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

by Martin Brown

  Holly felt certain she’d found her Mr. Right.

  For the first time, they spoke about their jobs. Chris shared his view that Sausalito was nice, but a big change from the fast-paced world of San Jose. “Let’s just say that your shift went by a lot faster in San Jose than it does up here.”

  “Do you miss it?” Holly asked.

  “In some ways, I honestly do. You felt more like a cop there.”

  “And in Sausalito?”

  “I feel like a cross between a school safety guard and a tour guide for visitors.”

  Holly laughed.

  Chris gave her a quick kiss. “So, what’s it like, working at the Standard?”

  “It’s pretty cool. It can get crazy, but I’m used to the pace. And, let me tell you, the days go pretty fast when something is going on all the time.”

  “How about this Bradley killing?” Chris asked nonchalantly. “Has that been keeping you busy?”

  “You have to remember—we put out four different publications every week that land in homes on different days in different parts of the county. Bradley’s a huge story in Sausalito, but not very important in the other towns.” She shrugged. “What do you think, who knocked off the old busybody?”

  Chris laughed. “Busybody! That’s a good one. I heard some guy wrote a letter to the paper, calling him the ‘gossiping gourmet.’ Down at the department, he was just a nice old guy who made the whole department great lunches once a month.”

  “Some people thought he was a real pain in the ass.”

  “Do you think this arts commission guy did it?” Chris asked.

  “I thought there was a good chance of that at first, but I don’t know now.”

  “What’s changed your mind?”

  “My boss, Rob, has been trying to put together a piece about Bradley’s life, but he’s having a damn hard time finding out anything about him prior to his arrival in Sausalito, which was about twenty-five years ago.”

  “Must be frustrating. Maybe the paper should just put the story aside, if your boss isn’t getting anywhere. Sounds like you’ve got enough to do every week without having to play detectives.”

  “You know, sweetie, I think he would do that if it wasn’t for Alma Samuels and her Ladies of Liberty breathing down his neck.”

  “Oh,” Chris frowned, deep in thought, as he munched on a French fry. “I hear she’s got a lot of clout around town. I know Chief Petersen hates it when she’s breathing down his neck.”

  “Believe me, Alma deserves to be whacked over the head with a shovel.”

  “Wow, you’ve got a lethal side to you! I better watch myself.”

  Holly squeezed Chris’s leg as she teasingly fed him one of her own fries, then leaned in and whispered seductively in his ear, “Oh, you don’t know the half of it, baby. I can be a dangerous lady when I want.”

  “I’m starting to find that out, and I think you’re turning me on. Let’s get back to my place.”

  Holly signaled the waiter for a check. Five minutes later, they were on their way back to Sausalito.

  Rob woke to another picture-perfect sunrise over the East Bay. He did some warm-up stretches while waiting for Eddie to appear. Before long, the two of them were back following the same circuitous route they had taken just six days before.

  Jogging down the final half mile along Prospect, Rob realized that in thirty minutes they had not passed a single car, hiker, jogger, or dog walker.

  “Wow, at six on a Sunday morning,” Rob said, “this town is really dead.”

  “Don’t you love it, man? I think we might want to start doing this a few days a week,” Eddie suggested.

  “Fine with me, just as long as it’s not on a day when I can sleep in,” Rob muttered.

  “Sorry, bro, but I’m hoping we strike gold a second time.”

  “May the gods of law and order be on our side.”

  Eddie winked. “We’re on a roll, Robbie boy, we’re on a roll.”

  Once inside, having again donned their surgical booties and gloves, Rob immediately said, “Okay, Sherlock, what are you up to this time?”

  “When we were last here, I was hoping to find something substantial, so I kind of rushed through a lot of other stuff. As I said to you, I can bullshit my way around why we’re here if we get caught, but I would prefer not to have to do that.”

  “And?”

  “The last time we were in this place, I quickly flipped through that big binder over there on the kitchen counter next to the Cuisinart. It’s filled with recipes, alongside of which Bradley scribbled a lot of little notes in the margins. It mostly looked like names, dates, additions and deletions of different ingredients. It would have been a lot to cover in a small amount of time, so I put the book back, and I moved onto more promising hiding places, thinking that Bradley wasn’t going to hide anything from his past in there. And then, I’m on the plane yesterday flying back to Oakland, and I keep trying to remember what it was that Chris Harding was telling us about Bradley at the reception after the memorial service, and then it came to me: it was how much he enjoyed that caramel chicken. Remember? Warren made it the day of the last luncheon he served down at the Sausalito PD.”

  “You’re right, Eddie. He did talk about that chicken.”

  “If he managed to get himself invited for dinner, perhaps that’s what Bradley cooked. I want to see if he scribbled anything in the margin alongside that particular recipe.”

  “Shit. You really are smarter than I ever give you credit for.”

  “Thank you, my good man. Now, go over to the door and keep an eye out for any of the neighborhood snoops, while I spend a little time in the late master chef’s kitchen.”

  “I’m on it, bro,” Rob said, and positioned himself to the side of the weathered hinged French door.

  Eddie said a little prayer, and opened the aged binder. He turned the pages carefully, many of which had yellowed over time and stiffened with the grease that inevitably was absorbed by paper sitting so close to a kitchen range.

  The sections all started with a tab, but were not themselves arranged alphabetically. Through the C’s, Eddie went page by page, past the Clams Oreganata, and the Clam Chowder, the Cous Cous with Garbanzo Beans, and then a half dozen chicken recipes from the making of chicken sausage to Chicken Parmesan. Nearly every page had a date on it. Many of them had several dates. Eddie hoped that the book doubled as a kind of diary, reminding Warren how many times he’d made a special recipe and often who it was made for. Some notes said things like, “Alma’s favorite,” or “Women’s League Holiday Luncheon.”

  When he came to the page that held the recipe for his popular Caramel Chicken, the last note was “Sausalito PD,” and the date of that final lunch, but there was no date after that.

  “Damn it, there’s nothing here,” Eddie said pounding his fist down on the counter.

  “Well maybe he never got the chance to write it down.”

  “Yeah, could be. Still it would have been sweet to have had one last nail in the coffin.”

  “Wait a minute,” Rob said suddenly, “Harding also mentioned, ‘pasta with veal, sausage and porcini ragu.’”

  “How the hell did you remember that?”

  “Because I thought it sounded great and I suggested to Karin that we should try making that one night.”

  “What the hell, it’s worth a try,” Eddie said as he started searching again.

  For several more minutes he methodically turned over each page in the binder and then:

  “BINGO,” Eddie said loudly. Alongside his veal sausage recipe there was one last entry, “Chris Harding.” Underneath Warren wrote the date. It was the night that he died.

  “Something tells me you got it,” Rob said.

  Eddie pulled his smart phone out of his nylon running jacket and snapped a photo of the page.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here,” Eddie said. “It’s time to get a warrant for Chris Harding’s arrest.”

  When Rob walked back
in his front door just a few minutes after seven, he was no longer interested in sleep. The sky was bright now, but the streets of Sausalito were still quiet. The house was blessedly silent as well. Karin and the kids were likely still tucked in and fast asleep at her folks’ place in Calistoga.

  There were so many good places to start his story. How should he explain to his readers the mystery of Warren Bradley’s life and death? He was indecisive for a time, knowing there were so many ways to begin. But, as he’d learned over the passing years, turning out one story after another, there are times when you just start writing and allow the story to take shape on its own.

  With each new sentence he added, Rob could feel the weight of the mystery lifting off of him. His final deadline would be late Tuesday afternoon. Even with news of the arrest of Chris Harding most likely breaking the day before the Standard would be in-home, he was more certain than ever that only his paper’s readers would get the full story.

  He was so busy banging away at his laptop that he hadn’t realized it was going on nine. He decided he would wait until ten before giving Holly a call. Whatever else, he was certain of this thought, Holly’s going to flip when she hears that Warren Bradley’s killer is one of Sausalito’s finest.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Rob called Holly’s home number at ten. Having no luck, he tried her cell, but there was no answer there either.

  He was disappointed, but it was okay; he had his hands full anyway. All of Sunday, he shaped, changed, and re-edited his story.

  Shortly before five in the afternoon, Karin returned home with the children. Rob kissed her like she had been gone for a month, and then excitedly said, “I’m going to put on a movie for the kids. You and I have to talk.”

  When he told her, he wasn’t surprised that she was speechless.

  “Well, I knew the butler could not have done it, Karin said. “Warren could never afford one.”

  Karin was happy for Eddie, thrilled for Rob, and pleased that the shadow of doubt would soon be removed from Grant Randolph. “Holly was certainly right about one thing,” Karin murmured. “She’s said for years that Warren Bradley was a creepy guy. Boy, she nailed that one! I guess she’s a pretty good judge of character. Speaking of Holly, what does she think of all this?”

  “I’ve been trying her since ten this morning, but I’ve had no luck.”

  “Maybe she finally got smart and she’s hiding out. You can’t blame the poor thing for wanting a little peace and quiet, given how hard she works all week.” Karin, having done Holly’s exhausting weekly routine, knew this better than most.

  After dinner, Rob asked Karin if she objected to his heading down to the office. “I have to clear some items off my desk. I want to be able to spend most of Monday and Tuesday before press time getting the Bradley story ready to go.”

  “Of course I don’t mind, honey,” Karin said. “I know what a huge week this is going to be for you. I’m very happy for you, and I’m proud of the way you and Eddie worked together. You’re quite a team.”

  By seven on a Sunday evening in downtown Sausalito, nearly all of the day-trippers have traveled back to San Francisco, leaving the town once again to its citizens.

  Rob walked along Bridgeway toward his office on Princess Street. He passed cafes busy with diners, street cleaners sweeping up after a busy weekend, and bike rental kiosk operators closing up for the night. As he walked by the No Name Bar, he stopped for a moment.

  “What the hell, it’s worth a shot,” Rob thought, as he turned to walk inside.

  The place was just starting to fill with the usual locals. Rob did a quick look around, and was disappointed to not see Holly.

  “Rob,” he heard a voice say. He turned and saw Alberto standing behind him.

  “Got the night off?” Rob asked.

  “Just finished the day shift. You looking for Holly?”

  “Yes. I was hoping she might be here.”

  “No, I haven’t seen her since she was in on Friday. It was pretty funny.”

  “What was?” Rob asked quickly.

  “She and the new cop in town were sitting at the bar, making goo-goo eyes at each other. I think she’s landed a good guy for a change. Anyway, they both beat it out of here—must have been around nine, haven’t seen him or her since.”

  Trying to remain calm, Rob asked anxiously, “You don’t mean Chris Harding, do you?”

  “Yeah, that’s him. Seems like a really great guy,” Alberto called out in a loud and happy voice as Rob rushed out the door.

  A few minutes later, Rob was seated at his desk. “This could be really bad,” he thought, as he took a deep breath. He hoped to collect himself before picking up the phone to call Eddie.

  “What the hell do you want?” Eddie said, only half joking.

  “Are you sitting down?”

  “No, but I could be. Spill it.”

  “I’ve been trying to find Holly all day, with no luck.”

  “That’s no big deal, given that it’s the weekend.”

  “I just saw Alberto down at the No Name. He last saw Holly Friday night. She left the bar—with Chris Harding.”

  “That’s not good. Where the hell are you?”

  “Down at the office.”

  “I’ll be right down.”

  After checking in with Rob, Eddie went to Holly’s apartment on Caledonia Street. He got no answer when he rang her doorbell, so he knocked on the neighbors’ doors at either side of her unit. Both neighbors came to the door, and both reported they had not seen Holly for the last two days.

  Eddie had gotten Chris Harding’s address earlier on Sunday, when he began his paperwork for the arrest warrant. He drove over to Easterby, and parked on the opposite side of the street from Chris’s cottage. He made sure that the unmarked car was away from any street light that could illuminate the interior of his vehicle; he then watched the house with binoculars. There was a light on in the kitchen. Before long, he saw Holly walk in, stir a pot on the stove, and taste whatever it was she was cooking. As she stirred once more, Chris, shirtless, came up behind her, pulled her hair to one side, and nuzzled her neck. Holly turned and they kissed.

  “This looks more like a scene out of Love Story than Psycho,” Eddie thought. “Boy, is she going to be disappointed when I have to take her new sweetheart away.”

  Eddie knew he had options, all of which had to be considered. There was a very good chance that the arrest scheduled for seven thirty the next morning would go off without a hitch. Holly wasn’t in immediate danger. Perhaps a love slave, but not a hostage.

  Still, if anything went wrong, Holly was, after all, shacked up with a man who had committed a brutal murder. Eddie could find himself in serious trouble, and worse than that, one of his favorite people, crazy lovable Holly, could wind up being harmed. Eddie sat in the dark and kept an eye on the cottage as he thought about his next steps.

  He decided, as he often did in his work, on the middle path between being overly cautious and reckless disregard for safety. His first step was to have a deputy in an unmarked sheriff’s department vehicle park across the street for the balance of the night, and remain there until Harding’s scheduled arrest.

  As Eddie’s relief arrived, also in an unmarked vehicle, he headed home for what would undoubtedly be a fitful night’s sleep.

  Rob arrived home and was greeted by Karin, who immediately asked, “Why do you look so worried?” Rob came so close to answering honestly, sharing his concerns about Holly, but then he changed course.

  “Oh, just trying to get this story in the best shape I possibly can. After this, it’s back to reporting on guest speakers at the senior center and upgraded street lighting.”

  “Oh, honey,” Karin said, as she reached up to kiss him on the cheek, “maybe you’ll get lucky and in a few months someone else will get murdered.”

  “You mean, like one of the Ladies of Liberty?”

  “If nosy chefs are getting knocked off, I suppose anything is possible.
”

  Just before they turned off their lights, Rob got a short text message from Eddie: Easterby 7:30 tomorrow morning. Come halfway up the block and then hang back.

  Neither Rob nor Eddie slept well that night.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Rob got to Easterby before seven-thirty. He walked into the 7-11 at the corner of Bridgeway and Easterby, and got a cup of their usual burned and nearly tasteless coffee. As he stood outside the old wreck of a building, he looked up the block just as a large black vehicle with four large white letters printed on the side turned and headed up Easterby.

  The SWAT armored vehicle stopped halfway between where Rob stood and Chris Harding’s rented cottage. No police personnel got out; the vehicle just waited there. One minute later, two Sausalito police cars went up the block and pulled up alongside the SWAT vehicle.

  Two residents came out on their stoops and said in near unison, “What’s going on?” The patrol officers waved them back inside. As they went in and shut their doors, Eddie’s old unmarked black Plymouth rode past and stopped in front of Chris Harding’s cottage.

  “So far, so good,” Eddie thought, as he walked up the small rise of the driveway and went around back to the cottage’s only door. It faced in the opposite direction of the street. Placing his hand just inside his jacket, Eddie unsnapped his shoulder holster and removed his gun, but kept it hidden from sight.

  Just as Eddie was about to knock, he heard the top bolt unlock, Eddie took a deep breath, and thought about, as he so often had, going home later to Sharon. He was stunned to see Holly standing in the doorway alone, brushing her hair, and greeting him with a smile.

  “Hi, Eddie, what are you doing here?”

  “Is Chris here?”

  “Yeah, but sleepyhead is still snoozing. He doesn’t have to go in until one. Meanwhile, I’ve got to get moving. I’m sure it’s going to be another busy week for Rob and me.”