by Martin Brown
Ray sighed. “Thank you for that, Rob.”
As they hung up, Rob felt better, too.
“Don’t you think you went a little hard on Grant Randolph?” Karin’s question had Rob choking on his lunch. The latest issue of the Standard had just been delivered.
“How so?” he asked cautiously.
“Well…you go into the run-in he had with Warren at the opera park event.”
He shrugged. “And?”
“I don’t know…It’s just that it puts him in such an unfavorable light! Frankly, I kind of feel sorry for the guy.”
“Look, sweetheart, I agree with you. But it’s a part of the story. If a week before some guy gets killed, a third of the people in town see you having a confrontation with the soon-to-be victim who’s murdered, and then dismembered, it’s not going to put you in a good light. And it’s probably nothing more than rotten timing that the Randolphs left for New York only twelve hours after Bradley’s body had been discovered. But those are the facts, and they need to be reported.”
Karin looked at the paper, looked back at Rob, and thought some more. Obviously, she wasn’t sure what to say.
Rob jumped into the void. “When you’re the publisher and the principle reporter for a small town newspaper, you’re swimming in a fish bowl. That’s one of the things I most like about doing the other editions, in Tiburon, Mill Valley, Belvedere, and Ross; I don’t know near as many of the people I pass in the street whenever I’m in any one of those places. Sausalito is obviously different. Both of us grew up here. We’re the third generation of the Timmons family to live in this house and the Standard has been published in town since the nineteen-fifties.”
“…And, so?” It was Karin’s turn to ask.
“More so than any other town in Marin County, what I do here is looked at under a microscope. I’m either the local kid who made good, or I’m one more disappointment in a long family line. In a town that’s less than one hundred and fifty years old, three generations goes a long time back. I guarantee you: for every one person who asks me why I mentioned Grant Randolph in the Bradley story, there would be another nine who asked why I did not mention that confrontation.”
“You’re right, Rob. I can see that. But then running that last column of Bradley’s…Wow! Isn’t that rubbing salt into the wound?”
“Just between us, that was Eddie’s contribution to this week’s edition.”
“You don’t mean he wrote it, do you?”
“No, of course not.” He laughed. “It is Bradley’s actual last column. But Eddie knew it would stir up more shit about Randolph. He believes that Bradley’s killer walks among us. The more attention that’s focused on Randolph, the greater the possibility that the real murderer will let down his guard—in other words, hopefully get careless.”
“No one but you and Eddie know this?”
“I haven’t even mentioned it to Holly. To her favor, she too thought I’d lost my marbles when I told her that I was running Bradley’s final column.”
“I just can’t imagine what the Randolphs are going to think when they see this coverage, not to mention the column. Bradley really went over the top with that ‘viper in our midst’ routine.”
“Like Alma, his mentor, Warren had a flare for the dramatic. Personally, I think Randolph is probably a decent guy. But he’s certainly got a temper issue. Maybe he should cut back on all the weightlifting—you know, maybe a little too much testosterone. Seriously, though, going from having some anger issues to doing what was done to Bradley is a pretty big stretch. But I’ll tell you this much—if, God forbid, Grant Randolph did kill Warren Bradley and I never mentioned that night at the opera incident, I’d be laughed out of town.”
She shrugged. “Okay, you’ve made your point.”
“I never told you this, but when I was delivering the Bradley eulogy, I was convinced that his killer was standing there in the church, watching me and listening to everything I said.”
“Well, that old church doesn’t hold many people—probably less than two hundred. It would be pretty creepy if the killer was sitting there looking at you.” Karin shuddered at the thought, then stood up. “I’ve got to walk down to Sparrow Creek School, to pick up the children.” She walked over and gave Rob a kiss on the cheek. “Even if the Randolphs were in town on Sunday, as opposed to New York, I have a feeling they wouldn’t have been there.”
“Perhaps that’s a good thing,” Rob said. “The old church has high rafters. Alma herself would have provided the rope, if she thought she could get away with a public lynching.”
“That’s my point. In a town this small, one misstep, and you’re guilty in the court of public opinion,” Karin sighed. “I wouldn’t be surprised if, when this whole thing is over, those poor people move back to New York. I guess they’re learning firsthand the downside of living in a town where everyone knows your name.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
When Rob returned from lunch, Holly greeted him with the news, “Your girlfriend, Alma, called. She hopes you have a moment to call her back.” Holly pursed her lips and made a kissing sound.
“Hey, give the old lady a break. I don’t have any problem with Alma wanting to know who killed her favorite chef.”
“Gosh, you’re a little touchy today!” Holly frowned as she headed back to her office.
Rob felt bad, knowing that he was taking some of his frustration out on his office mate. He knew his readers were all waiting for answers. But if the cops didn’t have any, he thought, what in the world do they think I have?
Nonetheless, he quickly called Alma, aware that this new détente between them could expand readership, which eventually would lead to increased advertising revenue—something he wasn’t opposed to in the least.
Alma picked up on the first ring. Her tone was downright pleasant. “I loved this week’s edition of the Standard,” she purred.
Rob was glad that he had placed at the top of the final “Heard About Town” column a brief statement that explained: “Written by Warren Bradley, just hours before his death. It was found by investigators to the Bradley homicide, and has been made available by law enforcement authorities for the benefit of his many readers.”
“It’s extraordinary,” Alma continued, “that he wrote about this dangerous man, Randolph, hours before his untimely demise. I can’t help but imagine that if he were alive right now, he would want to know why Grant Randolph has not been arrested for his murder.”
Rob knew this was the first step in Alma’s efforts to organize a lynch mob.
Cautiously, he murmured, “I heard, that the Randolphs left for New York City early on the morning after the murder.”
“I had heard that, too, and I’m sure it sounds highly suspicious to you as well.”
“If nothing else, it was rotten timing.”
Both paused at that point, realizing they might be on the path to expressing different points of view.
“In any event, I was hoping in this next edition that you will keep a bright light shining on Randolph’s whereabouts,” Alma said coolly. “It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if the Randolphs decide to extend their visit to New York. What thoroughly distasteful people!”
There were a few moments of silence; Rob gazed out his window onto passing tourists walking into the shops of Princess Court, as he considered his response. “Randolph is certainly at the top of everyone’s suspect list. At the same time, it’s hard to second-guess where the investigation stands at the moment. All the investigators are staying pretty tightlipped. It’s not making my job any easier.”
“Well, sail on, brave soul. I just wanted to be sure you’re pursuing Warren’s killer without hesitation. I feel quite certain this is exactly what you’re doing. In fact, every member of the Ladies of Liberty is at this very moment singing your praises.”
Talk about a carrot, as opposed to Alma’s usual stick in the eye.
A further exchange of pleasantries was short, and similarly sweet.<
br />
As Rob hung up, he turned in his swivel chair away from the window, to the faded blue couch that sat on the wall opposite his desk.
Holly was sitting there, staring at him with a mischievous smile.
She arched a brow. “So, what did Lady Vader have to say for herself?”
“Sheesh! I haven’t seen you this excited since Rod Stewart stopped to ask you for directions outside the office.”
She waved away his jibe with a swish of her wrist. “If the least likely suspect is the killer—that happens all the time with murder mysteries—then I guess Alma did it.”
“If she killed Bradley, she must have hired one of the counter boys down at Venice Gourmet. She certainly wasn’t the one tossing his body around like it was an aging Ken doll.”
“That might be it! She’s the dinner guest—no surprise there. She gets him good and soused. Then, she lets Benedetto—who can handle a cleaver on those old hard salamis like they’re sticks of butter—go in and finish the job.”
“Alright Ms. Christie, let’s get back to work. The Peninsula Standard is three hours from deadline.”
As she rechecked final layout pages for the Tiburon/Belvedere edition, Holly cheered herself for the balance of the afternoon imagining Alma Samuels working in the laundry at a California state prison for the final years of her life.
On the day Warren’s murder was announced to the public, the Siricas made an urgent call to Grant and Barbara.
“Are you sitting down?” Ray asked. “In fact, put your cell on speaker. Barbara has got to hear this too.”
Grant did so, and motioned Barbara over to him.
“Hi, Ray. Hi, Debbie. What’s up?” Barbara asked, curiously.
Debbie couldn’t contain herself. “Warren Bradley was murdered last night!”
“What?” Barbara and Grant shrieked in unison.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Barbara murmured.
“This is no joke,” Ray responded. “I’m reading about it right now, on the Chronicle’s website.” He paused, then added, “Grant, I hate to say this, but it may not look so great for you, considering it happened hours before you left town. Not to mention the blowout you had with Warren at Opera Night.”
Grant was silent for a moment. Finally, he declared, “Ray…Debbie…hand to God, I didn’t do it!”
“We would never suspect you,” Ray assured him.
“We love you both; I’m sure, before long, they’ll find the real killer,” Debbie added.
For a brief moment after the call, Grant and Barbara were lost in their own thoughts. But when they caught each other’s eyes, Barbara noticed the upturned corners of Grant’s lips. Soon, her smile matched his. “I think this calls for drinks,” Grant declared. “What do you say about the Waverly?”
Barbara laughed. “I’ll drink to that.”
They arrived at the restaurant, and took a corner table.
The first toast was for Warren. “I know it’s sad,” Barbara said, “but he was a mean-spirited little shit! I couldn’t believe what he wrote about me. I’m trying to get a little publicity for myself…that I’m working at a new gallery in the city, and he made it sound like I thought the women of the league were all a bunch of silly fools!”
“He was a gasbag,” Grant said, loudly enough to turn the heads of a few diners nearby. “I’m not going to let myself feel sorry that he got himself killed. Based on the experience we had with him, I would think the list of suspects for his murder could fill a jumbo jet.”
Several days later, when Ray and Debbie read them excerpts from Warren’s final column, they knew that this was certainly not the time to fly back to the Bay Area. Based on their itineraries, they had both already decided to extend their stay in New York.
Now, they might just extend it further, they both decided.
And while it unnerved Barbara, the growing number of letters to the Standard not-so-subtly suggesting Grant’s apprehension, it did not surprise him in the least. “If they wanted me off the commission because we had a bad argument, I’d think they’d be ready to hang me for a murder, no judge or jury needed!”
It was obvious to Rob by the letters slipped through the office mail slot every morning arguing for Randolph’s incarceration that this was part of a letter-writing campaign instigated by Alma and the Ladies of Liberty.
On Thursday, Eddie called to say that the Randolphs had extended their stay in New York City another week.
Eddie had not been able to make their usual Friday afternoon date at Smitty’s, but on Saturday, he pulled up outside of Rob’s home in his unmarked county sheriff’s car. Kissing Karin on the cheek, he asked, “Do you mind if I borrow your husband for a couple of hours?”
“Fine with me. I was about to take the kids up to Cloudview Park. One of the Sparrow Creek kids is having her birthday party up there.” She pointed toward Rob’s office. “Get him out of the house. He needs some fresh air. He’s been spending way too much time in there.”
Rob was lost in thought. There were less than seventy-two hours before the next deadline for the Sausalito edition of the Standard. His attempts to spin another Bradley story out of what little new information he had was even harder than he had imagined.
He was happy to accept Eddie’s invitation to go for a drive. Yes, a change of scenery would do him good. And, perhaps, he might be lucky enough to hear something that he could use.
They went up a back road in Mill Valley that climbed up one of the flanks of Mount Tamalpais, which rose twenty-eight-hundred-feet, and dominated southern Marin County’s landscape from every angle.
Eddie pulled off onto a dirt road and parked at a trailhead. As Eddie hoped, there were no other cars around. “Come on, let’s go for a little walk.”
Rob nodded appreciatively. “We haven’t been to this spot since we were high school seniors.”
They stopped along a trail that hugged a steep drop that was far too narrow for visitors to the area to find, let alone be comfortable hiking along. After a quarter of a mile down the path, they came to a place where a boulder had come to rest, perhaps centuries ago. The rock was a perfect example of a bench placed there by God.
They climbed up and sat down on the rock, which had been warmed by a noonday sun. As they stared out at a vista that included tree-covered hillsides and distant views of the Pacific, Rob said quietly, “Remember when we used to come up here with Trevor and Alex to smoke pot?”
Eddie inhaled the fresh mountain air. “We were definitely young and dumb. Pot, beer, and steep drop-offs are probably not the safest combination. And let’s not forget the occasional mountain lion out for a stroll.” He laughed. “It’s amazing to think how many things we did as a kids that you would never want your own kids to do.”
They watched in silence as two hawks circled the steep canyon below them. Finally, Eddie said, “Rob, I need your help. What I’m about to tell you can’t go any further than just the two of us.”
“It’s about the Bradley killing, right?”
“Bingo.”
“Whatever it is, Eddie, we’ve been like brothers for most of our lives. Just tell me, and I’ll put into print only what you think will help solve the case.”
“Thanks, bro.” Eddie’s smile was one of relief. “Let me start by telling you that Grant Randolph had nothing to do with the murder of Warren Bradley.”
“You sound pretty sure about that.”
“I’ve been pals with the guys in the ME’s office for a long time. They can be your best friends in a murder investigation, believe me.”
“Yeah…and…”
“It’s about a 99 percent certainty that Bradley’s killer was left-handed.”
Rob gave a low whistle. “How did they figure that out?”
“The angle at which that meat cleaver smashed through Bradley’s wrists gave it away. Even on a dead man, it takes a reasonable amount of force to cut through all those bones and tendons. It’s highly unlikely—as in that one percent chance—that our kill
er would be left handed, but still use his right hand to do that job.”
Rob shook his head. “How does the ME’s office get to keep a gem like that to themselves?”
“Simple. This is an ongoing murder investigation. In pursuit of the victim’s killer, you’re not serving the cause of justice to turn over every card you hold to the public. If you eliminate the ninety percent of right handed individuals, and you consider the upper body strength of our killer, then if I’m right and Warren knew his killer, as over nine out of ten victims do, our suspect pool drops to a much smaller number.”
“Do the nitwits at the Sausalito Police Department know about this?”
“Nope. There’s no real need to let them know. They don’t have an investigator working the case, so sharing that kind of information with them just increases the chance of that little gem getting out to the general public.”
“Cool, Eddie. I could not agree more. And now for the sixty-four thousand dollar question: where do I come in? And how is it that you know that Randolph is not left-handed?”
“Let me answer the last question first. We went through the files of some previous art commission meetings. The powers that be at city hall, obviously hoping that we were closing in on Randolph, were only too happy to help. Some of Randolph’s handwritten notes are in the file. And there are a slew of photos of the commission at work…several of which show Randolph writing with his right hand.” He smiled. “As for the other part of your sixty-four thousand dollar question, you’re a damn good investigator, whether you realize it or not, and I’m going to need an extra set of hands—no puns, please—to cover the possible suspects and motives.”