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

by Martin Brown

  Warren’s look of feigned innocence and barely disguised delight added to Grant’s increasing sense of fury. Grant’s right hand formed a fist. Oh, how easy it would be to permanently wipe that smirk off Bradley’s face. But inside, he could hear that controlling half of his mind shouting at him, No, you can’t do that!

  He settled for dressing him down, “That was a cheap shot you took.”

  Sausalito’s core group of busybodies, who were scattered around the two of them, hoped to appear as if they were looking elsewhere, while desperately trying to hear every word that was being said.

  “Now, Grant, calm down,” Warren said, resorting to the story line he had been busy passing off to every ear in town that was open to him: Grant Randolph was a dangerous, reckless hothead who should take his ill manners, and questionable breeding, back to New York City.

  “Don’t tell me to calm down. You knew exactly what you were doing when you wrote that bullshit about my not being available for comment. You didn’t want to hear what I had to say, because the truth would have damaged your snide little story.”

  At this point, Grant’s voice was loud enough for fans of both opera and social missteps to hear. Given an audience, Warren said, “Would someone please tell a police officer that I’m feeling very threatened by this man.”

  Ray walked over and took Grant’s arm. Instinctively, Grant promptly jerked it away.

  Everyone held their collective breaths, just as Officer Chris Harding walked over. “What seems to be the problem, Mr. Bradley?”

  Warren, greatly relieved to have the tall muscular young police officer at his side, used the opportunity to pour a little added salt into Grant’s deeply wounded reputation. “Mr. Randolph, Officer, seems to be agitated about my column this week in the Standard, and I’m beginning to fear for my safety!”

  If looks could kill, Grant’s anger would have dispatched Warren to a better place at that very moment.

  Harding, doing his best to strike a disinterested pose, said, “Okay, well if we’re done here, let’s just move along.”

  Ray, interested in getting Grant away from Bradley as soon as possible, put his arm around Grant. “Come on, buddy, let’s get out of here. This was enough excitement for one night.”

  Grant stood there. Finally, he turned his back on Warren.

  As he walked back to where Barbara and Debbie were standing, their horrified expressions weren’t needed to validate what he already knew:

  He had done a very foolish thing.

  As his eyes scanned the people around the small park, all of whom were staring back at him, he knew he had taken a bad situation and made it that much worse.

  Grant was still steaming the next day when he and Ray made their daily pilgrimage to Gold’s Gym.

  He thanked Ray for taking hold of him. “I so wanted to wipe the smirk off that butthole’s face. Thanks for coming over, Ray, and saving me.”

  “Nothing you wouldn’t have done for me, buddy. Listen, if you want to step on this knucklehead’s throat, and you’ve got a few bucks lying around, go talk to a lawyer. Find out if you can sue him and that rag of a newspaper that prints his column every week.”

  It was an idea that, in all his anger, Grant had just not thought about.

  Later that night, he went online to Martindale.com and checked the reviews of several local attorneys, finally choosing two to call and arrange appointments. He decided to keep mum about it to Barbara, though, because he wanted to present her with the possibility of taking a civil approach to whipping that irksome, mean-spirited busybody after he had all the needed information.

  “But look what this guy did to both me and my wife,” Grant retorted, as he pushed the article under the nose of the second attorney, Bob Ivan.

  Bob’s credentials were impeccable. Apparently, he was revered at the county courthouse for being wise, considerate—and best of all, someone you never wanted to go up against in a courtroom. With bright blue eyes that did not look possible for a man approaching eighty, Ivan had the quiet demeanor of a country lawyer, which belied the savvy of a top-flight San Francisco corporate attorney with an unmatched string of courtroom wins.

  “Don’t get me wrong, Grant,” Ivan explained gently. “If I were you, I’d want to wring the SOB’s neck. But the courts are loathe to sit in judgment of the fourth estate.”

  “Why should those pricks get a free ride?”

  “Simple. Because judges, who are elected officials, aren’t anxious to appear as though they are stepping on a free press. Also, nothing he wrote was factually inaccurate. I have no doubt that he put the story in the worst light possible, but in no way does it rise to the legal definition of libel.”

  “But he lied when he wrote that we were not available for comment.”

  “Even if that’s the case, that’s almost impossible to prove.” With his right hand, Ivan brushed away a cowlick of chalk white hair from his forehead. “Look, I’ve no doubt that Mr. Bradley is playing games. Still, no judge is going to hold him to account as to whether or not he dialed the right number when calling you to get a comment.”

  As loath as Grant was to admit it, he knew Bob Ivan was right.

  He shared the story of his meeting with Ivan the next day at the gym with Ray.

  “Sounds like Ivan is a stand up guy,” Ray conceded.

  Grant nodded. “I got that impression, too. I just wished there was something he could do about Bradley.”

  Ray snorted. “This is why people take matters into their own hands. In the Chicago neighborhood where I grew up, Warren would have been taken for a ride. And I’ll promise you this—no one would have ever seen him again.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Warren was experiencing what he joyfully considered a season of good fortune—first the domestic upheaval at the Grants, followed by the Saturday evening confrontation at Sausalito’s Night at the Opera.

  It was in this state of bliss that he sat down on Monday morning to write a new column that began with the headline, “New Concerns Surface over Art Commission Chairman Grant Randolph.”

  In it, he told the story of Randolph’s “violent hostility toward this reporter,” and concluded that anyone who might have questioned whether the volatile nature of Grant’s temperament was fact or fiction had their “voices quieted by the sight of Mr. Randolph disturbing the bliss of what had otherwise been a joyful night of opera.”

  Later that evening, after Rob read Warren’s latest salvo targeting Grant Randolph, he winced and thought to himself, “If I was Randolph, I’d want to punch him in the nose too.”

  He was tempted to call Warren and tell him to rework the piece before Tuesday’s press time, but once again hesitated. If he simply suggested that Warren tone down his piece, he would undoubtedly go whining to the Ladies of Liberty claiming that Rob Timmons was preventing him from reporting the entire story. One way or another, the ladies would try to make life difficult for him and his newspaper. Previously, they had started a quiet campaign urging Sausalito merchants to curtail their advertising in the paper because of two series the Standard had done. One on the shortcomings of the Sausalito Police Department, and the other on the conflicts of interest committed by two of their favorite planning commissioners. The campaign fizzled only because several of the merchants had been the victims of overnight robberies, and their pet planning commissioners had made a few very loyal friends among the town’s business owners, but a much greater number of enemies.

  Still, reigniting the animus of the Ladies of Liberty was risky business. In a good week, the paper’s advertising sales were borderline. Too many weeks of the year, the paper’s Sausalito advertising support fell below the cost of printing and mailing the weekly into every home.

  Fortunately, Tuesday morning brought letters from Barbara Randolph and Ray Sirica that attempted to present Grant in a far better light. Knowing that “Heard About Town” appeared next to the Mailbag column, Rob made sure that Barbara’s and Ray’s letters were placed at the top
of the column.

  Barbara’s letter emphasized that their argument was a “Shakespearean series of tragic misunderstandings,” and in no way reflected on the character of her husband, Grant, who “in reality was the most loving and supportive partner any woman could ever hope to have.”

  Ray’s letter was stronger in its approach. “As a longtime friend of Grant and Barbara Randolph, I have known them to be a loving and mutually supportive couple. We all have moments when we’re not at our best—times that we would not want a local busybody going through our garbage or deceptively teasing information out of our neighbors.” Then, referring to the longstanding, albeit unspoken, nickname for Warren that had never before appeared in print, Ray wrote, “But most of us are fortunate enough not to be placed in the crosshairs of the gossiping gourmet.”

  The salvos exchanged in the Standard that week did nothing to quiet the local furor. In fact, it increased the attention to the issue. At local eateries from F3 to Sushi Ran, 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 recognized that Sirica’s letter did to him what he had hoped to do to Grant. Warren 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 less sinister light.

  Ray’s portrayal of Warren as the “gossiping gourmet,” who goes looking through trash to find tidbits to embarrass people, or teases information out of unsuspecting neighbors, represented Sirica’s clever attempt to turn Warren the accuser into Warren the accused.

  Alma knew one thing for certain: 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 never be given a 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 to be considered, “One of us!”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Having an endless calendar of special events to which Warren would bring a prepared dish, what he actually enjoyed most was using his cooking skills on those rare occasions when he entertained at his small hillside cottage.

  This particular evening was one Warren had been anticipating 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 from all this commotion regarding Randolph and his unpleasant encounters with both him, and his most likely mob-connected pal, Ray Sirica!

  Soon after Warren arrived in town, he befriended a childless widow named Danvers. He cooked for her, did her shopping, and took her to doctor’s appointments.

  Shortly after she died in her sleep one winter night, Warren moved into the Danvers home. At the time, that raised a few eyebrows among the silver-haired set, but it seemed like a reasonable exchange. For many years, he had cared for her, and, if the rumor was true, at one point he had been her “younger lover.” They had a documented agreement, supposedly memorialized by one of the county’s many estate attorneys, specifying the transfer of the property deed to Warren at the time of her death.

  Although the home was small compared to the estates of Sausalito’s landed gentry, Warren was perfectly happy there. Having turned fifty six the year he moved in, and with no plans to ever start a family, the Danvers’ cottage met his three greatest expectations: an adequate kitchen, a wonderful bay view, and a home up on the hill, which, in terms of Sausalito society, meant he had arrived.

  So engrossed was he in the preparation of his favorite sauce that he completely forgot that this was also the evening his weekly column, “Heard About Town,” was due.

  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 evening.

  "Hello, Rob," he began, making certain his message had an air of relaxed assurance. My column for this week is nearly done, but I just want to polish it a bit more and I have to go out for the evening. I'll have it for you by noon tomorrow. It’s an important column, and I think you'll like what I've done.”

  Most of the message was an utter fabrication. In fact, Warren had no idea what he was going to write about, meaning this column’s approximate length of seven hundred and fifty words would be even more painful than usual. But, as he lovingly sautéed the veal in a wine sauce until it browned, his mind wandered over a range of possible topics.

  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's Fine Arts Commission to take a stand on the subject of violence against women. Once he settled on this topic, the entire column began to write itself.

  Warren, a master chef in the nasty business of scheming, knew full well that Sirica was attempting to entangle him in his own web of gossip. The only way to extradite himself from that was to elevate the issue beyond one domestic dispute. As he reminded himself, and intended to remind his readers, the core facts of this story were not his creation. The police had been called! 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! What part of any of this was acceptable behavior in a civilized society?

  Warren’s thoughts and indignation for that loathsome man Randolph were rapidly 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 into a Word file. Were he to wait until tomorrow, the heat of his message 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 pot to do one more quick check, and he filled a large pot slightly more than halfway with the water he would use to cook his pasta. Then, he put a low flame below it, so it would begin to warm. Warren, still-inspired stepped into his small cluttered bedroom and sat down at his desk in a tiny alcove. He opened his aging off-brand laptop and began to state his case for the removal of Grant from high office:

  Much has been said in the past two weeks about the disappointing behavior of Fine Arts Commission Chairman 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, it is nonetheless shocking and greatly discomforting that an individual holding an important position in our fair city's cultural life was brought, handcuffed, to county jail, facing possible charges of assault and battery!

  Readers of this column know how stridently I have argued for a return to the standards of proper conduct. I have no 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 behavior reflects poorly on our city’s Fine Arts Commission, an august group that has been entrusted since it’s founding in 1972
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 chair—let alone a member of the commission—sends the wrong message to both the arts community and to our citizenry. The time has arrived for commission members and Sausalito citizens who value the dignity of each and 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 a thought occurred to him: hadn't he just left a message for Rob Timmons advising him that this week’s column would arrive no latter than noon tomorrow?

  It would appear odd to submit a completed article to him sixty minutes later, particularly after making the claim that he was heading out for the evening. Plus, while he thought he had created a powerful and undoubtedly well-written piece, things might look different to him in the morning. After all, “expel this viper from our midst,” was perhaps a bit 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 his piece.

  “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 lovely evening.

  No sooner had he savored that first careful sip of the expensive Chianti than the doorbell rang. 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 by thirty minutes. Warren took a quick desperate look in the mirror. He brushed his hair back, silently regretted his aging face, and went to open the door.

  To his surprise—and discomfort—he found himself staring into the stern looking features of Ray Sirica.