by Martin Brown
“How many are there?”
“Every bone in my body continues to tell me that Bradley’s killer lives and/or works in town. Bradley ate and drank the minutiae of life in Sausalito. I suspect he either knew too much, or said too much, about one of his neighbors. Everyone is looking at his or her favorite suspect, which, as we discussed before, is fine with me. We don’t need to do anything to spook the real killer away. The longer these people keep their focus on Randolph, the better.”
“So, what do you want me to do?”
“You’re going to be my go-to guy for in-depth information. The more we can learn about Bradley’s life, the closer we should get to finding his killer. Right now, you’re on good terms with Alma and her gang of busybodies. Tell them you’re planning a retrospective on the life and times of Warren Bradley. Once you start turning over his past, hopefully some actionable facts will fall into place. There are only a handful of people—like you, me, and Karin—who grew up in Sausalito, living our whole lives in this tiny fishbowl. But the majority of people in most Marin county towns arrived ten, twenty, or thirty years ago. Bradley came to Sausalito twenty-five plus years ago. We need to know more about the guy before that time.”
“I’m fine with all this, if you think I can help,” Rob assured him. There are a lot of people in town who would string up Randolph and be done with it if they had the chance.”
“Fortunately for him, this isn’t the wild west anymore.”
Rob chuckled. “That’s a good thing, since nosy journalists didn’t have a very long life expectancy in the gold rush days either.”
“Speaking of nosy, how long did Warren write his column for the Standard?”
“About six years.”
“Can you take the time to go back and take a closer look at those columns? I’m sure Randolph isn’t the only one who would have liked to choke that little busybody. We’ll probably follow a lot of leads that go nowhere, but hopefully we can pick up one thread that causes this whole damn thing to unravel.”
“But what about those missing hands, Eddie? What the hell does that mean?”
“My guess is that is the real sixty-four thousand dollar question.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Rob couldn’t help but feel excited. And the more he thought about it, the more certain he was that Eddie was right to keep everything, for now, between the two of them.
“If there are any leaks, it could crush anything we’re working on and bring us back to square one,” Eddie reminded him. “And, by that, I mean everyone, Karin, Sharon, and particularly that super sleuth assistant of yours, Holly.”
While it was true that most of Rob’s work would bore a crime reporter to distraction, it was also true that he wasn’t a complete stranger to the persistent and patient work of an investigative reporter. He had uncovered several cases of misappropriation of funds in city and county agencies, like that of a Tiburon councilmember taking kickbacks in exchange for the right votes, and a Mill Valley council member who was graciously given the use of a Lake Tahoe home by a local developer whose projects she faithfully voted to approve.
For this case, Rob began with the investigative work that involved the least legwork, and the most reading. He told Holly that he was going to do a retrospective on Warren, and asked her to e-mail him the file containing all of Bradley’s past work.
In the evenings, and over the next few days, he scanned all of the two-hundred-and-ninety-six “Heard About Town” columns, including the last published prior to his death, which led with the headline, “Additional Concerns Surface over Art Commission Chairman, Grant Randolph.”
Looking at column after column raised regrets in Rob’s mind as to why he published Warren’s column for as long as six weeks, much less six years. But as he knew all along, this was a marriage of convenience, similar to arrangements he had made with other community reporters in Mill Valley, Ross, and other small towns in Marin County.
Warren, however, took cattiness to extremes, which might have been a reflection of the uniquely sharp elbows found in Sausalito society.
Most of Warren’s items and columns dealt with his musings about “modern day life,” or his mentioning special birthdays, never missing those of Alma Samuels, Bea Snyder, Ethel Landau, Robin Mitchell, or other Ladies of Liberty superstars. He also covered a rundown of the highlights of various Sausalito Women’s League events—particularly the annual holiday follies—and coverage of the endless game of musical chairs for seats on the town’s boards, commissions, and the grand prize, the city council, were all finely ground grist for the gossip mill.
Every now and then, Warren unsheathed the cutting edge of his words, turning his column into a weapon, as opposed to idle chatter.
In the column’s second year, Warren fired directly at a recently elected member of the city council, who, in a nasty encounter with one of his apparently disappointed supporters, suddenly slapped her in the midst of a heated exchange. The gentleman doing the slapping called it nothing more than “an admonishing pat on the cheek.”
The one on the receiving end of that “pat” called it a “hideous act of violence.”
Subsequent columns made it apparent that Warren’s mailbag was overwhelmed with demands for the young councilmember, Robert Allan, to resign. The man did just that, and soon after moved out of town. His departure caused Warren, in his usual biting fashion, to wonder out loud, “Will Mr. Allan be missed?”
It was unlikely that Allan was driven to murder Warren, but this was certainly a name to be added to Eddie’s list.
The following year, in an event less public than the infamous “slap heard round the world,” Warren implied that Carrie Kahn was pocketing a portion of the raffle money raised for the purchase of new gym equipment for “our brave men and women of the Sausalito Fire Department.” In his usual style, he stopped just short of making an actual accusation, and used the comments and concerns of others to help build his case—often without attribution.
Writing, for example, “sources who wish to remain anonymous have told this reporter that…”
At first, Kahn complained loudly in letters to the editor. But, as she later explained, she chose “not to pursue legal remedies for the wrongs committed by Mr. Bradley,” who she went on to refer to as, “a mean-spirited little man.”
Her decision not to pursue Bradley could have been for a number of reasons, but the two most likely were that she did pocket some of the raffle money, or she did a lousy job of keeping all her ticket stubs alongside of accurate running totals. Having realized that, in a libel suit, it is the burden of the accuser to provide evidence that there was no basis for Bradley’s claims, she was left with no logical choice but to live under the cloud hanging over her, thanks to the thoughtless actions of Hurricane Warren.
In his notes, Carrie earned another nomination for Eddie’s list of suspects.
And, of course, there were others, all of whom Rob concluded were likely suggested for Warren’s court of public opinion by his patroness Alma Samuels and/or her lieutenants.
When Rob finished reading of all the columns, he thought, “If Warren Bradley was alive today, I’d dump him and his column!” Too often, he chose to look the other way. Perhaps if he had not, Bradley would not be dead today, and a number of people who acted carelessly or impetuously would not have been exposed to Warren’s form of public humiliation.
Rob knew to keep that quiet for now. Having picked up nothing that would logically drive one of the injured targets of Warren’s columns to commit such a violent murder, it was time for step two: Who was Warren Bradley before he moved to Sausalito?
When Rob called up Alma and explained he’d like to interview her for a Warren Bradley retrospective, she was utterly delighted. Without hesitation, she suggested that Rob come up and join her for tea at four that afternoon.
Rob was certainly familiar with the Samuels’ mansion, and the lovely piece of property on which it stood. Nevertheless, when he rang the doorbell and
Louise showed him into the waiting room, he was greatly impressed with his surroundings.
Alma entered, and reached out for his hand. She immediately said, “Mr. Timmons, I’m delighted to welcome you to my home.”
“Call me Rob, please.”
“Of course—Rob,” she said with a sly smile. “Let me start by saying how pleased I am that you are doing a piece on dear Warren’s life. His death is an unspeakable tragedy, and he should never be forgotten! He was too kind, and too vigilant a journalist to simply fade from memory. I, and my friends in the Ladies of Liberty, have been talking about erecting a statue in his honor, in Vina Del Mar Park. Perhaps a bust on a tall pillar. There are many groups, charities, and organizations in Sausalito that I’m certain would join our cause.”
Rob hid his discomfort at the thought of such a tribute, particularly after he had just read nearly three hundred of Warren’s columns. Perhaps half of the town would like a bronze bust on a marble pillar, while the other half would happily settle for his head on a spike.
Alma thanked Louise for the tray of tea and cookies she had brought and placed on the antique coffee table between them.
“Now, Rob, fire away. I’m hoping you do a very thorough job in making Warren come alive again for everyone who knew him.”
“I hope so, too. Let me begin by asking if you remember when you first met Warren.”
“I’ve been thinking about that; I was certain you would ask. My best guess is that it was approximately twenty-five years ago—or perhaps a little more.”
Rob nodded. “Then that would have been close to the time he settled in Sausalito, but perhaps it was a little later. I’m also uncertain as to where he lived before that. Did he ever share that information with you?”
Alma frowned. “Warren and I discussed many things over the years, but I don’t recall the topic of his years before Sausalito coming up. He did mention that he studied at the Culinary Institute, in Saint Helena. He also said that he majored in finance, at Carnegie Mellon, in Pittsburgh. But I don’t have any idea of the actual years he was at either place.”
“I believe he was over seventy at the time of his death.”
She nodded. “That’s my understanding as well.”
“I reread all his columns to see if he mentioned his childhood, or his life before Sausalito, but unfortunately, he never did. My guess, however, is he grew up back east. Did he ever discuss with you where that was?”
“I’m sorry, Rob, I don’t know. I guess there is very little I know about Warren’s life before Sausalito.” Her eyes opened wider at this realization. “It’s always been said that he was in the world of banking, or finance. But I never thought to ask him about that time of his life.”
Trying to put a smile on his face to cover his disappointment, Rob shifted his focus to Bradley’s more recent years. When they got to the topic of Warren’s columns, Alma was clearly upset. “Warren sat in the very chair you’re sitting in now when I told him that I was concerned for his safety. Just one look at that Grant Randolph and you could tell he was a brute. But Warren was simply fearless. He was, by his very nature, what I call a truth teller.”
Realizing that the conversation had devolved into a series of endless homilies, and stories about Bradley’s “extraordinary generosity,” and his “remarkable culinary skills,” Rob thanked Alma for her hospitality and generosity.
But before he could make a hasty retreat, Alma took his hand in both of her hands and, staring intently up at the smile he had placed and kept upon his face, she said, “Whoever wanted to harm dear Warren may want to harm you as well. But, unlike Warren, you have a wife and two children, so please be careful. I can’t imagine what the loss of a second journalist would mean to our small town.”
As Rob backed out of the driveway, he wasn’t sure whether to take Alma’s performance of tea and sympathy as kindness or gamesmanship. What he did know was that he had no more actionable information regarding Warren’s past than he had when Eddie asked him to dig something up on his background.
But, as every investigative reporter knows, you have to be able to set aside the frustration of blind alleys and lost time and keep moving forward.
On the short winding drive back down to Princess Street, Rob thought about his next move. At least one benefit, however, came out of the Alma meeting: he suspected that, on some level, she, too, was uneasy with the thought that her beloved Warren entered her close circle of friends without bringing a past.
From Ethel Landau to Beatrice Snyder, and from Robin Mitchell to Marilyn Williams, Rob came away with a lot more of nothing.
He endured the pain of their endless stories concerning Warren’s “noble efforts and volunteering spirit,” in bringing food for one event or another, and offering of help in “any way that he could…” with those causes that were nearest and dearest to the league’s members’ hearts.
Warren Bradley, to this point, was an impenetrable mystery.
On Friday afternoon, Eddie had to work a late shift. Once again, he bowed out from their standing end-of-the-week meet-up at Smitty’s. Before leaving the office, Rob asked Holly if she wanted to join him. They had both worked a long week, and Rob’s increasing frustration with Bradley’s empty past led to his being short with her for most of the week.
“If this is your way of saying you want to kiss and makeup?” Holly teased, “You can buy back my affections with a martini.”
“Good, I was hoping you’d say that, so grab your bag and let’s go.”
Ten minutes later, they settled in on the far quiet end of the bar, Rob with a Guiness, and Holly taking that first needed sip of her beloved Hangar 1 martini.
“So, what’s up, boss? You’ve been more than your usual grumpy self this week,” she asked.
“I know, Holly. I’m sorry about that. I told you I’ve been trying to put together a piece about Warren Bradley’s life, and…”
She frowned. “Are you sure you want to do that?”
“I have to, Holly. His murder is the biggest news story we’ve had around here in a very long time. For six years, he wrote a column for the newspaper. Sausalito readers expect me to do a more complete piece on his life,” Rob explained, using essentially the same line he’d used with each member of the Ladies of Liberty.
“Okay, so what’s the problem?”
“I keep running into the same blank wall! No one really knows anything about the guy before he showed up in Sausalito. Even in the career he supposedly retired from—a position in finance—I can’t find any link to him actually holding any position in the field. It’s like the guy one day just popped up out of the ground.”
“Gosh! I guess he was even creepier than I imagined.”
“Alma thought he attended Carnegie Mellon as a grad or undergrad student, but I found no record of him having ever attended the school. She also said that Bradley claimed to have attended the Culinary Institute up in Napa, but there is no record of him there, either. So, I was thinking—”
“Say no more, boss. I’ll use my special talent as an online researcher to see if I can track the guy down—or at least get some idea of where he came from, and what he was doing before he landed here and started pissing people off.”
“Holly, that would be great. I’m not thinking there’s anything sinister to all this, but his past seems to have been pretty well buried. I’d love to know why.”
“Happy to do it. Maybe I’ll turn up something really nasty on the guy. I’d love that, after all the shit and misery he stirred up for others.”
“Boy, you really did not like that guy.”
“In addition to his not-to-subtle suggestions that I was a libertine woman—based on the fact that I’m mid, uh early thirties and single—there’s the whole thing with Carrie Kahn and the supposed raffle money embezzlement bullshit. Carrie’s just a bit dippy, like half the people in this town. I don’t think she did a very good job of keeping separate the cash she got from tips working behind the bar at Cat ‘n Fiddle, an
d all the tickets she was selling to customers. But that jerk’s innuendoes just tore her up! She thought the real reason Warren humiliated her is she didn’t come rushing over every time his wine glass needed refilling. I know it’s not a big deal, Rob, but I’m telling you: the guy was a sneaky, creepy SOB.”
“I don’t doubt it, Holly. I only wish I’d been paying more attention to what he was writing each week. I probably would have put an end to his column years ago. Too many editions and too many columns to get produced every week is my only excuse.”
“Yeah. It helped Warren’s cause that the column was a favorite with so many readers. And, where would we be without readers?”
Rob waved to the bartender. “I think you need another martini, Holly. Let me get us another round.”
“Good idea! When all else fails, we can still have one more martini.” She downed the rest of her glass. “Well, here’s to Warren—wherever he is and whoever he was.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
In Rob’s view, running weekly community newspapers was like jumping on a treadmill that never stops. For all its frustrations, however, there were moments of unique pleasure when you stumbled onto a story that everyone else missed.
Rob was proud of Eddie for suggesting they get on the trail of Warren Bradley’s past. The deeper that mystery ran, the more Rob was sure it somehow connected back to Warren’s murder.
As Eddie was quick to point out, random murders are relatively rare events. “Case in point,” he’d once said to Rob, “is the obvious exception of a madman taking a gun and shooting anyone who tragically happens to have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
The more letters that landed on Rob’s desk asking why Grant Randolph had not yet been arrested for the murder of Warren Bradley, the more Rob thought how ridiculous that entire idea was.