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

by Martin Brown

  Barbara shook her head. “You should have seen his face when you passed on his appetizer. Talk about taking it personally! You know, Grant, you could have told him you were gluten-intolerant. Oh, by the way, he also writes for the local paper—The Sausalito Standard.”

  Grant rolled his eyes. “Let me guess, restaurant reviews.”

  “I hear it’s more like a gossip column.” Barbara laughed. “Based on the look on his face when you dissed his bruschetta, I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re his next victim.”

  “He did say he wanted to interview us for the paper, after we settle into town. But that was before I made him cry.” Grant shrugged. “I don’t know what we would tell him. Quite frankly, I got the feeling that he was nothing more than an old busybody.”

  “He seemed harmless enough to me,” Barbara countered.

  “I guess Ray and Debbie are right when they say that the place is just an overgrown village with a lot of different kinds of people. I’m just wondering if it might get a little claustrophobic after a while.”

  “Any time we want, there’s a big city called San Francisco just a few minutes away that we can go visit,” she reminded him.

  “You’re right.” Grant’s mouth relaxed into a smile. “Sausalito will certainly be a big change from Manhattan. I’m just wondering if we’ll miss living in a place where hardly anyone knows your name.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Just four months after their first introduction to Sausalito, Barbara and Grant pulled into the driveway of their new home.

  It wasn’t the Siricas’ mini-mansion, but it was probably the best three-bedroom “cottage” that two million dollars could buy in Sausalito.

  Between the sale of their condo and the money from their share of the gallery, they still had a good amount in savings left over, allowing them both to live in ample comfort.

  Grant and Barbara had no doubt that they would both re-engage with the world of fine art at some point. But, for now, they wanted to focus on establishing a new life in a completely different place.

  As Grant soon discovered, all of his unspent energy, once invested in the daily pressure of life in the Big Apple and the challenge of staying ahead of his competition in the endlessly competitive world of fine art sales, now needed a new outlet. Picking out fabric swatches and comparing paint chips as they tinkered with every room of their new home was not going to accomplish that.

  While out for a walk one afternoon with Ray, Grant shared with him that he was loving his new home and his new surroundings. “But I’m itching to burn off some excess energy.”

  “Been there, done that,” Ray said without hesitation. “How about if we get ourselves a couple of gym memberships? We could both benefit from some honest sweat. All this good living is turning me into a pile of mush.”

  “If I remember correctly, there’s a gym near the Sausalito houseboat docks,” Grant suggested.

  Ray shook his head. “Nah. The place is 90% aerobics machines; it doesn’t feel like a real gym to me.”

  “What’s a real gym?”

  “I was a starting defensive center on my high school’s varsity football team,” Ray explained. “With the exception of the last few years, I’ve worked out regularly since I was fifteen. I’ll know the gym we need when I see it.”

  When they stepped inside of Gold’s Gym, near the town of Corte Madera, about 10 miles north of Sausalito, Ray knew they had arrived.

  The place smelled like a gym, for one thing. As they strolled around the cavernous space that had once served as a distribution warehouse, Ray was particularly impressed at the three different areas dedicated to strength resistance training. From racks of free weights to dozens of pulley operated weight machines, Ray liked what he saw. When one of the gym’s fitness associates told them that the monthly membership was a mere thirty bucks with no initial membership fee other than an upfront charge for the first month, they looked at each other, smiled, and signed on the dotted line.

  On the short drive back south to Sausalito, Ray talked excitedly about their new gym. In fact, it was all he could talk about, starting with the comment, “Thirty bucks? Debbie spends more than that getting her nails done every week.”

  “I’ve never been much of a gym guy, but I’ve got to admit, I’m excited too.”

  “Buddy, you’ll see what a big difference this is going to make! Look, Grant, we’re both getting to the age where we start to fall apart if we don’t do something to slow that process down. In your twenties, you can coast, you should start paying attention in your thirties, and if you’re not doing something to improve your body in your forties, it shows.”

  “Ray, you’re right. I enjoy the good life. But cocktails, appetizers, steaks, and dessert while sitting out on your deck and admiring the view is not going to get me into the best shape of my life.”

  “We’ll be a little sore the first couple of weeks, but believe me, Grant, you’re going to see some real changes over the next few months, and you’re going to like what you see.”

  Grant did indeed like the results that he was seeing only a few weeks after he started. He particularly noticed the way Barbara ran her nails across his chest after he showered and walked into the bedroom with only a towel wrapped around his waist. While he didn’t tell her, he was proud that she was noticing his progress.

  Two months into what Ray referred to as his “Sirica boot camp program,” the changes were becoming even more noticeable. Grant’s body frequently balked at the demands he was putting upon it, but the increased passion of his and Barbara’s lovemaking more than compensated for a little strain here and a little soreness there.

  It had been a long time since Grant had caught Barbara looking at him longingly. This subtle but noticeable change in her made his commitment to Ray’s rigorous workout program that much stronger.

  Ray admitted that he, too, had seen a change in Debbie. “She hasn’t shown this much interest in me, physically, since we were both twentysomethings. It’s really nice getting some of that back.”

  The cottage was in good condition, but it needed a lot of attention before Barbara and Grant would be truly pleased with its appearance. For starters, there was the hideous wallpaper in both the dining room and living room that had to be removed. The bedrooms were painted soft shades of beige, probably a wise choice for the seller seeking to provide muted tones that would not offend prospective buyers.

  But it was certainly not to the Randolphs’ liking; both of who believed that color gave a room life and personality.

  “And,” as Barbara noted, going from room to room with Grant, “there are so many small changes that could make a big difference, crown molding throughout, new windows, and new window treatments.”

  It wasn’t their initial intention to sink more money into what was already a costly home, but it was hard to resist. “A home with a lovely view, in an unquestionably lovely place should present itself to the world with the tasteful touches it deserves,” Barbara reasoned.

  In the evenings, they sat on the high terrace holding cocktails and continued to enjoy their expansive bay view. The Siricas had warned them “for the first three to six months, the views take up a great deal of your attention.”

  “I think you always appreciate the beauty, but it’s not quite so hypnotic after you’ve lived here for at least a few months,” Ray explained.

  After six months of loving attention created the look and feel they had envisioned the first day they walked through the door, it was time for both of them to look elsewhere for diversions.

  Barbara and Grant continued to enjoy Ray and Debbie’s company, but after one more evening of hearing Ray talk about how you decide when to drop one nightwear designer and go with another, both of them decided it was time to “widen our circle of friends.”

  To that end, Barbara happily accepted an invitation to an early afternoon meet and greet at the Sausalito Women’s League. That same day, Grant attended his first meeting of the Sausalito Fine Arts Commiss
ion.

  Barbara noted that most of the talk at the league gathering, held in a century-old building that was an estate gift from the league’s founder Dorothy Landau, the grandmother of Ethel Landau, centered on the Landau family, spoken of in reverential terms, and the history of the group.

  A light luncheon was served with a mixed fruit cobbler prepared by, as Alma Samuels proudly announced, “Sausalito’s master chef, Warren Bradley.”

  During a pleasant, but as Barbara later explained to Grant, a “rather staid event,” most of the conversation centered around an annual program called the Winter Follies, a holiday season satirical musical review of life in Sausalito.

  Ethel Landau, in showing a photo album to Barbara of previous follies, pointed to a chorus line of women with red cheeks and red noses, and was told, first year members are expected to join the “reindeer chorus.” Barbara smiled, as she looked in horror at the pictures of overly happy women in ridiculous outfits that looked as though they had been co-created by Martha Stewart and Hugh Hefner.

  Warren made a point of sitting next to Barbara for a brief time, and told her how impressed he was with both she and her husband. After a few moments, she thought that Grant was quite right in suggesting that there was something off-putting about Sausalito’s generous gourmet.

  Ray and Grant could not get in their usual morning workout, so he was not home when Barbara came back from her luncheon. Later, when Grant came in, he rushed to take a shower and then head out for the commission meeting that, to Grant’s way of thinking, started much too early at six o’clock.

  The meeting took place in the senior center, located in the basement of city hall. It had just started when Grant entered and quickly took a seat. The five members of the commission sat at a long narrow conference table facing five rows of chairs, seven seats across, arranged for an audience that largely chose not to attend. In fact, there was one more commissioner, five, than attendees, four.

  With such a small gathering, the commission’s elderly chairperson, Arthur Bingham stopped to introduce himself and the other members of the commission to this first-time attendee. Ethel Landau told her fellow commissioners that Grant had an “impressive background in fine arts, and I hope he will be a regular attendee at future meetings.”

  Bingham invited Grant to “stay for refreshments after the meeting, so we can all get to know you better. “We have a mixed fruit cobbler that has generously been prepared by Sausalito’s gracious gourmet, Warren Bradley.”

  Grant turned to his right to find the outstretched hand of that frumpish man with the unruly mustache. Grant smiled and nodded. With pleasant smiles, both men turned back toward the commission, who all nodded politely in return.

  The two other guest attendees were there to present proposed agreements for tent rentals and catering services for the annual art gala. By the meeting’s conclusion, only Warren and Grant were left as guests.

  Ethel took Grant aside and told him that Bingham, as she earlier had suspected, would retire after this term.

  “Please do consider getting involved; we need some young blood in the mix, and you’ve got the credentials to make a marvelous addition to the commission.”

  Warren did not appreciate what he was seeing and attempting to overhear.

  “With all the cobblers I’ve prepared for this group, I should be the next commission member,” he thought. Regardless of wounded feelings, however, Warren reminded himself to smile as he suggested to Grant that he help himself to some cobbler. Grant’s refusal, patting his flat abs and saying that he had not yet had dinner, was one more slight in Warren’s view.

  At home, as they talked over cocktails, they quickly realized that they had both come away from their social interactions with different points of view.

  Barbara sighed. “After seeing the Sausalito Women’s League in action, it’s all too silly for me.”

  Grant shrugged. His meeting had left him considering the commission’s future potential. “The commission is well-intentioned, and they have an idea of what they want to do. I think they just need a little help getting there.”

  “What are they hoping to accomplish?”

  “I think they see themselves as a way of bringing greater attention to the fine arts that are already here in Sausalito and Southern Marin. They have an art history here that runs pretty deep, and there’s an old marine construction building at the north end of town that now houses the studios of some twenty or so local artists. I had heard about it, but never gave it much thought until tonight.”

  “I’m surprised your radar for emerging talent didn’t take you over there before now.”

  “I think I’ve it switched off, at least as it pertains to the marketing of fine art.”

  “Well, I think it’s grand that you’d like to get involved,” Barbara said, with what he thought sounded like a hint of disappointment in her voice.

  “We could get involved together. There’s certainly a lot to be done.”

  “I’ll think about it, Grant. Your favorite part of the business was always cultivation of emerging artists. What I enjoyed most was client cultivation—bringing collectors and artists together. And even better, introducing people of means into the world of collecting.”

  “Sweetheart, any time you want to look at some of the galleries in San Francisco, to either work at or affiliate with independently, I’m totally open to that.”

  Barbara smiled, kissed Grant on the cheek, and then passed her hand over his chest. “Wow, these pecs of yours are getting harder by the week!” She moved her index finger around his shoulders and down his strong arms. “All of this fresh air must agree with you. You’re turning into a werewolf.”

  “I don’t think it’s the fresh air. It’s Ray, kicking my butt every time I try to slack off.”

  “Well, I like the results.”

  Barbara pulled Grant closer and kissed him deeply.

  “A girl could get carried away by a guy like you.”

  Inspired by her admiration, Grant bent down wrapped his arms around the back of her thighs and lifted her off the ground.

  Barbara, in jest, slapped his back and said, “Put me down, you brute.”

  “Tarzan like Jane. Take Jane to cave.”

  “Alright, you beast, just remember to be gentle with me…well, not too gentle.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  One month after he attended his first meeting, Grant was invited to apply for Arthur Bingham’s vacated position on the commission. Hearing that Ethel Landau had reached out to Grant, Warren chose not to apply for the same seat. Grant was unopposed and selected with little discussion. The other commissioners suggested that Ethel resume the position she had held previously as the commission’s chair.

  To the surprise of everyone in the room, she said, “I’d like to nominate Grant Randolph for the position of chair. I think he’s superbly qualified and would bring a new level of energy to the commission.” The other three commissioners, who had long grown weary of the demands of serving on the commission, happily deferred to Ethel’s suggestion, and to the surprise of everyone in the room, Grant was suddenly the new chair of the city’s art commission. It was an all but unheard of ascension, considering that he was relatively new to the city and new to the commission. But, of the many positions sought after by Sausalitans, service on the arts commission was near or at the bottom of the town’s many political plums. You did have a star turn one night a year during the annual art commission gala, but a year’s worth of twice-monthly meetings more than negated that honor.

  Warren repeated Ethel’s comments about and praise for Grant in his column of that week, gritting his teeth with each word he wrote. He had to satisfy himself with the thought that the man he now thought of as “pretty boy,” would one day fall from the lofty pedestal that Ethel had placed him upon. Warren never imagined how soon that fall would come.

  To Barbara’s amazement, Grant really got into his work with the fine arts commission, of which his favorite part was mee
ting the promising young artists who made up Sausalito’s Gate Six Artist’s Cooperative, all of whom he encouraged to apply for his new program of funding artists in residence.

  Meanwhile, Barbara had to come up with an acceptable excuse for ducking the offer to join the Sausalito Women’s League. When Marilyn Williams, one of Alma Samuels’ lieutenants and a charter member of the Ladies of Liberty, eventually did call, Barbara was prepared to be perfectly charming—and completely dishonest.

  “Oh, Marilyn, this is so sweet of you to call…Yes, I had so much fun at the luncheon. But since I last saw all of you, I’ve accepted a position with the Moss Gallery on Post Street, in the city.”

  Marilyn sounded like she was getting ready to say something, so Barbara kept speaking.

  “I’ve been so busy settling into my new job and adjusting to the commute back and forth from the city. I hope the invitation to the club will remain open so I may reapply when things at my new job settle down.”

  “Oh, absolutely, my dear,” Marilyn assured her, although her tone hinted at her dismay. “Just let me know. And I do have to tell you that I’ve been hearing so many good things about Grant’s work on the arts commission. He’s making quite a name for himself with all the right people.”

  Barbara hummed and purred her way through the rest of the conversation. During her time in town, she’d begun to learn that warm welcoming smiles could turn into disapproving frowns with one social misstep. Turning down the invitation to join the league was pushing the envelope for anyone who wanted to remain on the right side of proper society.

  Even though it was a tiny town, when compared to their lower Manhattan social set, neither of the Grants appreciated being viewed as social outsiders, regardless of the arena they were playing in. As for the position at the Moss Gallery on San Francisco’s Post Street, her story was something of an embellishment. Barbara had interviewed just two days earlier for the position of gallery sales associate with Anna Ruth Moss, the seventy-two-year old founder. The Moss Gallery was considered by most aficionados to be the city’s leader in both the purchase and the sale of works by California’s diverse body of established and emerging artists.