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

by Martin Brown

  “Of course, Eddie. And could it have been something more potent than wine that Bradley was drinking?”

  Interesting you should ask that, Rob. A simple blood test can’t distinguish between beer, wine, and whiskey. But because the ME’s staff wanted to check for any toxic substances that might have been slipped into Bradley’s drink that would make killing him by suffocation that much easier; they confirmed that the only identifiable substance in the alcohol found in him carried the chemical signature of wine.”

  “Could they still get accurate results, given that his body was not found for eighteen or more hours?”

  “Yes, because he was outside on a mild Sausalito afternoon, on a back porch that gets sun in the morning. That wouldn’t really affect decomposition of the body. More than likely, he was out there through the entire previous night, when temperatures were down in the upper forties. The afternoon high briefly reached seventy degrees, but his back porch was in shade well before that. Now, on the other hand, leave a body on a porch swing in Houston for eighteen hours in the middle of May, and you have a lot worse situation. In any kind of significant heat, a body begins to decompose in a hurry.”

  “Did his stomach contents tell you much about the time he was killed?”

  “Some. A good deal of what he ate that evening had not been fully digested, but it doesn’t help us much as it pertains to establishing a time frame. Body temperature, at the time a body is retrieved, can give you a reasonable guesstimate. In a case like this, where you’ve got a dead guy sitting out on his back deck for nearly a full day, the old ‘time of death,’ estimates start to get pretty squirrelly. Their best guestimate is between eleven p.m. and midnight.”

  “Obviously, you must have done some things to look for prints and other bio signatures that the killer could have left behind.”

  “Well, listen to you, Rob—‘bio signatures,’ la-dee-dah,” Eddie teased. “You’ve been signing up for those FBI Citizen Academy forensic courses in your spare time, haven’t you? I know some of those Design Review Board meetings can get pretty heated, but they rarely lead to murder. Admit it—you wouldn’t mind if the case of the gossiping gourmet led to a string of murders all around the county.”

  “Come on, Eddie, stop busting my chops. So, there’s nothing you have in the way of prints or physical evidence?”

  “You’re leading the witness,” Eddie laughed while shaking his head. “I’ll tell you, man, the crime lab boys gave that place the once-over. The porch swing had prints, but they all belonged to the Sausalito PD and the fire guys, from when they were doing their comedy act trying to get his body off the swing and onto a stretcher. Other than that, we came up with a whole lot of nothing. I think our biggest break is that the body was found on the back porch of the cottage. Can you imagine the mess those cops and fire rescue boys would have made if they had actually gone traipsing through the house?”

  “You still turned up little helpful evidence inside, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but it’s a lot better to know that than to have to figure out where the contamination of the murder scene ends, and where the evidence begins.”

  Eddie paused and took a long sip of tea. “Rob, this guy is no doubt deranged. As we were saying the other day, he was methodical enough to clean up his prints. He also knew to wait long enough after the victim died so that he could whack off the hands without making a mess. Let’s just say he knows more than the average killer about the condition of a dead body. I wouldn’t want you sharing that with our fellow citizens.”

  “I’ll run by you whatever I’m doing before it appears in print.”

  Eddie laughed. “If the New York Times food critic gets in on this case, I doubt she’ll give me the same consideration.”

  “Not too likely that The Times will get involved. In fact, I think the San Francisco Chronicle and the Marin Independent Journal will drop the story until there’s an arrest and a trial.”

  “That would be my guess, too, Rob.”

  “I’ll do a wrap-up story on the case this week. I’m sure I’ll get some reactions from the ones most likely to want to give comments.”

  “I trust you have Alma’s number?” Eddie smirked.

  Rob chuckled, “Heck yeah! I’ve got her on speed dial.”

  “Just go with the Randolph angle for now. You know—undisclosed source close to the investigation suggested it was likely that Grant Randolph would be questioned upon his return from New York.”

  Rob nodded. “That will shake him up a bit.”

  “Whoa, wait a minute, Rob! I’ve got an even better angle. Print the final column of the late great gossiping gourmet.”

  “What? …Why?”

  “A couple of reasons. First, it gives you something no one else has—a final plea from Warren Bradley to his fellow citizens to purge Randolph from his leadership position. Second, it will keep the Ladies of Liberty busy rounding up a lynch mob. And third, if my guess is right and Bradley was killed by one of his fellow citizens whose initials are not GR, it encourages our killer to continue to hide in plain sight. Every day he thinks he’s in the clear is one more opportunity for him to fall victim to his own conceit.” Eddie grimaced. “Killing someone, and thinking you have gotten away with it, can be a very heady thing. While Alma is campaigning for Randolph to be brought to justice, we might just have the time we need to find the real killer.”

  “Are you that sure Randolph really isn’t your man?”

  “Absolutely! I’d be more inclined to think Sirica than Randolph.”

  “Why?”

  “One big reason, those pay phone calls. Not to mention, our killer waited around after the kill in order to clean up prints, chop off the hands, and dress up the body. The whole crime was not only methodical; it was pretty damn cocky. If Randolph has an Achilles heel, it’s his temper. This wasn’t an act of sudden passion. I’m betting that whoever killed Bradley had been thinking about killing him for a very long time.”

  By now, Rob was anxious to start writing his first full story on the Bradley killing—something that went far beyond the short posts he had written on the paper’s website, always ending with a reminder that there would be more on the killing in the next edition of the Standard.

  “By the way, have you written anything about finding the body in the online version of your paper?” Eddie asked.

  “No. I’ve been trying to keep myself out of it. Why?”

  “For starters, there are a lot of cases where a killer is the first person to report the crime.”

  “Why the hell would I want to kill Warren Bradley?”

  “I know that, but in any normal investigation, your story would have been analyzed for discrepancies.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “It’s simple, Rob. You should do a feature on finding Bradley. It tells the readers that, not only was he a contributor to the paper, but that you cared enough about him to find out why, after promising you his story on time, he just vanished. It ties you into the story in a powerful way. You have a personal connection with the victim that other area reporters can only dream of.” He smiled. “It also a great set-up for running Bradley’s last column—those final words he promised to send, but never got the chance to deliver. All of this sets it up to make the real killer just as comfortable as we could possibly want him.”

  “I have to admit, Inspector, you can be one smart SOB when you want to be.”

  “I love you too, pal. Now, go make Miss Alma proud!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Rob came home to an empty house. Karin had left a note, with her signature Hershey’s Kiss sitting next to her X’s and O’s, explaining that she’d taken the kids down to Dunphy Park to throw fishing lines out into Richardson Bay. It was unlikely that they would catch anything with the kiddie rod-and-reel sets that they had gotten for Christmas, but at ages five and three, it provided them with two hours worth of diversion while Karin caught up on this week’s copy of People.

  There w
as no better time to tackle the first article in what Rob suspected might be many pieces about the Bradley case—at least, while the killing remained unsolved.

  Rob knew many murders went unsolved. Perhaps this would be one of them. And yet, in a town where the mailman kisses the lonely traveling salesman’s wife on a Tuesday and it’s the gossip heard everywhere by Thursday, he could not bring himself to believe that Warren’s murder would forever remain a mystery.

  Somewhere in town, someone knew something, or surely had overheard someone.

  Eventually, the whole story would begin to unwind, and the killer would finally be exposed.

  As he began inputting the first few words of his story, he felt more than a bit guilty about the sense of elation that came over him. He was so tired of working stories about sewage treatment plants, dog park disputes, and school science fairs that, clearly, the story of Warren’s death was the sort of very different challenge he needed as a journalist.

  Just weeks before, he had said to Karin, “One more story about a downtown design review board dispute, and I might lose my mind.”

  “Honey, you cover the community stuff that so few people cover anymore.”

  “I know, I know,” he said in a soft voice, with the resolve of a long-distance runner trying to catch a second wind.

  Rob wondered if Warren might never have been killed if he hadn’t used his column at the Standard as his own bully pulpit. After all, his slaying wasn’t a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Random, deranged killers don’t knock on doors at the end of quiet streets in Sausalito and say, “I was just thinking, it’s been ages since I suffocated someone and then chopped their hands off with a meat cleaver. Mind if I come in and join you for dinner?”

  Rob’s rational mind knew his guilt was misplaced. The righteous vitriol that Warren spewed in his column hadn’t warranted his murder, and if it had, as Eddie pointed out, the killer would never have acted in such a methodical fashion.

  Warren’s killer wasn’t someone who had arrived after his dinner guest departed, but rather…the murderer was the dinner guest.

  Living a modest life, Rob’s view of high stakes gambling was the twenty dollars he put up two Friday nights each month when Eddie and he played Texas Hold ‘em Poker with a couple of other guys who had graduated from that same senior class at Tam High. The more he thought about this strange case, the more he thought that he would happily put his money down on Eddie’s line of reasoning.

  When Monday’s mail was pushed through the door slot at the bottom of the steps that led up to their offices, Holly raced down to retrieve it. “Five bucks says we’re going to have a full Mail Bag section this week,” she hollered, as she rushed down the hall toward the steps.

  “I’m not taking that bet,” Rob shouted back as Holly flew past.

  Already, online, a half dozen letters had come in—mostly tributes to the late chef. But, if Holly was right, the “blue hairs,” as she often referred to the Ladies of Liberty, would send in their comments the old fashion way: on light pink stationery, decorated with flowers on top and bottom opposite corners of the page, with a matching envelope, and a postage stamp promoting some worthy cause.

  Holly sorted through the letters like a kid throwing packages around on Christmas morning.

  “Ooh, here’s one from Alma!” She slipped a letter opener under the envelope’s seal, and opened it up with one dramatic stroke. “I’m betting that she and her pals are already griping about the Sausalito PD not nabbing the killer by now.”

  “I wouldn’t bet a dime against that one, either.”

  Holly started to read Alma’s missive quickly to herself, and only said, “I knew this would be good!”

  “Okay, give, Holly. What does Sausalito’s grand dame have to say from on high?”

  Her eyes quickly devoured the two pages, handwritten on rose-colored stationery in perfect penmanship produced by a very blue ink that perfectly contrasted the page.

  “Ha,” Holly declared, as she slapped down the page and said, “Here, read it for yourself. I think you might have a new girlfriend.”

  “Oh, shit. Now what?” Rob asked, as he grabbed the pages off the edge of his desk as Holly gave a sinister giggle.

  It started as he expected, with Alma recalling the “artistry of Warren Bradley’s cooking…the charm and wit of his disarming humor…his kindness and generosity…and what will be most missed, his tireless service to the community.”

  She then added, “The Sausalito police have been longtime recipients of Mr. Bradley’s unstinting generosity, in the preparation and presentation of a monthly gourmet luncheon for our brave men and women in blue. I trust that they will honor his thoughtful kindness by being vigilant and unstinting in their efforts to bring this vicious killer to justice.”

  “Wow!” Rob looked up at Holly who winked knowingly at him. “You’re right. She laid it on pretty thick.”

  “Oh, you haven’t come to the best part, pal. Keep reading.”

  He quickly scanned through a few more lines about Warren’s Easter ham dinner at the senior center and his gourmet cookie packages, which were distributed at Christmas each year to dozens of neighbors and friends.

  But then, Rob came to his own name, and started to read the letter aloud.

  “I guess you mean this part, ‘As a small community, we have only The Sausalito Standard to speak on behalf of justice—a single voice that must remain ever-vigilant in pursuit of the truth. I have not always been of like mind with the editorial policy of our local newspaper—for example, when it urges modernization, while others and I have called for restraint. But, as its publisher, Rob Timmons, demonstrated during his moving tribute to his longtime contributor, this is a time when all Sausalitans must stand together and insist that every resource needed will be applied in pursuit of this killer, even if it leads to shocking revelations involving people in high places. Now is the time when every rock must be lifted to see what evil lurks beneath.’

  “I imagine the ‘people in high places,’ means her least favorite member of the arts commission,” Rob murmured. “Wow, you’re right, Holly! The old girl really went all out on this one.” He looked down and read the closing lines, “I trust that Mr. Timmons will be a tireless voice in following the trail wherever it leads. Now is the time for answers!”

  “Sounds like you and Alma are becoming an item.”

  He shrugged. “She looks particularly fetching out on the bay at sunset.”

  “You mean, with her feet in a block of cement?”

  “Oh, Holly, you always were the romantic.” Rob rolled his eyes. “Okay, let’s cut the crap. We’ve got a week’s worth of papers to get out. And, by the way, on page fifteen, I’ve decided to run Warren’s final ‘Heard About Town’ column.”

  “What?” Holly squawked. “You’re going to stir up a lot of shit if you run that! It will be like a voice from the grave. And any chance you and Karin had of being invited to the Randolphs will go right out the window.”

  “Frankly, I see it as a final tribute to Warren.” He wasn’t going to tell her the truth—that Eddie asked for him to use it as a distraction to help put the real killer at ease.

  “Shame on you, Rob. I get it—great for business and all that jazz. But it sure will make Randolph’s life miserable.”

  Rob winced. He knew she was right.

  At the same time, if Eddie was right, and the tactic helped to flush out the killer, in the long run he’d be doing Randolph a great favor.

  “If I were you, I’d watch my back, pal. If Randolph did it, you’re numero uno for being victim numero dos.”

  The Standard’s next edition carried an unusual banner headline:

  Who Murdered Warren Bradley?

  Rob knew he was taking the dramatic low road from start to finish with this approach, but if he was ever going to have an edition of the Standard that was going to be read by everyone, and avoid some of those quick trips from the mailbox to the paper recycling bin, sh
ort of the killer’s arrest, this had to be the edition.

  Knowing he needed to follow through on the goal he set for himself of having information that no other news outlet carried, he contacted both Warren’s neighbor and Ray Sirica for comments.

  Ray couldn’t keep the anxiety out of his voice. Certainly by now, he must have wished that he did not have the awful luck of going up to see Bradley at his home just hours before his slaying.

  And Ray tortured himself about that, to which Debbie kept reminding him, “You didn’t have a crystal ball. No one would have guessed what was about to happen to Bradley. It was just rotten timing.”

  Of course, Ray already knew this. “Believe me,” he told her, “I wish I could wind the clock back.”

  And, yes, there was a part of him that wished he’d never sat down on the same morning at the same café in Healdsburg where the Randolphs were having breakfast.

  Sirica was frustrated, but he was also forthcoming when Rob called for a comment about his meeting with Bradley on that fateful night. “I thought the situation was escalating,” he explained. “It put a really nice couple in a very bad light. I don’t mind you quoting me as saying that I think Warren was being unkind and ungracious to Grant and Barbara. I went up there to explain to him that their entire fight, serious as it was, in reality, just one massive misunderstanding. But Warren wasn’t interested in writing a story about how one misunderstanding can lead to another and then another. In fact, he told me that he had a guest arriving in a few moments. And then he told me, in these exact words, ‘Please leave, now.’”

  That was really all the comment that Rob needed from Ray, but he’d hoped to keep him on the phone a little longer. At the same time, Rob knew Ray had to be somewhat uncomfortable discussing Grant’s situation with the publisher of the paper that played a major role in making the Randolph’s lives in Sausalito quite miserable.

  Rob looked for the words to explain to Ray that he and Warren were two very different people. “Warren’s gossip column has upset some people in the past,” Rob explained. “This is a small town. When some of the lifers around here decide you’re not their sort of people, not only will they imagine that you had a part in Bradley’s killing, they also presume you committed every murder in a two-hundred-mile radius. For what it’s worth, the Sausalito police may refer to Grant, or you, as ‘individuals of interest,’ but I don’t know of anyone in law enforcement who considers either of you viable suspects.”