Oscar and Clarice said in unison, “You must stay and have a cup of tea or coffee with us.”
Warren fussed over accepting their invitation, pretending he didn’t want to interrupt their day, but it was precisely what he had hoped would happen. He followed the couple into their cluttered and dated living room and said a silent prayer that the Andersons were not in bed with their hearing aids turned off when the police came to Barbara Randolph’s rescue.
Over tea, they tasted Warren’s creation and agreed that the brownies were delicious. Clarice asked, “Warren, would you be kind enough to share the recipe? These are just divine!”
Warren hesitated for a moment, as though he was sharing something of great value. “They’re an old family recipe…but alright, my dear. I’ll send you an email with the ingredients and directions. But, please, keep it between us.”
In truth, the recipe came out of a stack of old Bon Appétit magazines housed in the storage room of the Sausalito Library.
Warren probed with a line he had dreamt up while standing over his stove, whipping up the chocolate sauce topping for his cherry-fudge brownies. “One thing I love about this upper part of Bulkley is how quiet it is up here.”
Oscar frowned. “Well, it’s not quiet all the time.”
“Why, whatever do you mean by that?” Warren asked innocently.
Oscar and Clarice looked at each other wondering who would speak first. Clarice decided to enter the void. “Sunday morning—a little past midnight, if you can believe that—we had quite a bit of excitement up here! Oscar was asleep, and I was sitting up trying to finish an old Agatha Christie Miss Marple mystery when I heard what sounded like shouting coming from next door.”
“Oh, my!” Warren exclaimed. “What was that all about?”
“The Randolphs were having one heck of a fight, that's what,” Oscar declared. “We got up and went to the window to see what was going on.”
“When I heard what I felt certain was Barbara Randolph’s scream, I immediately dialed 911,” Clarisse added. “Seeing Grant Randolph in handcuffs, Barbara Randolph being wheeled out on a stretcher, it was all so shocking and so sad. They seemed like the nicest couple.”
Warren shook his head sadly.
After further chitchat and mutually concluding that “the Randolphs should get counseling, so nothing like this ever happens again,” Warren left.
Walking quickly back to his car, Warren had to fight an impulse to jump for joy just in case the Andersons were peering out from behind their living room curtains.
Just hours before his weekly deadline, Bradley scrapped the part of his “Heard About Town” column on the ongoing dispute over permitting local restaurants the option of providing sidewalk dining, and substituted a new lead that practically wrote itself. It was, of course, the Randolph story:
The peace and tranquility of Bulkley Avenue, home to many of Sausalito’s best families, was suddenly shattered after midnight Sunday morning by a violent argument between Grant and Barbara Randolph, as reported by their neighbors Clarice and Oscar Anderson.
Sausalito Police confirmed that the violent dispute led to Mr. Randolph’s arrest and Mrs. Randolph being rushed to Marin General Hospital over concern that she had suffered possibly life-threatening injuries during their altercation.
Ethel Landau, a longtime member and former chair of the Sausalito Fine Arts Commission, which Mr. Randolph was recently made the chairman of, called the incident “shocking and greatly disappointing.” Adding, “In light of these developments, it’s perhaps time we reconsider Mr. Randolph’s participation with the commission.”
Neither Grant nor Barbara Randolph, who recently relocated to Sausalito from the often-violent streets of New York City, were available at press time for comment. Undoubtedly, we’ll have more on this story in the coming weeks.
This time, Rob read Warren’s column before it went on press.
Once again, he was not pleased. Still, Rob knew that this kind of celebrity magazine salaciousness was catnip for many readers. Warren’s column, after all, was only read by most for its occasional items of local gossip.
Nevertheless, Rob called Warren. “I assume you’ve covered your back on this story and double-checked your facts?”
“Absolutely, Rob,” Warren said with great confidence. “I got the bare bone facts on Monday from two police officers who responded to the 911 call. I then visited the Randolphs' neighbors, the Andersons, on Tuesday. They watched the entire thing from their bedroom window. They witnessed Grant Randolph being taken out in handcuffs, and Barbara Randolph wheeled out on a stretcher and placed in an ambulance.”
“I don’t think Grant Randolph will be coming to your next birthday party, but I assume you’re okay with that,” Rob retorted.
“That’s fine with me. I’d never invite the brute anyway.”
After Warren had hung up the phone, he sat back in his favorite chair.
He had kept his promise to Chief Petersen not to make his department the only source of information regarding the Randolph incident. Of course, there was now an additional public record of the arrest. And if Barbara pressed charges, any subsequent trial would be in the court's public records as well.
But, as a local columnist, the essential ingredient was the commotion disturbing the peaceful night of the Randolphs' elderly neighbors. The Andersons, having awakened after midnight and horrified to see what was happening next door, were the simple touch of community that made the entire story work perfectly.
Best of all, even with a tight deadline, Warren accomplished all his goals in what, for him, was record time.
Warren brewed a cup of tea and sat down to enjoy his reward: a just-baked fruit crisp, which had the perfect blend of sweet and sour tastes.
Chapter Eleven
This week’s “Heard About Town” column was suddenly the talk of the town. Alma and the Ladies of Liberty had nothing but praise for what she heralded as “Warren’s courageous, insightful, and powerful reporting.”
Warren
