by Martin Brown
Then, referring to the longstanding, albeit unspoken nickname for Warren that had never before appeared in print, Ray added, “Thankfully, most of us are fortunate enough not to find ourselves in the crosshairs of Warren Bradley, Sausalito's very own, Gossiping Gourmet.”
The salvos exchanged in The Standard that week did little to quiet the local furor. In fact, it increased attention to the issue.
At local eateries, patrons made the growing dispute between the Randolphs and Warren Bradley the town’s number one topic of conversation. Was Bradley merely doing his job by reporting unpleasant facts about a local official, or was he seeking to undermine Grant’s position in the community?
To Grant’s detractors, Barbara was a “whimpering supplicant.” But Ray Sirica’s words wounded Warren more deeply. He knew he could have reached out to the Randolphs for comment before going to press with his original story. Claiming they were “not available at press time” was done with the hope of avoiding any information that might have put their altercation in a far less troubling light.
Ray’s portrayal of Warren as “the Gossiping Gourmet,” who goes looking through his neighbors’ trash to find tidbits to embarrass people, or teases information out of unsuspecting individuals, represented Sirica’s attempt to turn Warren the accuser into Warren the accused.
Alma knew one thing for sure: Ray Sirica’s letter moved him and his wife into the social freezer. Debbie would, of course, retain her position in the Sausalito League of Women, but she would not be given any role more significant than reindeer herder for their annual follies. Alma worked the phone to make it crystal clear that Debbie Sirica was no longer considered, “One of us!”
Chapter Fourteen
Having a calendar filled with special events for which he was expected to bring a prepared dish, what Warren enjoyed most was using his cooking skills for those occasions when he entertained at his small hillside cottage.
This particular evening was one he had anticipated for the last two weeks. It presented the opportunity to prepare one of his long-standing favorite dishes: pasta with veal, sausage, and porcini ragu. What a welcome change, Warren thought, from all this commotion regarding Randolph and his unpleasant encounters with both him and his likely mob-connected pal, Ray Sirica!
Soon after Warren arrived in Sausalito, approximately twenty-five years ago, he befriended a childless widow named Lillian Danvers. He cooked for her, did her shopping, and took her to doctor’s appointments.
Shortly after she died in her sleep one wet winter’s night, Warren moved into the Danvers home. At the time his doing so raised a few eyebrows among the town's senior set, but to others, it seemed like a reasonable exchange. For over two years he had cared for her, and, if the rumor was true, at one point he had been her “young lover.” They had a documented agreement, supposedly memorialized by one of the county’s many attorneys, specifying the transfer of the property deed to Warren at the time of her death upon the payment of a single dollar.
Although the home was small compared to the estates of Sausalito’s landed gentry, Warren was perfectly happy there. With no plans to start a family, the Danvers cottage met his three greatest expectations: an adequate kitchen, a beautiful bay view, and a home up on the hill, which, to Sausalito society, meant he had arrived.
So engrossed was Warren in the preparation of his favorite sauce that he completely forgot that this evening was also the deadline for his weekly column.
Now that it had finally crossed his mind, he knew there was no hope of his completing the column and also having his meal prepared in time for his special guest. Warren reached for the phone and called Rob, whom he rightly assumed had left his office for the day.
"Hello, Rob," he began, making certain his voicemail conveyed an air of relaxed assurance. "This week's column is nearly complete, I just want to polish it a bit more, but I have plans for the evening. I'll have it for you well before noon tomorrow. It’s an important column, and I think you'll like what I've done.”
The message was a complete fabrication. In fact, Warren had no idea what he was going to write, meaning reaching the column’s regular length, approximately seven hundred and fifty words, would be more painful to accomplish than usual.
As he lovingly sautéed the veal in a wine sauce until it browned, his mind wandered over a range of possibilities. Alma, Bea, and Robin had told him repeatedly that he needed to keep the heat on Randolph, but the entire episode was placing him in the middle of a dispute that he found increasingly uncomfortable.
While he busied himself slicing onions, carrots, and tomatoes, it occurred to him that perhaps in this week’s column he could declare that the moment had arrived for members of the Sausalito Fine Arts Commission to take a stand on the subject of violence against women. Once he settled on his topic, the column began to write itself.
Warren, a master in the nasty business of scheming, knew full well that Sirica was attempting to demean him as a spiteful and frequently dishonest gossipmonger. The only way to extradite himself was to elevate the issue beyond one domestic dispute to a more lofty topic. He intended to tell his readers that the core facts of this story were not of his creation. The police had been summoned! The peace had been disturbed! And when it was over, a citizen of Sausalito, who held a distinguished position in the community, was on his way to the county jail while his wife was being rushed to the hospital with possibly life-threatening injuries! What part of any of this was acceptable behavior?
Warren’s resentment for the loathsome Grant Randolph was again rising to a boil. There was no doubt that the muse was present in him at that very moment. At the very least, he had to put his thoughts down in writing. Were he to wait until later that night, his passion might dissipate in the afterglow of a delicious meal, topped off with a bottle or two of that Consorzio Chianti Rufina that he had been saving for a special occasion.
Warren looked at the oversized clock that hung on the wood-paneled kitchen wall. His guest was due to arrive a little after seven, but it was just a few minutes past six. He lifted the lid of each pan to do one more quick check, and then he filled a large pot slightly more than halfway with the water he would use to cook his pasta, putting a low flame below it so it would begin to warm. Warren stepped into his small, cluttered bedroom and sat down at the desk wedged into the room’s tiny alcove. He opened an aging, off-brand laptop, and began to state his case for the removal of Randolph from high office:
In the past two weeks, much has been said about the behavior of Sausalito Fine Arts Commission chair, Grant Randolph. His arrest by police, on suspicion of spousal abuse, has no doubt shocked many in our quiet, tight-knit community.
While it now appears clear that Mrs. Randolph has decided not to pursue the matter of assault, it is nonetheless shocking and discomforting that an individual holding an important position in our fair city's cultural life has conducted himself in this manner.
“Heard About Town” readers know how stridently I have argued for a return to the standards of proper conduct. I do not doubt that the majority of Sausalito’s citizens would agree with me that, whatever the final disposition of these charges, Mr. Randolph’s conduct falls far short of what any one of us would call civil behavior.
What is perhaps most troubling is how Mr. Randolph’s actions reflect poorly on our city’s arts commission, an august group that has been entrusted since its founding with keeping the flame of art appreciation burning bright. Each year we celebrate this tradition of excellence with a gala that salutes the artists who have made Sausalito their home and the patrons that support their endeavors.
Mr. Randolph’s serving as a member of the commission—let alone its chairperson—sends the wrong message to both the arts community and our citizenry. The time has come for his fellow members and all Sausalitans who value the dignity of every individual to rise up and expel this viper from our midst.
He saved the column, attached it to an email, and was about to click send when it occurred to
him: hadn't he already left a message for Rob Timmons advising him that this week’s column would arrive no later than noon tomorrow?
It would appear odd to submit a completed article at this time, particularly after claiming that he was otherwise engaged for the evening. Plus, while he thought he had created a compelling and well-written piece, things might look different to him in the morning. After all, “expel this viper from our midst” was perhaps a bit too strident. It was not like Warren to put himself directly in the line of fire, and there would no doubt be those who took issue with this column.
One more read tomorrow morning, and off it goes, he finally decided.
Now, it was time for more important things—open that bottle of Chianti Rufina, check the ragu, get that pasta cooking, and prepare for what he hoped would be a perfect evening.
No sooner had he savored that first careful sip of that expensive Chianti than the doorbell chimed. Warren glanced in surprise at the kitchen clock. It was only six forty-five. His guest was early, but perhaps he had gotten the time wrong. Warren took a quick, desperate glance in the mirror. He brushed his hair back, briefly regretted his aging face, and went to open the door.
To his surprise—and discomfort—he found himself staring into the hard, angry features of Ray Sirica.
Chapter Fifteen
One of Holly’s many tasks was to do a final check of editorial and advertising for each edition of The Standard.
Working in the office adjacent to Rob’s, she called out with a warning: “We’ve got a hole on page fifteen! I don’t have Bradley’s ‘Heard About Town’ column for this week.”
At this point in the day, Rob was busy closing up one edition and starting work on the next. He looked at his watch. Doing so brought to mind Warren’s message. “He phoned last night and left a voicemail that he was going out but would have his column in by noon today.”
“But it’s already close to one! I’ve got to upload finished page layouts to the printer in three hours if we’re going to make the overnight mail drop.”
Rob sighed. “Let me call him and see if he forgot to email it to us.”
To his surprise, both Warren’s home and cell went to voicemail.
“I can’t locate him,” Rob called out.
“Then how do you want me to fill the hole on page fifteen?” Holly asked, standing at the doorstep to Rob’s office.
“How about if we go with a best of ‘Heard About Town’?”
Holly rolled her eyes. “Rob, Bradley has no ‘best of’ columns.”
“Ha, ha, very funny. Okay, give me a few minutes, and I’ll think of something.”
While Rob’s mind raced through his options, this not being the first time he’d been required to make a last-minute content change, his attention drifted back to that phone message Warren left. It wasn’t like him to miss a deadline. Particularly not when he called to say his column was nearly complete except for a few finishing touches.
Rob’s contact with Warren was minimal—no more than an occasional phone call to discuss the column, something that Rob regularly did with others in his small group of community reporters.
His only reason for paying more attention was that Warren was one of Sausalito’s more colorful characters and he had direct ties to the troublesome Alma Samuels and her Ladies of Liberty. More importantly, at the moment, his “Heard About Town” columns of the last two weeks had everyone talking about what was coming next: just the kind of buzz any weekly community newspaper publisher dreams of having.
Over the past week, every time he’d heard Warren referred to as the “Gossiping Gourmet,” he smiled to himself. Since the turn of the early twentieth century, when William Randolph Hearst was told by Sausalito’s ladies and gentlemen of distinction to take himself, his mistress, and his new money to another part of California, this had been a town where people famously enjoyed sitting in judgment on the private lives of others.
Paradoxically, Sausalito relished its colorful characters and any chance to gossip about their lives. Case in point: the1960s election of the renowned, albeit retired madam, Sally Stanford, as the town's mayor. Rob loved the caricature hanging in city hall, showing Stanford smoking a cigarette as she conducted a council meeting, sitting regally under a sign that read, “No Smoking Allowed.”
When Rob purchased The Standard, in the period before he added other weekly editions, he paid more attention to the catfighting and backbiting that moved the town's narrative forward from one year to the next. Rob was enough of a businessman to realize that Warren was good for the paper. One-half of his readers loved him and wanted to know what he was thinking, while the other half disliked him but couldn’t resist finding out what was in his column. For any publisher, this was the best of both worlds.
Early that evening, with the Sausalito edition uploaded to the printer, and still no word from Bradley, Rob could not set aside his curiosity regarding Warren’s disappearance. Karin was up in Corte Madera with the children at a late afternoon play date, so Rob went in search of his missing columnist.
Rob had never been to Warren’s house. Still, like most Sausalito natives, Rob knew every avenue, road, street, lane, cul-de-sac, and hillside stairway in the small town.
He discovered Warren's home was the very last address on Prospect Avenue. The substantial rains that, once every three or four years, came in December and persisted into early April could give the houses in this part of town a careworn appearance. The storms roll up and over the Marin Headlands and descend first upon an area located in the southern end of Sausalito, known to locals as “Hurricane Gulch.”
To the unknowing eye, homes like Warren’s cottage appear to be perched precariously on one of the area’s steepest hillsides. In truth, nearly all of Sausalito sits on bedrock. The real threat to these homes comes not from earthquakes, but mudslides during a year with unusually ferocious and soaking rains.
Rob had known the previous owner, Mrs. Danvers. She was his third-grade teacher at Bayside Elementary. None of the children ever met Mr. Danvers. What little they could pick up by badgering their parents was that Mr. Danvers had died many years earlier of what was referred to in discreet whispers as a “bad heart.” Based on this, it was Rob’s classmate Eddie Austin’s contention that Mrs. Danvers quite likely killed Mr. Danvers and disposed of his body late one night in the canyon brush below their house.
Unlike Rob, who was an A-student, Eddie had invariably brought home Cs. But his endless speculation on the demise of Mr. Danvers likely indicated a detective investigator in the making.
As Rob pulled his aging Jeep next to Warren’s even older Toyota Camry, the wooden deck that served as the home’s carport—an aging tangle of metal supports bolted to the steep hill below—groaned loudly. It was just past six-thirty. The headlands loomed so high over the property that the cottage had been in dark shadows for the last two hours.
The home had a system of supports, separate from the parking deck, although it appeared as though the house was sitting atop the same structure. If Rob stepped to his left, he could have walked around to the cottage’s back entrance. But, of course, the proper thing to do was to turn right and walk over the crumbling walkway to Warren’s front door.
It appeared that inside the home all the lights were turned off. For a small house, its doorbell was befitting a British country estate.
In a house this size, Rob thought, those chimes could wake the dead.
He waited a few moments more, but no Warren.
Rob was back at his vehicle when it occurred to him that if Warren had gone out, he most likely would have taken his car. Rob pondered for a few moments whether he wanted to snoop around the back of the cottage.
What the hell? I’ve come this far.
This time, as he stepped back over the creaking wood deck, he moved to his left. A sense of dread came over him that he did not fully understand. Then, he stopped suddenly. An icy chill went down his spine.
At the far end of the house, there was a
porch swing, ideally positioned for sipping a morning cup of coffee while enjoying a dramatic sunrise over the East Bay. Warren sat on the far right side of the swing. He was dressed in a tweed jacket, and he was slumped just slightly against the swing’s armrest.
There’s little that a newsman doesn’t see if he’s been in the business for a decade or more, but in sleepy Sausalito and its surrounding towns, the deceased have most often been tagged, bagged, and sent on their way to the morgue before a reporter arrives.
This was not one of those times.
Functioning on a blend of determined compulsion and uneasy revulsion, Rob approached what he logically assumed was the body of Warren Bradley.
The face was not ashen but had a wax-like patina. Warren wore a white shirt. The two top buttons were open, revealing a rather dapper-looking gold ascot. Because of Warren’s tweed jacket and black slacks, Rob assumed that the dead man must have requested the delay in filing his column because he had a date.
Rob imagined that Warren most likely nodded off and died peacefully in his sleep sometime later that night after he had returned home.
He must have come out on the porch for a breath of fresh air, Rob thought, perhaps to recover from one too many glasses of wine.
Warren’s hands were shoved down into the pockets of his jacket, apparently to keep him warm on what was likely a chilly night in the gulch.
Dazed by his discovery, Rob walked back to his car and reached for his cell phone. Others in a panic might have called 911, but Rob had stored in his contacts the non-emergency numbers for the Sausalito Police and Fire/Rescue service. In a town with steep hills and blind curves, it would take a few minutes for both the squad car and the fire department’s Emergency Medical Team to arrive, and it was evident to Rob that there was no need to rush.