Barbara’s letter emphasized that their argument was a “Shakespearean series of tragic misunderstandings,” and in no way reflected the actual character of her husband, Grant, who, in reality, “is 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. Additionally, Bradley was dishonest in claiming that he had reached out to Barbara and Grant Randolph to get their side of the story. He did no such thing. Neither of the Randolphs’ phones showed a missed call or a phone message from Mr. Bradley.”
Then, referring to the longstanding, albeit unspoken nickname for Warren that had never before appeared in print, Ray added, “Thankfully, most of us are fortunate enough not to find ourselves in the crosshairs of Warren Bradley, Sausalito's very own, Gossiping Gourmet.”
The salvos exchanged in The Standard that week did little to quiet the local furor. In fact, it increased attention to the issue.
At local eateries, 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 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 far less troubling light.
Ray’s portrayal of Warren as “the Gossiping Gourmet,” who goes looking through his neighbors’ trash to find tidbits to embarrass people, or teases information out of unsuspecting individuals, represented Sirica’s attempt to turn Warren the accuser into Warren the accused.
Alma knew one thing for sure: 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 not be given any 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 considered, “One of us!”
Chapter Fourteen
Having a calendar filled with special events for which he was expected to bring a prepared dish, what Warren enjoyed most was using his cooking skills for those occasions when he entertained at his small hillside cottage.
This particular evening was one he had anticipated for the last two weeks. It presented the opportunity to prepare one of his long-standing favorite dishes: pasta with veal, sausage, and porcini ragu. What a welcome change, Warren thought, from all this commotion regarding Randolph and his unpleasant encounters with both him and his likely mob-connected pal, Ray Sirica!
Soon after Warren arrived in Sausalito, approximately twenty-five years ago, he befriended a childless widow named Lillian Danvers. He cooked for her, did her shopping, and took her to doctor’s appointments.
Shortly after she died in her sleep one wet winter’s night, Warren moved into the Danvers home. At the time his doing so raised a few eyebrows among the town's senior set, but to others, it seemed like a reasonable exchange. For over two years he had cared for her, and, if the rumor was true, at one point he had been her “young lover.” They had a documented agreement, supposedly memorialized by one of the county’s many attorneys, specifying the transfer of the property deed to Warren at the time of her death upon the payment of a single dollar.
Although the home was small compared to the estates of Sausalito’s landed gentry, Warren was perfectly happy there. With no plans to start a family, the Danvers cottage met his three greatest expectations: an adequate kitchen, a beautiful bay view, and a home up on the hill, which, to Sausalito society, meant he had arrived.
So engrossed was Warren in the preparation of his favorite sauce that he completely forgot that this evening was also the deadline for his weekly column.
Now that it had finally crossed his mind, he knew there was no hope of his completing the column and also having his meal prepared in time for his special guest. Warren reached for the phone and called Rob, whom he rightly assumed had left his office for the day.
"Hello, Rob," he began, making certain his voicemail conveyed an air of relaxed assurance. "This week's column is nearly complete, I just want to polish it a bit more, but I have plans for the evening. I'll have it for you well before noon tomorrow. It’s an important column, and I think you'll like what I've done.”
The message was a complete fabrication. In fact, Warren had no idea what he was going to write, meaning reaching the column’s regular length, approximately seven hundred and fifty words, would be more painful to accomplish than usual.
As he lovingly sautéed the veal in a wine sauce until it browned, his mind wandered over a range of possibilities. Alma, Bea, and Robin had told him repeatedly that he needed to keep the heat on Randolph, but the entire episode was placing him in the middle of a dispute that he found increasingly uncomfortable.
While he busied himself slicing onions, carrots, and tomatoes, it occurred to him that perhaps in this week’s column he could declare that the moment had arrived for members of the Sausalito Fine Arts Commission to take a stand on the subject of violence against women. Once he settled on his topic, the column began to write itself.
Warren, a master in the nasty business of scheming, knew
