He looked for the words to explain to Ray that he and Warren were two very different people. “Warren’s gossip column has upset people in the past,” Rob explained. “As you know, this is a small town. When some of the lifers around here decide you’re not their sort of people, not only will they imagine that you had a part in Bradley’s killing, they’ll also presume you committed every murder in a hundred-mile radius.”
“Don’t you think you went a little hard on Grant Randolph?”
Karin’s question had Rob choking on his lunch. The latest issue of The Standard had just been delivered to their home mailbox.
“How so?” he asked reluctantly, not sure he wanted to hear her answer.
“Well…you go into the run-in he had with Warren at the opera park event.”
He shrugged. “And?”
“I don’t know…It’s just that it puts Randolph in such a bad light! Frankly, I feel sorry for the guy.”
“I agree with you. But it’s a part of the story. If days before some guy gets killed, a third of the people in town see you having a confrontation with the victim who’s found murdered and dismembered, it’s not going to put you in a good light. And it’s probably nothing more than rotten timing that the Randolphs left for New York only twelve hours after Bradley’s body was discovered. But those are the facts, and you can’t objectively edit them out of the story. Remember that in the news business you can get in trouble for what you choose to leave in or leave out of a story.”
Noting Karin’s silence, Rob again jumped into the void. “When you’re the publisher and lead reporter for a small town newspaper, you’re swimming in a fishbowl. That’s one of the things I most like about doing the other editions, in Tiburon/Belvedere, Mill Valley, and Ross Valley; I don’t know near as many people that I pass than when I’m in Sausalito. Both of us grew up here. We’re the third generation of the Timmons family to live in this house, and The Standard has been published in town since the nineteen-fifties.”
“…And, so?” Karin asked.
“More so than any other town in Marin, what I do here is looked at under a microscope. I guarantee you: for every one person who asks me why I mentioned Grant Randolph in the Bradley story, there’s another nine who would wonder why I did not mention their confrontation.”
“You’re right, Rob. I can see that. But then running that last column of Bradley’s, isn’t that rubbing salt in the wound?”
“Just between us, that was Eddie’s contribution to this week’s edition.”
“You don’t mean he wrote it, do you?”
“No, of course not. It's Bradley’s actual last column. But Eddie knew it would stir up more suspicion about Randolph. He believes that Bradley’s killer lives or works, or both, right here in Sausalito. The more attention that’s focused on Randolph, the greater the possibility that the real killer will let down his guard—in other words, hopefully, get careless.”
“No one but you and Eddie knows this?”
“I haven’t even mentioned it to Holly. She too thought I’d lost my marbles when I told her I was running Bradley’s final column.”
“I can’t imagine what the Randolphs are going to think when they see this coverage, not to mention the column. Bradley went over the top with that bit about ‘expelling this viper from our midst.’”
“Like his mentor, Alma Samuels, Warren had a flair for the dramatic. Personally, I think Randolph is probably a decent guy. But he’s certainly got a bad temper. Perhaps he should cut back on all that weightlifting—maybe he's dealing with a little too much testosterone. That said, going from having some anger issues to doing what was done to Bradley is a pretty big leap. But if God forbid, Grant Randolph did kill Warren Bradley, and I never mentioned that night at the opera incident, I’d be laughed out of town.”
She shrugged. “You're probably right about that as well.”
“I never told you this, but when I was delivering the Bradley eulogy, I was convinced that his killer was standing there in the church, watching me and listening to everything I said. And as you know, Commissioner Randolph was thousands of miles away.”
“That old church doesn’t hold many people—probably less than two hundred. It would be pretty creepy if the killer were sitting there looking at you.” Karin shuddered at the thought, then stood up. “I’ve got to walk down to Sparrow Creek to pick up the children.” She walked over and kissed Rob on the cheek. “Even if the Randolphs had stayed in town this past week and Warren had not been murdered, I have a feeling they wouldn’t have gone to another outdoor opera event.”
“Perhaps it’s a good thing Randolph got out of town when he did; that old church has high rafters. Alma herself would have provided the rope if she thought she could get away with some old-fashioned frontier justice.”
“That’s my point. In a town this small, one bad misstep, and you’re guilty in the court of public opinion.” Karin sighed and shook her head in disappointment. “I wouldn’t be surprised if, make that when, this whole thing blows over, those poor people move back to New York. I guess they’re learning firsthand the downside of living in a town where everyone knows your name.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
When Rob returned to the office after lunch, Holly announced, “Your girlfriend, Alma, called. She hopes you have a moment to call her back,” Holly pursed her lips and made a kissing sound.
“Hey, give the old lady a break. I don’t have any problem with Alma wanting to know who killed her favorite chef.”
“Gosh, you’re a little touchy today!” Holly frowned as she headed back to
