by Martin Brown
Warren Bradley’s memorial service was being held at the old Presbyterian Church at the top of Excelsior Lane. It was one of those intimate wood structures, of which there were many in Sausalito that had a Thomas Kinkade fantasy quality about them.
The crowd that turned out was large enough that half of the mourners—those who arrived after nine-thirty—had to watch the service on two large video monitors in the church’s basement reception hall.
The Ladies of Liberty led the effort to make the service as memorable as possible. Ethel and Marilyn were in charge of floral arrangements for the church and the musical interludes. Bea and Robin were in charge of organizing the potluck brunch reception that was planned for after the service. Tissue boxes were tastefully placed throughout the church, along with enlarged pictures of Warren: stirring a sauce, pulling a roast out of the oven, decorating a cake, decanting a wine, and finally one of him poised over his laptop’s keyboard, ready to strike.
Sausalito is a small community. In New York, Dallas, Los Angeles, and a dozen other mega cities, a killer can vanish into a crowd. But that was harder to do in a town of only seven thousand souls.
I supposed that’s why Eddie is here, too, Rob reasoned, as the two men exchanged the nods of acquaintances as opposed to lifelong friends.
Rob had just come up to the podium when he noticed that Holly was also there, tucked into a small space by the church’s door. Her eyelids were half closed. Obviously, she also wasn’t used to being up at this hour on a weekend. Now, Rob was certain that his dogged production manager had become a dogged amateur sleuth.
“Warren Bradley brought something special into our lives,” Rob began, not really certain what that “something special” was. “His loss leaves a void in our lives. A void that will not be easily filled.”
Rob noticed Alma and the rest of the Ladies of Liberty dabbing the corners of their eyes with lace handkerchiefs and nodding approvingly.
Rob had long been accustomed to their disapproving glances every year at City Hall’s annual holiday season gathering, or, individually, as they passed him on the street and pretended not to notice him. Sometimes, it was the exact opposite. Last year at the annual July 4th picnic, they watched him like hawks, then whispered and frowned as he passed by with his children.
“Like many of you, I always enjoyed reading his column in the Standard,” he said, as he looked toward the back of the church and saw Holly rolling her eyes and mouthing, Oh please!
Rob shifted his gaze so that she was out of his sightline. The last thing he needed was to burst out laughing.
“His love of life showed up in everything he did, from all his volunteer work, to his loving preparation of some of the best gourmet dishes many of us have ever had the privilege to sample.”
Rob told of those times when Warren would stop by the office with leftovers from a dinner he had served guests the night before. “Warren, always generously thinking of the rest of us at the paper, would call and say, ‘Don’t go out for lunch.’”
Rob knew this was Warren’s way of angling for more space for his column, or a bigger byline, or perhaps the chance to confirm or deny some gossip he had heard while buzzing about town.
“In our grief,” Rob said, coming to a conclusion, “let us take time to be thankful for a life that enriched us as individuals, and greatly enriched our community. I’ll always think of Warren as preparing a gourmet dinner for the many people who loved him and who he loved in return. It is unlikely that any of us will meet someone as unique and as gifted ever again.”
“Thank God,” Holly mouthed silently for Rob’s benefit.
Personally, Rob didn’t think it was a strong ending, but each one of the Ladies of Liberty made it a point at the reception to go up and thank him for his “thoughtful and lovely words.”
Bea, a woman who wore a dour expression every day of the year, walked over to Rob and said, “Thank you for being here for Warren today. One of the very last times I spoke to him, he said, ‘You have to take certain risks as a journalist if you’re ever going to get the job done.’ I’ll always think of him when I see a man or a woman in your profession risking their personal safety so that the rest of us can live in a better world.”
“Yes…right,” Rob said, as he bit his lip to keep from smiling over the idea that Warren was anything like the reporter that Bea had just described. It didn’t surprise him that the comment was out of proportion, or that it carried the obvious subtext that Warren’s reporting on Grant Randolph had somehow led to his murder…a line of reasoning he thought the ladies must be spreading to anyone willing to listen.
At the same time, Rob could not help feel pleased by what he viewed as a momentary peace with his principle detractors.
He was in mid-bite of a piece of chocolate cake when Holly tugged at his sleeve. “Jeez, Rob. You were shoveling it a bit thick up there, weren’t you?”
“Would you have preferred if I got up there and called him an officious little snob with an overinflated sense of himself who had a bad habit of airing other people’s dirty laundry?”
“That would have been a good start.”
They both snickered at the thought, then Holly stood on her toes and whispered in his ear, “I’m thinking the killer is in this room! How about you?”
“That would be my bet,” Rob said, as he returned the smile of one more of the Ladies of Liberty.
Holly scanned the room. “So, let’s see…how about Randolph’s neighbor, Ray Sirica?”
“A little old, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, but the guy works out like five days a week! He may be in his fifties, but he’s still built like a tree trunk. I don’t think he’d have any trouble propping Warren up on that porch swing.”
Rob looked over at Sirica, who had come without Debbie to the service. While he never gave a man’s shape a second thought, he could appreciate Holly’s point. He had a benign smile, but there was a certain air about him that suggested he could easily snap a man’s neck if he felt it needed snapping.
“And, of course, that letter he sent in about Warren spreading ‘half truths’ regarding the incident between the Randolphs and saying, ‘none of us would want to be placed in the crosshairs of the gossiping gourmet,’” Holly said, as she used air quotes. “I don’t know him very well, but I wouldn’t want to have that guy pissed off at me.”
“How about the Randolphs leaving for New York the morning after Warren’s body was found?” Rob asked.
In the middle of their exchange, Karin walked in and asked, “What are you two doing? You look thick as thieves.”
There was no jealousy in Karin regarding Rob and Holly’s relationship. “Those two have been comrades under fire for many years,” Karin told friends. She referred to Holly as Rob’s office wife, and Karin knew better than most the stress of the job, having worked alongside Rob prior to starting a family. “Believe me,” she explained to any friend who asked, “Rob needs a woman to keep him in line, both at the paper and at home.”
“We think there’s a good chance that Warren Bradley’s killer is in this room at this very moment,” Holly whispered in Karin’s ear.
“Really?” Karin said. “So, you’re both going into the detective business as a side line?”
“No, sweetheart, but we’ve bought into Eddie’s supposition—that Warren knew his killer. We’re thinking he might be here, you know, hiding in plain sight,” Rob explained.
At that moment, Eddie came over and joined the three of them.
“See any suspicious looking characters?” Eddie asked Holly.
She gave a short laugh and said, “If you ask me, they all look pretty suspicious.”
Chief Petersen cleared his throat as he walked up and reached out his hand, “You did a good job, Rob.”
“These occasions really do bring people together,” Holly whispered into Karin’s ear.
“Thanks,” Rob said. He thrust out his hand and shook Petersen’s, who in turn greeted Eddie, Karin a
nd Holly.
Flanking Petersen were patrol officers Chris Harding and Steve Hansen.
“He was a very nice man,” Chris said, as he also shook hands with Rob and Eddie. After introductions, he nodded to Karin and Holly.
“We’re still talking about that great caramel chicken he made for us a couple of weeks back,” Harding said. “Gosh, that was good. Not to mention his pasta with veal, sausage and porcini ragu.”
“Yeah, that man really knew how to cook,” Hansen added.
Rob was tempted to point out that the only thing he did better than cook was to spread rumors about his neighbors, but he kept that to himself.
“I suppose you’re going to do a big piece about Warren and his death in next week’s paper,” Petersen said, causing Rob to wonder if he was fishing to see how he would approach the story.
Obviously, Petersen was hoping that this wouldn’t turn into a “Sausalito PD has once again dropped the ball” story.
Or, in this particular case, dropped the body.
“You know, in a murder investigation, we’re pretty much sidelined. We don’t have the staff or the resources to handle something like this.” Hansen and Harding, who, like Petersen, were in dress blues, smiled wisely, and nodded in unison. “That’s why we’re thankful to get the assistance of Eddie here and his department.”
Eddie nodded and smiled, but made no comment of his own.
After another round of handshakes, the three officers faded back into the crowd. Holly tugged Rob in close and whispered, “Hansen and Harding look healthy enough to throw Bradley over their shoulders and play dress up with him, don’t ya think?”
“I suppose you’re thinking they really didn’t like that caramel chicken of his?”
“Who knows? Maybe if I tied them both up, I could slap the truth out of them.”
“You know, Holly, you really have to stop reading all those hot cop romance books every day on your lunch hour.”
“Listen, a girl’s got to have some fun. I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but with the exception of a murder mystery every now and then, the community news business can get a little dull.”
“Yeah, who knows, Holly? If you stick around, in another ten or twenty years, you might get another mystery to solve.”
Over tea later that afternoon, Rob shared with Karin what he had learned the night before about Bradley’s final column.
“Eddie told me that they collected a number of Warren’s things and brought them to the county crime lab for analysis. They were happy to have his laptop. If it had named who he dined with Tuesday night, it might have been the big break they needed. Unfortunately, that day’s calendar just said ‘Dinner here.’ The most interesting item was that his next “Heard About Town” column demanded Randolph’s resignation from the arts commission.”
“Wow!” Karin said.
“I know. Eddie is wondering if he was looking for a comment from Randolph about what he was planning to write. Maybe that’s what brought Ray Sirica to his door around six forty-five that evening.” He frowned. “His computer indicated that he made his final edits on the piece just a few minutes earlier, but there was no comment from Randolph in his column.”
“Wouldn’t that keep Randolph off the suspect list?” Karin asked.
“Not really. Sirica might have gone to the house and told his pal Grant what Bradley was up to, causing Randolph to blow his stack and go up to Prospect to have a little talk with Warren. That talk might not have gone very well. Next thing you know, Bradley’s sitting on the back porch, minus two hands. Of course, the big problem with that scenario is, why all the clear evidence that Warren was entertaining a guest later that same night? It doesn’t make any obvious sense.”
“It’s like a giant jigsaw puzzle, isn’t it?”
“It is, and Eddie would sure like to have at least a few of the pieces fall into place.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
On Sunday morning, Rob woke with the thought that he still needed a fresh angle on the Bradley murder to lead his coverage of what some of the locals were calling Sausalito’s most talked about event since Randolph Hearst was sent packing.
The dailies and the television and radio outlets rushed in and covered the what, where, when and how.
Now, it was Rob’s turn to start covering the story’s final and most important aspect: The who.
To that end, Rob called Eddie to check on a couple of facts.
Eddie, always concerned about what was said over the phone, suggested that Rob come by his place, “On your way over, pick up some bagels,” Eddie insisted.
Eddie’s wife, Sharon, greeted Rob with a kiss on the check as he came through the door.
“There he is, the great orator!” Eddie said. “You should have heard him, hon, he had those old ladies weeping away for their dearly departed chef.”
“Don’t let him tease you, Rob. I ran into Marilyn Williams last night at Mollie Stone’s. She said that all of the Ladies of Liberty were very impressed with your eulogy. She even let it slip that Alma saw you in ‘a different and more positive light.’” Sharon, a short spunky red head who grew up in the neighboring town of Tiburon, tittered as she indicated quotes around Alma’s approving words.
“Oh, yes, our boy is quite a star,” Eddie said, putting on a cockney accent. “Sharon, put the kettle on so we can pour the lad a nice cup of tea.”
“Knock it off, you two. I’ve got to get serious and write a real piece for this week’s paper.”
“So, your real purpose wasn’t to bring us bagels, but to pepper me with more questions?” Eddie scowled, “You want something the daily news boys and girls missed when they came racing through town last week? Well, fire away, Clark Kent. Just remember, pal, I ain’t got much.”
“I’ll leave you boys to your gossip,” Sharon said, grabbing her hot cup of tea and a just-toasted buttered bagel. “But, Rob, think about giving Holly a shot at knocking out a lead on Warren Bradley. He once called her, and I quote, ‘a woman of questionable morals.’ Of course, he never said that to her face. That wasn’t his style.”
“Hey, I’m just trying to run a business here, you know, make a living,” Rob said.
“I know, darling,” Sharon said, as she bent down and kissed Rob’s cheek. “I’ll leave you and Sherlock to your work.”
“We both married interesting women. You have to agree on that,” Eddie said, as he took a sip of hot tea, putting his bare feet up on the kitchen table and sitting comfortably in his plaid pajamas. “As for the Bradley case, it’s pretty much where we left it on Friday afternoon. Unless it’s the murder of the governor, investigators and the ME’s office are pretty much off the hook when it comes to pushing cases forward over the weekend. But tell me what you’re thinking about writing, and let me see if I can add something to it.”
“Well,” Rob began, thinking out loud while hoping an idea might occur to either of them, “a lot of the basic facts are already out on the table. Obviously, the murder, the disfigurement of the body, Bradley being found on the porch, all that kind of information; but could I write about any suspects, people being questioned about their whereabouts at the time of the crime, etcetera.”
“Okay, let’s think about that. A lot of people in town know about the dust-up between Randolph and Bradley. You could ask me, if Randolph has been questioned, given their contentious relationship, and I could say, “The Randolphs flew to New York City on business Wednesday morning, and have been contacted by the police who requested an interview upon their return, which is not expected until Wednesday of this week.
“You could also note that Warren had an elevated blood alcohol level at the time of his death. Police have assumed that he was entertaining a guest in the hours before he was killed, but no one yet has come forward to say that they were that guest, or to suggest that they might know who Mr. Bradley’s guest was.”
“Can I mention that you interviewed Ray Sirica?”
“That’s probably alright. The fact tha
t Sirica was seen driving to Bradley’s home in the hours before the Bradley murder originated with a neighbor. Just call the neighbor. You could also call Sirica for comment on the case.”
And if he doesn’t disclose that he was interviewed by the police?” Rob asked.
Just mention that Marin County Sheriff Department’s Inspector, Eddie Austin, was seen entering his home, and he’ll give. Let’s face it—I didn’t pull up in front of his house and walk up his steps with a cloak of invisibility wrapped around me.”
“True that,” Rob laughed.
“Some of Sausalito’s pinheads want to make Sirica out to be some mob syndicate guy. That’s complete bullshit! Having your name end in a vowel doesn’t make you a made man. Sirica got lucky and sold the pajama business he inherited from his folks for a small fortune. Sirica is about as hard to crack as an egg,” Eddie said with a chuckle, as he took a bite of his bagel.
Rob nodded. “Okay, so what was Bradley’s alcohol level, and what, if anything, did it mean?”
“It doesn’t tell us much more than that he had enough booze in him to get a DUI from Sausalito’s finest, which isn’t much, as we both learned as kids. But there was not a level of booze that would have contributed to his death…at least, not directly. The unknown factor is whether that amount of wine would make him sleepy enough to make the killer’s likely act of suffocation that much easier to perform. In that scenario, the alcohol would be a contributing factor. It’s not an exact science; in a thirty-two year-old, that scenario would be unlikely, but at seventy-two, it could certainly have slowed his response to his attacker, if he ever really had any response at all. You could say, minus his fingers, we have no evidence of whether he clawed at his killer, but as I told you before, any real struggle would have led to at least some bruising to the face.”
“So then, I can say that police suspect that Bradley’s hands were severed, most likely, as an attempt by the killer to send an as of yet undetermined message?”
“Free press, Rob. Say anything you want. Just do me the favor of passing by me any comments that you’re attributing to me.”