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

by Martin Brown

  Unofficially retired and still shy of fifty, Grant suggested that they take a driving trip along the California coast. It was May, a perfect time for the two of them to enjoy this unique part of the world.

  They had visited Los Angeles and San Francisco on several occasions, mostly related to their lives in the acquisition and sale of fine art. But never had they taken the time to relax and explore the California coast. They started at the busy beaches and yacht-filled harbors of Newport Beach in Orange County, and took all the time they wanted heading north.

  They passed the mansions of Santa Barbara, and strolled along Sterns Wharf. They stopped at Pismo Beach, enjoyed the mission town of San Luis Obispo, and the ocean-front town of Morro Bay. They were wowed by the old Hearst Castle in San Simeon, and held their breaths at they proceeded cautiously up the winding and treacherous curves of that next stretch of Highway 1 between San Simeon and Big Sur.

  They stopped at Nepenthe for an early dinner while they took in incredible views of the ocean-hugging cliffs from the restaurant’s huge outdoor patio.

  After enjoying the adjacent communities of Monterey, Carmel by the Sea, and Pacific Grove they spent three days on the Sonoma Coast, north of San Francisco. Ten days into their trip, they parked their car along a deserted two-mile stretch of beach, about fifteen miles north of Fort Bragg and three miles south of the picture book small town of Westport, in Mendocino County. Walking barefoot, enjoying a warm sun and a crisp breeze, Grant looked out to sea and caught the unforgettable view of a massive gray whale breaching out of a calm ocean, perhaps no more than a hundred and fifty yards from the spot where he stood. Less than a minute later, he and Barbara, at the same time, said to each other, “Did you see that…” as a second whale, also traveling south to north, breached dramatically as well.

  They spread the small blanket they were carrying, and sat down on the dry warm sand; for over an hour, they watched as a parade of whales swam by. Later that afternoon, at the intimate bed and breakfast inn they had booked in Westport for their last night along the coast, they learned from the establishment’s manager that what they had seen was likely a feeding frenzy for krill as a pod of gray whales made their annual spring migration from the warm waters of Mexico’s Baja Peninsula to the Gulf of Alaska.

  “You could wait years to see a show like that,” the longtime Westport resident explained. “I suppose you two were just born under a lucky star.”

  It was that night, sitting on the porch outside their bedroom, listening to the relentless waves hitting the shore and looking up at a star-covered sky, that both of the Randolphs decided to trade the East Coast for the West Coast. The next morning at breakfast, with their appetites driven by the possibilities presented by new ideas, they began planning their move in earnest.

  They quickly decided that they would look for a home in the Bay Area. But while they had made many visits to San Francisco, mostly for studio openings, they didn’t know much about the communities around the world-famous city. They resolved to take whatever time they needed to learn about the East Bay, South Bay, and North Bay before making their choice.

  Traveling back to San Francisco along Highway 128, they made several stops at wineries along the Anderson and Alexander valleys. By the time they reached the Hotel Healdsburg, they had enjoyed one too many stops at the countless tasting rooms along the way, so they wisely took the last available room.

  Shortly after opening the door to their room, both Grant and Barbara fell on top of the king-sized bed and fell sound asleep. They woke up to the first rays of sunlight coming through the room’s heavy drapes. Sitting up on the bed, Grant looked around and gave a long, low whistle.

  “Barb, wake up. This has got to be the nicest room that I ever woke up in that I don’t remember checking into.”

  Jeez, you’re right, Grant. I wonder what we spent.”

  Neither one of them was pleased when they found out the room cost over nine hundred dollars for the night.

  “I guess it’s cheaper than a DUI and all the shit the rental company would have put us through if I’d run over a deer while driving around the back roads of Napa,” Grant reasoned.

  “And, God, what beautiful country this is,” Barbara added. “Not to mention all the great wines!”

  “Maybe we could be happy living here?” Grant wondered aloud.

  “I think 70 miles north of San Francisco is a little far for you to be from a major city. You may love fresh air and vineyards, but you’ve got steel, glass, and pavement in your veins,” Barbara said with a laugh.

  “You’re right, but there’s something to be said about finding a little more peace in our lives.”

  “I agree, darling. But too much peace, and I could see you losing your mind.”

  It was early when they stepped out to meet the day, discovering, thankfully, that they were at least sober enough to have parked their car in a legal spot.

  They wandered past the neat and charming town plaza and square, and found the perfect place to have a relaxing breakfast.

  They fell into a conversation with the couple sitting at the two-top table ten inches away from their own. Patrons of the popular breakfast place happily sacrificed some extra space and greater privacy for the efficient service and wonderful food of this cozy café. Between generous cappuccinos, yummy omelets, and homemade biscuits, they got to know the couple seated at the table next to them, Ray and Debbie Sirica, who had relocated from their native Chicago to the Bay Area ten years ago.

  They chose a town called Sausalito. Whereas, “Some of the locals can be a little quirky,” Ray and Debbie agreed that the town was a great place to live.

  Grant reasoned that Ray—a big man, tall, broad-shouldered, with big hands, and a large frame to match—was five or so years older than himself, probably fiftysomething, he reasoned. Debbie was a good deal closer to Ray in age than Barbara was to him. She was slim, with a pleasant smiling face. Her hair was tastefully tinted to cover her emerging gray, and her brown eyes never wavered in their focus. Her manner was kind and cautiously sincere.

  Grant dealt with a lot of personalities in the business of fine art. He had convinced himself over the years that he was a reasonably sound judge of character. Ray was one of those rare people who, the moment you met, felt as if you had known for a long time. His relaxed smile seemed to say, “What you see is what you get.” There was trustworthiness in his open manner. It was a quality that Grant took a liking to almost instantly.

  Both of the Randolphs felt comfortable enough with the Siricas to exchange contact information. Before they went their separate ways, Ray and Debbie asked if they would be in town on Friday night. “If so, come join us for a reception we’re holding for the city’s fine arts commissioners,” Ray suggested, and added, “They’re all people I think you’ll enjoy getting to know.”

  An hour later, as Grant and Barbara began the nearly two-hour ride south to San Francisco, he and Barbara agreed that Sausalito, a town they knew of, but had never spent any time in, might indeed be the perfect spot to begin a new and hopefully happier future.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  To both Barbara and Grant, Sausalito seemed to answer many of the desires they had difficulty verbalizing when they first imagined moving to California.

  For starters, like their new friends the Siricas, they would be putting bitterly cold winters behind them. Both couples had lived their entire lives with the reality of long winters, and often uncomfortably hot summers. Sausalito was blessed with what is often described as a Mediterranean climate: moderate temperatures year round, with a five-month season of occasional rainfall, and a seven-month period where it was rare for more than just a few drops of rain to fall.

  Additionally, unlike San Francisco just across the mile-wide entry to its dazzling bay—a place named by Spanish explorers in 1769, the Puerta de Oro, or in English, the Golden Gate—most of Sausalito was rarely subject to the cold fog that rolled into San Francisco on most summer days.

  After s
ettling into their room at the Casa Madrona Hotel in the center of the quaint little city, the Randolphs reached out to the Siricas and invited them to dinner at Poggio, the Italian trattoria adjacent to their hotel.

  The afternoon before their dinner engagement, the Randolphs took a leisurely stroll along the Sausalito waterfront, which is filled with seemingly endless piers lined with motor yachts and sailing sloops. Turning south, they walked past the small tourist district, which was filled with the usual assortment of day visitors. Further along, they strolled the south end of Bridgeway, which hugs the water as it winds its way up into the Marin Headlands and onto the Golden Gate Bridge.

  The tourist district itself lasts less than a mile. Where it ended, the Randolphs suddenly found themselves surrounded by a quiet picturesque town. Looking up at the homes stacked on the city’s hills, in the soft air and blue light of that May afternoon, it could have been a painting of a small Mediterranean seaside village.

  “It’s a little too perfect to be real, don’t you think?” Grant said to Barbara as they began up a steep path.

  They turned right and went up Third Street to a small neighborhood park called Southview. There, they sat down on a bench to recover from a climb neither of them were used to making, and looked out on a vista that included the San Francisco skyline, the Bay Bridge, and Oakland. Further east, they could see the iconic clock tower at the center of the Berkeley campus, as well as Angel Island, and the Tiburon Peninsula. Sitting in the middle of the bay was, “The Rock,” Alcatraz Island, home of the long-closed prison.

  Barbara leaned her head comfortably into Grant’s shoulder as he pulled her in close.

  “It’s just lovely, isn’t it?”

  “You have to keep reminding yourself that it’s real; it looks more like a scene from a movie,” Grant said.

  “It’s incredible that we’re the only ones sitting here. If there was a spot like this in Manhattan, it would be packed with people.”

  “You’re right, Barb, but you know,” Grant said, as he lifted his head to look all around, “this amount of quiet is something I’d need time getting accustomed to.”

  After years of living and working in the lower Manhattan neighborhoods of SoHo and Tribeca, noise, particularly car horns, was like the ongoing surround sound of an action film. You only notice it when it stops.

  “Wow, you’re right; sitting here, I don’t hear anything right now,” Barbara said. “No kids outside playing, no car horns, no sirens. It’s a little eerie.”

  Grant gave a little laugh, and after a long thoughtful pause said, “Weird, yes. But I think I could grow to love this kind of peace and quiet.”

  Barbara snuggled in and reached up to his lips for a kiss.

  “Does it make you happy, darling?” she asked.

  Grant thought for a moment, and said, “It does. I’m ready for a little more peace and quiet in our lives.”

  At dinner that night, Debbie and Ray shared with the Randolphs how they had come to Sausalito.

  “I took over my father’s business. He made high-end nightwear—pajamas, nightgowns, things like that. A couple of years ago, we were approached by a big manufacturer. They made us an offer to buy the entire operation that just, as my dad used to say, knocked our socks off. So, we took it, and started to ask ourselves, ‘What now?’ We can live wherever we want, so where would that be?’ There was, and is, a lot we love about Chicago. In a lot of ways, it’s a great town. But to be honest with you, the weather pretty much sucks, particularly in the winter.”

  “Florida and Arizona are not our thing,” Debbie added. “We always stayed a few extra days when a trade show brought us out to San Francisco. On days off, we would often take the ferry over to Sausalito. We just fell in love with this little town! So, when we had the chance to reinvent our lives, we started looking into home prices in the area. We bought after the tech bubble burst in 2000. It wasn’t cheap, but prices have gone up a lot since then.”

  “It’s a good investment,” Ray added. “Property values around here do one of two things. Either they stay flat for a year or two, or they steadily go up. As a general rule, the property value arrow is most often pointed up.”

  That next day, the Randolphs rented bicycles across the street from the hotel and rode north along the waterfront into the town of Mill Valley, where the bike trail ended in a plaza called the Mill Valley Depot. Once a station on the Northwestern Pacific Railroad’s Marin County Interurban Electric Train Service, which came to an end just a few years after the opening of the Golden Gate Bridge in 1937, the depot now was a coffee and book shop surrounded by high end boutiques. After chaining their bikes to a rack at the edge of the plaza, they purchased sandwiches and drinks and walked the few city blocks up to Old Mill Park, where they sat at a picnic table in the middle of a grove of Redwood trees.

  Later, while biking the same waterfront path back to Sausalito, they discussed their day and agreed that they had found one more reason to be quite certain that Southern Marin County was the perfect choice for them.

  That night, they took the short drive from their hotel to the Siricas home, on Sausalito Boulevard. It was their first time driving through the hills. Steep narrow lanes with blind curves can be a little intimating to someone driving through them for the first time, but the beautiful bay vistas around every bend more than made up for the discomforting feeling of learning to navigate their way through a wholly different environment.

  For a couple accustomed to the opulent homes of their multi-millionaire art collector clients, the Randolph’s were still overwhelmed by the Sirica’s home.

  “Looks like the cover of Architectural Digest,” Barbara said quietly to Grant, as they walked up the steps to the front door.

  “Why are you whispering?” Grant asked.

  “I’ve heard small towns can have big ears,” Barbara replied, still speaking in a hushed voice.

  “Let’s go inside and take a look around,” Grant said teasingly, in a soft voice.

  Grant and Barbara were greeted warmly by Ray and Debbie. None of the other guests had arrived yet, prompting Grant to ask if they had arrived too early.

  Ray laughed. “No problem, happy to see you guys. Let’s get you both a drink.”

  Their early arrival gave the Siricas time to walk the Randolphs around their property.

  As they stepped out onto the veranda for a postcard-worthy view of the bay and the surrounding hills, the Randolphs were once again deeply impressed by the beauty of what they already considered their new place in the world.

  “You can pretty easily see why we fell in love with this property,” Debbie said.

  “It’s just stunning, the house and the view,” Barbara replied.

  Once the thirty-plus guests arrived, everyone seemed interested in Barbara and Grant’s story—how they met, their experience owning and operating a Manhattan art gallery, the tragic events of 9/11, and Grant’s mystical good fortune in foregoing that breakfast at the top of the Trade Center on the day of the disaster.

  Ethel Landau, who detailed her longtime service on the arts commission, was not shy in telling Grant to get involved with her group. As they spoke, Warren—ever watchful, particularly of potential newcomers to Sausalito—paid careful attention.

  “If you do settle here, I want you to attend an arts commission meeting and find out what our group is all about,” Ethel said.

  “I’d enjoy that,” Grant responded enthusiastically.

  “Sausalito has a wonderful history with the arts. I think you’ll be impressed.”

  Grant nodded. “In fact, I’ve been reading up on it. Jean Varda, Shel Silverstein, Gordon Onslow—all renowned. It would have been fun to be part of the waterfront artist scene back then.”

  “Show off,” Warren muttered under his breath. He knew that two of the five commission seats were up in nine months. One of the commissioners had already made clear his intention to step down. Warren had his eye on the position. Now, it looked as if he’d have to com
pete for it with this newcomer.

  Maybe he’ll let loose with some tidbit that will knock him out of the box, Warren thought.

  He waited an hour, then walked over to Grant and introduced himself. “I understand that you and your wife are thinking of moving to our fair city,” Warren began.

  “That’s right,” Grant replied.

  “You know, we’re a very tight-knit little community. Some find it difficult to fit in.”

  “Where I come from, people make a space for themselves and just do their own thing. I guess Manhattan is just too big and too busy to pay much attention.”

  “Oh, it’s very different here,” Warren insisted. “We look out for our neighbors. We stay close. Probably, some would say too close.”

  “I think every place takes some getting used to,” Grant countered.

  “I’m sure you’ll do fine,” Warren assured him, “as long as you remember that people think you should be here for ten years or more before you play an active role in the community. I guess we’re just a little old-fashioned that way.” He shrugged. “By the way, did you try some of my bruschetta with white beans, tomatoes, and olives?” He lifted the tray beside them. It held the canapés Warren had brought to the party.

  Grant held up a hand. “I’ll pass. Now if you’ll excuse me, I see Barbara trying to wave me over.”

  How dare he, Warren fumed.

  At that moment, he knew tarnishing Grant’s image would one day be one of his pet projects.

  Later, back at their hotel, Grant said to Barbara, “Thanks for saving me from that creepy guy—you know, the one who thinks he’s a gourmet chef.”