Warren’s resentment for the loathsome Grant Randolph was again rising to a boil. There was no doubt that the muse was present in him at that very moment. At the very least, he had to put his thoughts down in writing. Were he to wait until later that night, his passion might dissipate in the afterglow of a delicious meal, topped off with a bottle or two of that Consorzio Chianti Rufina that he had been saving for a special occasion.
Warren looked at the oversized clock that hung on the wood-paneled kitchen wall. His guest was due to arrive a little after seven, but it was just a few minutes past six. He lifted the lid of each pan to do one more quick check, and then he filled a large pot slightly more than halfway with the water he would use to cook his pasta, putting a low flame below it so it would begin to warm. Warren stepped into his small, cluttered bedroom and sat down at the desk wedged into the room’s tiny alcove. He opened an aging, off-brand laptop, and began to state his case for the removal of Randolph from high office:
In the past two weeks, much has been said about the behavior of Sausalito Fine Arts Commission chair, Grant Randolph. His arrest by police, on suspicion of spousal abuse, has no doubt shocked many in our quiet, tight-knit community.
While it now appears clear that Mrs. Randolph has decided not to pursue the matter of assault, it is nonetheless shocking and discomforting that an individual holding an important position in our fair city's cultural life has conducted himself in this manner.
“Heard About Town” readers know how stridently I have argued for a return to the standards of proper conduct. I do not doubt that the majority of Sausalito’s citizens would agree with me that, whatever the final disposition of these charges, Mr. Randolph’s conduct falls far short of what any one of us would call civil behavior.
What is perhaps most troubling is how Mr. Randolph’s actions reflect poorly on our city’s arts commission, an august group that has been entrusted since its founding with keeping the flame of art appreciation burning bright. Each year we celebrate this tradition of excellence with a gala that salutes the artists who have made Sausalito their home and the patrons that support their endeavors.
Mr. Randolph’s serving as a member of the commission—let alone its chairperson—sends the wrong message to both the arts community and our citizenry. The time has come for his fellow members and all Sausalitans who value the dignity of every individual to rise up and expel this viper from our midst.
He saved the column, attached it to an email, and was about to click send when it occurred to him: hadn't he already left a message for Rob Timmons advising him that this week’s column would arrive no later than noon tomorrow?
It would appear odd to submit a completed article at this time, particularly after claiming that he was otherwise engaged for the evening. Plus, while he thought he had created a compelling and well-written piece, things might look different to him in the morning. After all, “expel this viper from our midst” was perhaps a bit too strident. It was not like Warren to put himself directly in the line of fire, and there would no doubt be those who took issue with this column.
One more read tomorrow morning, and off it goes, he finally decided.
Now, it was time for more important things—open that bottle of Chianti Rufina, check the ragu, get that pasta cooking, and prepare for what he hoped would be a perfect evening.
No sooner had he savored that first careful sip of that expensive Chianti than the doorbell chimed. Warren glanced in surprise at the kitchen clock. It was only six forty-five. His guest was early, but perhaps he had gotten the time wrong. Warren took a quick, desperate glance in the mirror. He brushed his hair back, briefly regretted his aging face, and went to open the door.
To his surprise—and discomfort—he found himself staring into the hard, angry features of Ray Sirica.
Chapter Fifteen
One of Holly’s many tasks was to do a final check of editorial and advertising for each edition of The Standard.
Working in the office adjacent to Rob’s, she called out with a warning: “We’ve got a hole on page fifteen! I don’t have Bradley’s ‘Heard About Town’ column for this week.”
At this point in the day, Rob was busy closing up one edition and starting work on the next. He looked at his watch. Doing so brought to mind Warren’s message. “He phoned last night and left a voicemail that he was going out but would have his column in by noon today.”
“But it’s already close to one! I’ve got to upload finished page layouts to the printer in three hours if we’re going to make the overnight mail drop.”
Rob sighed. “Let me call him and see if he forgot to email it to us.”
To his surprise, both Warren’s home and cell went to voicemail.
“I can’t locate him,” Rob called out.
“Then how do you want me to fill the hole on page fifteen?” Holly asked, standing at the doorstep to Rob’s office.
“How about if we go with a best of ‘Heard About Town’?”
Holly rolled her eyes. “Rob,
