Both Rob and Holly were transfixed by Warren’s final assault on Randolph—right through to its closing line in which he suggested that it was time for Grant’s fellow art commissioners “who value the dignity of every individual to rise up and expel this viper from our midst.”
As usual, it was Holly who first broke their silence. “Wow, the guy could really write when he put his mind to it!”
“What was the computer time stamp on this piece?” Rob asked.
“His last save of that document came at six-thirty-nine on the night he was killed.”
“Maybe he called Randolph for comment, and he came up to the house and murdered him,” Holly suggested, and then quickly added, “If they lock Randolph up and throw away the key, I wouldn’t mind being his cellmate.”
“Not so fast, Miss Drew,” Eddie said. “As I told Rob before you arrived, it’s pretty unlikely that Randolph shared dinner and two bottles of wine with Bradley before cutting off the hands that had used a computer keyboard to torment him.”
Holly, who by now was three martinis into her evening and feeling no pain, picked up her bag. “Eddie, you’ve got your theory, and I’ve got mine.”
As they watched her exit, Eddie turned to Rob and said, “Holly is such a great character. Don't you think she fits in perfectly with all the other wing nuts in this town?”
"The question now is," Rob added, "which one of those wing nuts, besides Grant Randolph, wanted Warren Bradley dead?"
Chapter Nineteen
Earlier on Friday, Alma Samuels made a surprise telephone call to Rob. In truth, they both knew she did everything she could to pretend he and The Standard didn’t exist beyond Warren’s “Heard About Town” column. All the more reason for Rob’s shock when he picked up his phone and found Alma on the line.
“Poor dear Warren’s memorial service begins at ten o’clock sharp, Saturday morning,” she said, without so much as a simple salutation. “I know he meant a great deal to you—or I should say, to The Standard. Heavens! If not for his column, I presume there would be no reason at all for your paper to exist! That being said, I presume you’ll want to speak at Warren’s memorial service.”
Rob’s first instinct was to reply in a fake voice, “Sorry, you must get wrong number,” and hang up. But, he resisted temptation.
Saturday was his one morning to sleep in—a once weekly gift to himself—but he knew it would needlessly offend Alma's army if he declined the offer. He winced at the thought of attending a Ladies of Liberty arranged farewell to their dearly departed hero, but there was no graceful way to turn down the invitation. Besides, this was a rare opportunity to prove to his detractors that he was a responsible and established voice in what is often a discordant community.
“Yes,” he muttered wearily, “I'd be happy to do that. I’ll see you—”
Alma hung up before Rob completed his acceptance.
Friday night, after Smitty’s and after dinner, Rob hastily wrote down some brief comments regarding his late columnist. He then read them to Karin as she washed and dried the dishes.
“Whatever you want to say is fine, dear,” Karin said. He realized she was paying little attention to his carefully crafted words. “Honestly, Rob, the guy always gave me the creeps. The way he went around getting into everybody’s business, exchanging pot roasts and cheese plates for gossip! You know, it wouldn’t surprise me if he knew a little too much for his own good. My mother always told me that nosy people are likely to get their noses cut off.”
Later on, when they both were in bed, Karin turned to Rob and said, “Maybe that’s why the killer chopped off his hands. It could have been a warning to others to be careful about what they put into print.”
“Eddie and I talked about that. Of course, Eddie thinks if that was the case, I might be the next one to lose my hands.”
"I hope not," Karin said as she softly held and kissed Rob's hand. “Who would give my neck a rub after a long day with the kids?"
Both shared a good laugh as they turned out their lights. But they also wondered in silence whether they had remembered to lock the back door.
Rob had almost drifted off to sleep when he remembered something Eddie had said at Smitty’s: “Nearly all victims know their killers.”
The idea was worrisome enough to keep Rob awake for another hour staring into the darkness.
Warren Bradley’s memorial service was held at the old Presbyterian Church at the top of Excelsior Lane, just two blocks uphill from The Standard's office. It's an intimate, aging, wood structure with a small town, Thomas Kinkade-like, fantasy look about it.
The crowd that turned out was large enough that a third of the mourners—those who arrived after nine-thirty—had to watch the service on two aging video monitors in the church’s basement reception hall.
The Ladies of Liberty led the effort to make the service memorable. Ethel and Marilyn were in charge of floral arrangements and musical interludes. Bea and Robin assembled the potluck brunch reception to follow the service. Tissue boxes were placed discreetly throughout the church, along with enlarged pictures of Warren: stirring a sauce, pulling a roast out of the oven, decorating a cake, decanting a bottle of wine, and posing over his laptop’s keyboard ready to strike.
Sausalito is a small community. In New York, Dallas, Los Angeles, and a dozen other cities, a killer can vanish into a crowd. But that’s far harder to do in a small town. And that was why Eddie is here, Rob reasoned.
Rob had just stepped up to the dais when he noticed Holly tucking herself into a small space by the church’s door. Her eyelids were half closed. She too was not accustomed to being up at this hour on a Saturday. Rob was now certain that his
