Read The Gossiping Gourmet: (A Murder in Marin Mystery - Book 1) (Murder in Marin Mysteries) Online
Authors: Martin Brown
The Gossiping Gourmet: (A Murder in Marin Mystery - Book 1) (Murder in Marin Mysteries)
The
Gossiping Gourmet
A
Murder in Marin
Mystery
– Book 1
A Novel by
Martin Brown
© 2014 Martin Brown. All
rights reserved.
Distributed by Signal Press,
San Francisco, CA
[email protected]
To my sweetheart, Josie
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Warren Bradley had two
passions that drove him: one was the gift of creating fine cuisine. The other
was his love of gossip.
Not a deadly combination by
definition, but when added to the fact that Warren was a “gentleman of leisure
with a love of mischief,” lethal results might have been a likely, if
unanticipated, outcome.
Warren was a minor celebrity
in the small city of Sausalito, California. Connected to San Francisco by the
Golden Gate Bridge, this seemingly idyllic town inhabited by seven thousand
people living on the southern tip of Marin County, could swell to double its
population on sun-filled weekends when hordes of tourists descended upon it for
an afternoon of dining, strolling, and picture taking.
Nearly all of its visitors
came and went, blissfully unaware of the complex world of petty bickering and
social climbing that created the daily undercurrent of life in many of those
picture-perfect hillside homes.
Warren’s passion for gossip
led him to insert himself into the middle of this garden of social delights,
replete with hidden thorns. He would flit about like a busy bee, from one end
of town to the other. The old money and the new, the well-connected and those
who wished to be all opened their doors to him—or more specifically, to his
lemon caper calamari steaks.
As you might suspect, his
social calendar stayed quite full.
Warren was a frumpish man in
his early seventies. The care he took in the presentation of a plate of salmon
with snap peas, yellow peppers, and dill pistachio was a care he never took in
his own appearance.
He wasn’t disheveled or
careworn, but for a retired gentleman of supposed means, and considering his
thin patina of local celebrity, his appearance came up well short of
expectations. This air of fine garments that had suffered from overuse helped
to feed rumors that Warren’s parachute from the world of banking was perhaps
brass instead of gold.
Warren knew of the whispers,
but rightly reasoned he would be in an awkward position to raise any objection.
In truth, it was one of many slights that he simply chose to ignore. Between
delicious innuendo and fine dining, he was busy with other matters.
In fact, it was not fair to
place at his feet the blame for every shockwave of gossip that rippled through
the canyons of Sausalito, like a mild to moderate tremor. After all, good
gossip needs an anxious audience. Without listeners, and without those who
happily add to the din of that week’s serving of unsavory and often unfounded
stories, any busy bee would have fallen well short of the sweet essence needed
to sustain life.
But in this town of steep
hills, breathtaking views, and hungry ears, there was little danger of that.
The long knives may appear to have been sheathed during any of the more than
one dozen major events that made up the year’s social calendar, but that was
only a momentary truce. The very next day, the rumor mill was back at work,
busy grinding a toxic mix of truth, partial truth, and complete fabrication.
“I couldn’t believe that man,
Grant Randolph, showed up with his wife and his mistress in the very same
room,” Alma Samuels complained to her closest and longest surviving friend in
town, Ethel Landau.
In turn, Ethel called Marilyn
Williams to suggest that Randolph’s mistress, Kitty Collins, was pregnant.
By the time Beatrice Snyder
ended her phone conversation with Robin Mitchell, Randolph’s wife and his
mistress were both expecting.
And so the mill kept working,
albeit with time off each year only for the most important holidays.
It was not so much the rumors
themselves that kept the mill turning, but the deep-seated resentment that the
town’s old money had for its new—two generations twenty or more years apart,
separated by vastly different life journeys.
When you clear away the
clutter of the daily tourist deluge that drives the small city’s economic
success and look a little deeper, you discover that Sausalito has nearly as
many different subgroups as it has souvenir T-shirt and trinket shops. There
are young families with one child, and another on the way. In most cases, they
had lived in San Francisco as eager twentysomethings, worked hard by day and
partied hard by night. But now, as married thirtysomethings, they want to raise
a family in a place that moves at a much slower and seemingly safer pace. A
place where, simultaneous to noticing your dog has gone missing, a neighbor
calls to say that Bowser was just spotted wandering down Caledonia Street on
his way to the muffin shop in search of generous souls willing to share a part
of their breakfast pastry with a sweet, sad-eyed dog.
In time, most of those
families with one or two children move on to bigger houses in the central and
northern parts of Marin County, where real estate prices dropped from the
outrageous, to the mildly insane.
The families left behind by
this diaspora of the upwardly mobile were mostly renters and houseboat people.
Their children, usually early and late teens, make up the relatively small
corps of what is referred to as Sausalito’s “disaffected youth.” Their
occasional moments of acting out help to support a local police force, which is
comprised of individuals who choose to serve where acts of lawlessness most
often involve candy store thefts and cars doing forty in twenty-five
mile-per-hour zones.
There are also middle-life
singles and marrieds who never had kids and have no intention of starting a
family as they approach the fifth or sixth decades of life. When not working to
make an income, they often involve themselves in the political or charitable
aspects of the community. Some of these forty- and fiftysomethings would engage
with the town’s older retired citizens. But many others made a point of
avoiding Sausalito’s landed gentry, and thought of their quiet community as a
place to sleep at night, and play tennis, bar hop, bike, boat, (or all four) on
the weekends. To this group, not being in the presence of old power brokers
like Alma Samuels meant little, if anything at all.
Warren Bradley’s social set
was mostly between the ages of sixty and death. This group—about a quarter of
the town’s year round population—are themselves divided into subgroups, mostly
determined by income and social standing. The standing rule is you had to have
lived in Sausalito for two or more decades to be considered for a place in the
top social strata. However, a biography that included such citations as a high
government position, or a retired president of a Fortune 500 company, or an
aging actor retreating from the vulgarities of life in Southern California,
helped you and your significant other to move quickly toward the top tier.
And, of course, being blessed
with an oversized financial portfolio, coupled with an eagerness to associate
with the “right type of people” all but assured your entry into Sausalito’s
social elite.
The teardown of an aging
upper hill mansion and the start of new construction would inevitably set the
gossip mill into action. This was a principle reason why Warren Bradley
believed in keeping friends close, enemies closer, and local real estate agents
on speed dial. One slip for Warren in this game of know-and-tell, and his
currency as a busy bee would begin to diminish, along with invitations to all
the right gatherings.
“Did you see what’s going on
up on Cazenau?” Warren buzzed for several weeks into aging eager ears. “From
what I hear, this is going to be quite a huge home!” While friends on the local
planning commission—a plum volunteer position for any and all local
busybodies—often provided a quick answer as to the who, what, and where of new
wealth coming into town, much of the information was still maddeningly elusive.
This was commonly the case
for two reasons. First, extensive interior remodeling of one of the town’s
aging grand homes was limited in its review process, as opposed to a
lot-clearing followed by new construction or substantial exterior renovation.
The commission being able to lay claim only on what came into public view. And,
second, often those with the most recognizable names and/or largest portfolios
have ways to hide behind the use of attorneys, agents, contractors, and
engineering and design firms.
But there is only so long that
anyone can hide. Moving day, either in or out of town, inevitably comes, and
inquisitive eyes watch for both moving vans and delivery trucks.
Whether the new arrival is a
mogul or a movie star, it all comes out in the buzz. Most maddening, however, for
Warren and his devotees were the wealthy humble: people for whom that 1950s
era home is just fine. The structure was massive enough, the lot big enough,
and the driveway steep enough to frustrate the most determined prying eyes.
Warren was wise to bide his
time. Perhaps one of the local art gallery owners would find themselves
unexpectedly blessed by a new resident who is certain that their wonderful
painting of the Marin Headlands plunging dramatically into the Pacific was the
perfect touch for a new home. Or a
People
magazine tabloid star who
peers over her sunglasses to ask the butcher at the local Mollie Stone’s how
long the tri-tip in the display case has aged. Or a DUI stop made of the new
arrival by one of Sausalito’s finest.
Rewards inevitably come to
those who are patient.
Food was the golden key to
unlock many secrets.
That was the only reason
Warren graciously offered to cater a monthly lunch for the Sausalito Police
Department. The officers’ juicy bits of news fed Warren’s insatiable appetite
for innuendo, supposition, and blatant conjecture.
It was his mission to see
that the best of the dirt came first to him.
SPD’s headquarters was a
two-story building that took up a full block at the end of Caledonia Street.
Besides a well-appointed reception area, and a state-of-the-art lockdown area,
the facility had a meeting room with richly appointed mahogany walls.
Considering that the police force consisted of only a dozen uniform officers,
five support staff, a chief, and a deputy chief, it was certainly more police
coverage than the town required—particularly given the fact that the county
sheriff’s department maintained a Southern Marin force, just two miles north of
Sausalito police headquarters.
But this was a special
benefit that the town’s residents chose to give themselves. A greater police
presence was one of the luxuries their success—and the healthy influx of
tourist dollars—allowed them to afford.
The fire station was just as
grand. In fact, day visitors often mistook it for a luxury hotel. But the fire
brigade was never treated to Warren’s garden of culinary delights. When Ethel
Landau once asked him why, he retorted, “Grease fires, and cats stuck in trees
are of little interest to me and are not the type of news I look to report.”
But for Sausalito’s finest,
Warren had a much different view. Warren brought his most creative dishes, and
they’d bring more news for his rumor mill.
Those unexpected delicious
morsels of salacious details that reignited his standing in a social circle above
his actual station in life made the hours of shopping, preparation, cooking,
carrying, and serving all worthwhile.
His efforts were greatly
appreciated by the department’s rank and file. From Captain Hans Petersen down
to Chris Harding—the city’s newest patrol officer, who escaped the mean streets
of San Jose for the quieter and safer life of Sausalito—it was a happy exchange
for Sausalito’s men and women in blue.