Rob felt terrible, knowing that he was taking some of his frustration out on his office mate. He was keenly aware that his readers were all waiting for answers. But if the cops didn’t have any, more specifically, Eddie, what in the world did Warren’s loyal fan base think he had?
Nonetheless, Rob quickly called Alma, aware that this new détente between them could expand readership, resulting in increased advertising revenue—something he would happily welcome.
Alma picked up on the first ring. Her tone was unusually pleasant. “I loved this week’s edition of The Standard,” she purred.
At the top of the final “Heard About Town” column, Rob placed a brief statement: “Written by Warren Bradley, just hours before his death. This document was uncovered by law enforcement officials working on his homicide and was made available to readers of The Standard.”
“It’s extraordinary,” Alma continued, “that he wrote about this dangerous man, Randolph, hours before his murder. If Warren were alive today his first question would be: Why is Grant Randolph not in custody?”
Rob was sure this was Alma’s opening salvo in her hope of organizing a lynch mob.
Cautiously, he said, “I heard that the Randolphs left for New York City early on the morning after Warren’s body was found.”
“I had heard that, too, and I’m sure it sounds highly suspicious to you as well.”
“If not suspicious, rotten timing at a minimum.”
Both paused, realizing they might be on a path to expressing divergent points of view.
“In any event, I was hoping that in your next edition you will keep a bright light shining on Grant Randolph’s whereabouts,” Alma said. “It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if they both decided to extend their visit to New York. What thoroughly distasteful people!”
There were a few moments of awkward silence; Rob gazed out his window at passing tourists walking into the shops of Princess Court as he considered his response. “Randolph is certainly at the top of everyone’s suspect list. At the same time, it’s hard to second-guess where the investigation stands at any given moment,” Rob suggested. “The police are staying pretty quiet and that’s not making my job any easier.”
“Well, sail on, brave soul. I just wanted to be sure you’re pursuing Warren’s killer without hesitation. I feel quite certain you’re doing exactly that. In fact, every member of the Ladies of Liberty is at this very moment singing your praises.”
Talk about offering up a carrot as opposed to Alma’s usual stick.
As Rob thanked her and hung up, he turned his swivel chair away from the window to the faded blue couch that sat on the wall opposite his desk. Holly sat there, staring at him with a mischievous smile. She arched a brow. “So, what did the queen of darkness have to say for herself?”
“Sheesh! I haven’t seen you this excited since Paul Simon stopped his car on Princess Street to ask you for directions.”
Holly waved away Rob’s jibe with a swish of her wrist. “If the least likely suspect is the killer—which is what happens all the time in murder mysteries—then I'm guessing Alma did it.”
“If she killed Bradley, she must have hired one of the counter boys at Venice Gourmet as an accomplice. She certainly wasn’t the one preparing the wrist chops or tossing Warren's body around like an antique Ken doll.”
“That might be it! She’s the dinner guest—no surprise there. She gets him good and soused. Then, she lets Benedetto—who can handle a cleaver on those old hard salamis like they’re butter—step in and finish the job.”
“Alright Agatha, let’s get back to work. The Peninsula Standard is three hours from final deadline.”
As Holly re-checked the completed layout pages for the Tiburon/Belvedere edition, she cheered herself by imagining Alma Samuels working in the laundry at a California state prison for the remaining years of her life.
One week earlier, the day Warren’s murder was a top Bay Area news story, the Siricas made an urgent call to Grant and Barbara.
“Are you sitting down?” Ray asked. “In fact, put your cell on speaker. Barbara has to hear this as well!”
Grant did as Ray suggested and motioned Barbara over.
“Hi, Ray. Hi, Debbie. What’s up?” Barbara asked.
Debbie couldn’t contain herself. “Warren Bradley was murdered last night!”
“What?” Barbara and Grant shrieked in unison.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Barbara murmured.
“This is no joke,” Ray responded. “I’m reading about it right now, on the San Francisco Chronicle’s website. I'll forward you the article as soon as we get off this call. Grant, I hate to say this, but it may not look so great for you, considering it happened just hours before you left town. Not to mention the blowout you had with Warren at the opera event.”
Grant was silent for a moment. Finally, he declared, “Ray, Debbie, hand to God, I had absolutely nothing to do with this.”
“We would never suspect you of killing that old troll,” Ray assured him.
“We love you both. I’m sure, before long, they’ll find whoever did this,” Debbie added.
For a brief moment, after their call ended, Grant and Barbara were lost in their thoughts. But when they caught each other’s eyes, Barbara noticed the upturned corners of Grant’s lips. Soon, her smile matched his. “I think this calls for drinks,” Grant declared. “What do you say we go to the bar over at the Waverly?”
Barbara laughed. “I’ll drink to that.”
When they arrived and settled in, their first toast was to Warren's memory. “I know it’s sad,” Barbara said, “but he was a mean-spirited little louse! I couldn’t believe what he wrote about me. I’m trying to get a little publicity for myself about working a new job at a prestigious gallery, and he makes it sound like I thought the women in the league were a bunch of silly fools!”
“He was a gasbag,” Grant said. “I’m not going to let myself feel sorry for him. Based on the experience we had with him, I would think the number of possible suspects the police are looking into could fill
