The Gossiping Gourmet: (A Murder in Marin Mystery - Book 1) (Murder in Marin Mysteries) (12 page)

He settled for dressing him
down, “That was a cheap shot you took.”

Sausalito’s core group of
busybodies, who were scattered around the two of them, hoped to appear as if
they were looking elsewhere, while desperately trying to hear every word that
was being said.

“Now, Grant, calm down,”
Warren said, resorting to the story line he had been busy passing off to every
ear in town that was open to him: Grant Randolph was a dangerous, reckless
hothead who should take his ill manners, and questionable breeding, back to New
York City.

“Don’t tell me to calm down.
You knew exactly what you were doing when you wrote that bullshit about my not
being available for comment. You didn’t want to hear what I had to say, because
the truth would have damaged your snide little story.”

At this point, Grant’s voice
was loud enough for fans of both opera and social missteps to hear. Given an
audience, Warren said, “Would someone please tell a police officer that I’m
feeling very threatened by this man.”

Ray walked over and took
Grant’s arm. Instinctively, Grant promptly jerked it away.

Everyone held their
collective breaths, just as Officer Chris Harding walked over. “What seems to
be the problem, Mr. Bradley?”

Warren, greatly relieved to
have the tall muscular young police officer at his side, used the opportunity
to pour a little added salt into Grant’s deeply wounded reputation. “Mr.
Randolph, Officer, seems to be agitated about my column this week in the
Standard
, and I’m beginning to fear for my safety!”

If looks could kill, Grant’s
anger would have dispatched Warren to a better place at that very moment.

Harding, doing his best to
strike a disinterested pose, said, “Okay, well if we’re done here, let’s just
move along.”

Ray, interested in getting
Grant away from Bradley as soon as possible, put his arm around Grant. “Come
on, buddy, let’s get out of here. This was enough excitement for one night.”

Grant stood there. Finally,
he turned his back on Warren.

As he walked back to where
Barbara and Debbie were standing, their horrified expressions weren’t needed to
validate what he already knew:

He had done a very foolish
thing.

As his eyes scanned the
people around the small park, all of whom were staring back at him, he knew he
had taken a bad situation and made it that much worse.

Grant was still steaming the
next day when he and Ray made their daily pilgrimage to Gold’s Gym.

He thanked Ray for taking
hold of him. “I so wanted to wipe the smirk off that butthole’s face. Thanks
for coming over, Ray, and saving me.”

“Nothing you wouldn’t have
done for me, buddy. Listen, if you want to step on this knucklehead’s throat,
and you’ve got a few bucks lying around, go talk to a lawyer. Find out if you
can sue him and that rag of a newspaper that prints his column every week.”

It was an idea that, in all
his anger, Grant had just not thought about.

Later that night, he went
online to Martindale.com and checked the reviews of several local attorneys,
finally choosing two to call and arrange appointments. He decided to keep mum
about it to Barbara, though, because he wanted to present her with the
possibility of taking a civil approach to whipping that irksome, mean-spirited
busybody after he had all the needed information.

“But look what this guy did
to both me and my wife,” Grant retorted, as he pushed the article under the
nose of the second attorney, Bob Ivan.

Bob’s credentials were
impeccable. Apparently, he was revered at the county courthouse for being wise,
considerate—and best of all, someone you never wanted to go up against in a
courtroom. With bright blue eyes that did not look possible for a man
approaching eighty, Ivan had the quiet demeanor of a country lawyer, which
belied the savvy of a top-flight San Francisco corporate attorney with an
unmatched string of courtroom wins.

“Don’t get me wrong, Grant,”
Ivan explained gently. “If I were you, I’d want to wring the SOB’s neck. But
the courts are loathe to sit in judgment of the fourth estate.”

      “Why should those
pricks get a free ride?”

      “Simple. Because judges,
who are elected officials, aren’t anxious to appear as though they are stepping
on a free press. Also, nothing he wrote was factually inaccurate. I have no
doubt that he put the story in the worst light possible, but in no way does it
rise to the legal definition of libel.”           

      “But he lied when he
wrote that we were not available for comment.”

      “Even if that’s the
case, that’s almost impossible to prove.” With his right hand, Ivan brushed
away a cowlick of chalk white hair from his forehead. “Look, I’ve no doubt that
Mr. Bradley is playing games. Still, no judge is going to hold him to account
as to whether or not he dialed the right number when calling you to get a
comment.”

As loath as Grant was to
admit it, he knew Bob Ivan was right.

He shared the story of his
meeting with Ivan the next day at the gym with Ray.

“Sounds like Ivan is a stand
up guy,” Ray conceded.

Grant nodded. “I got that
impression, too. I just wished there was something he could do about Bradley.”

Ray snorted. “This is why
people take matters into their own hands. In the Chicago neighborhood where I
grew up, Warren would have been taken for a ride. And I’ll promise you this—no
one would have ever seen him again.”

Warren was experiencing what
he joyfully considered a season of good fortune—first the domestic upheaval at
the Grants, followed by the Saturday evening confrontation at Sausalito’s Night
at the Opera.

It was in this state of bliss
that he sat down on Monday morning to write a new column that began with the
headline, “New Concerns Surface over Art Commission Chairman Grant Randolph.”

In it, he told the story of
Randolph’s “violent hostility toward this reporter,” and concluded that anyone
who might have questioned whether the volatile nature of Grant’s temperament
was fact or fiction had their “voices quieted by the sight of Mr. Randolph
disturbing the bliss of what had otherwise been a joyful night of opera.” 

Later that evening, after Rob
read Warren’s latest salvo targeting Grant Randolph, he winced and thought to
himself, “If I was Randolph, I’d want to punch him in the nose too.”

He was tempted to call Warren
and tell him to rework the piece before Tuesday’s press time, but once again
hesitated. If he simply suggested that Warren tone down his piece, he would
undoubtedly go whining to the Ladies of Liberty claiming that Rob Timmons was
preventing him from reporting the entire story. One way or another, the ladies
would try to make life difficult for him and his newspaper. Previously, they
had started a quiet campaign urging Sausalito merchants to curtail their
advertising in the paper because of two series the
Standard
had done.
One on the shortcomings of the Sausalito Police Department, and the other on
the conflicts of interest committed by two of their favorite planning
commissioners. The campaign fizzled only because several of the merchants had
been the victims of overnight robberies, and their pet planning commissioners
had made a few very loyal friends among the town’s business owners, but a much
greater number of enemies.

Still, reigniting the animus
of the Ladies of Liberty was risky business. In a good week, the paper’s
advertising sales were borderline. Too many weeks of the year, the paper’s
Sausalito advertising support fell below the cost of printing and mailing the
weekly into every home.

Fortunately, Tuesday morning
brought letters from Barbara Randolph and Ray Sirica that attempted to present
Grant in a far better light. Knowing that “Heard About Town” appeared next to
the Mailbag column, Rob made sure that Barbara’s and Ray’s letters were placed
at the top of the column.

Barbara’s letter emphasized
that their argument was a “Shakespearean series of tragic misunderstandings,”
and in no way reflected on the character of her husband, Grant, who “in reality
was the most loving and supportive partner any woman could ever hope to have.”

Ray’s letter was stronger in
its approach. “As a longtime friend of Grant and Barbara Randolph, I have known
them to be a loving and mutually supportive couple. We all have moments when
we’re not at our best—times that we would not want a local busybody going
through our garbage or deceptively teasing information out of our neighbors.”
Then, referring to the longstanding, albeit unspoken, nickname for Warren that
had never before appeared in print, Ray wrote, “But most of us are fortunate
enough not to be placed in the crosshairs of the gossiping gourmet.” 

The salvos exchanged in the
Standard
that week did nothing to quiet the local furor. In fact, it increased
the attention to the issue. At local eateries from F3 to Sushi Ran, patrons
made the growing dispute between the Randolphs and Warren Bradley the town’s
number one topic of conversation.

Was Bradley merely doing his
job by reporting unpleasant facts about a local official, or was he seeking to
undermine Grant’s position in the community? To Grant’s detractors, Barbara was
a “whimpering supplicant.” But Ray Sirica’s words wounded Warren more deeply.
He recognized that Sirica’s letter did to him what he had hoped to do to Grant.
Warren knew he could have reached out to the Randolphs for comment before going
to press with his original story. Claiming they were “not available at press
time,” was done with the hope of avoiding any information that might have put
their altercation in a less sinister light.

Ray’s portrayal of Warren as
the “gossiping gourmet,” who goes looking through trash to find tidbits to
embarrass people, or teases information out of unsuspecting neighbors,
represented Sirica’s clever attempt to turn Warren the accuser into Warren the
accused.

Alma knew one thing for
certain: Ray Sirica’s letter moved him and his wife into the social freezer.
Debbie would, of course, retain her position in the Sausalito League of Women,
but she would never be given a role more significant than reindeer herder for
their annual follies. Alma worked the phone to make it crystal clear that
Debbie Sirica was no longer to be considered, “One of us!”