not see the piece but decided that was wishful thinking. One of his fellow commission members was sure to ask Grant about what had happened.

  “We have to let them know what this little weasel Bradley put in the paper,” Ray said, regretting there was no other logical thing to do. “Deb, call them and see if they’re home; tell them we have something we need to share with them.”

  The Siricas arrived at the Grants to find them blissfully enjoying their day. Barbara made client calls that morning from home. She and Grant decided to spend the afternoon working together on the small garden that hugged their side patio.

  Debbie and Ray knew that they would be ruining what appeared to be a peaceful moment, but they resolved it was better for the two of them to hear this news from friends.

  Barbara insisted that they sit down at the patio table and she would bring out something to drink. Her guests sat down but waved off the beverages.

  The bruising along Barbara’s left jawline was already much improved but remained visible. Grant, still uncomfortable over the embarrassment of what the two of them now called “The mother of all misunderstandings,” pulled off the gardening gloves he had been weeding with and sat down as well.

  Debbie smiled and pushed Ray’s knee under the table, as if to say: Please, go first!

  Ray pulled the new issue of The Standard from his back pocket. He laid the paper on the table and opened it to Bradley’s column.

  “That spat you two had was picked up in the local gossip column—”

  The words were hardly out of Ray’s mouth when Grant grabbed the paper and started to read the first few paragraphs of Warren’s column.

  With his voice rising, and with Barbara’s face reddening, Grant read, “Sausalito Police confirmed that the violent dispute led to Mr. Randolph’s arrest and Mrs. Randolph being rushed to Marin General Hospital over concern that she had suffered possibly life-threatening injuries during their altercation.”