Allan explained it as nothing more than “an admonishing tap to her cheek.” The one on the receiving end of what Warren called “the slap heard round the world” declared it “a hideous and unprovoked act of violence.” Subsequent columns made it apparent that Warren’s mailbag was overwhelmed with demands for the young Mr. Allan to resign. The gentleman did just that and, soon after, moved out of town. His departure caused Warren, in his typically snide fashion, to wonder aloud “if Mr. Allan will be missed?”
It seemed unlikely that Allan returned to Sausalito to murder Warren, but he was indeed a name to be added to Eddie’s list.
The following year, in an event far less public than the infamous “slap heard round the world,” Warren implied that Carrie Kahn was pocketing a portion of the raffle money raised for the purchase of new fitness equipment for “our brave men and women of the Sausalito Fire Department.” In his usual style, he stopped just short of making an accusation and used the comments and concerns of others to build his case—often without attribution. He wrote, for example, “sources, who wish to remain anonymous, have told this columnist that…”
At first, Kahn and a few of her friends complained loudly in letters to the editor. But, as she later explained, she chose “not to pursue legal remedies for the wrongs committed by Mr. Bradley,” whom she went on to refer to as “a mean-spirited little man.”
Her decision not to pursue Bradley could have been for several reasons, but the two most likely were she had pocketed some of the raffle money, or she did a lousy job of keeping all her ticket stubs alongside final running totals. Having realized that in a libel suit, it is the burden of the accused to provide evidence that there was no basis for the stated claims, she was left with no logical choice but to live under the cloud that now hung over her. For that reason, Rob nominated Carrie to Eddie’s list of suspects in spite of Eddie’s belief that only a male killer could have had the brute force to chop through Warren’s wrists so cleanly and, more significantly, move Bradley’s body onto that swing.
Of course, there were others, all of whom Rob concluded were likely suggested for Warren’s court of public opinion by his patroness, Alma, and her lieutenants.
When Rob finished reading all the columns, he mumbled to himself, “If Warren Bradley were alive today, I’d dump him and his column!”
If he had put an end to Warren’s column a year or more ago, would Bradley be alive today? Perhaps some people who acted carelessly or impetuously would not have suffered Warren’s public form of humiliation. But what was done was done. Rob knew there was little value in crying over spilled ink. To run a small newspaper in one or more small towns comes with its share of regrettable moments. This was one more regret that Rob needed to put behind him.
Having picked up little that might have driven one of the injured targets of Warren’s past columns to go as far as murder, it was time to move on to the next step: Who was Warren Bradley before he arrived in Sausalito?
When Rob called Alma and explained he’d like to interview her for a Warren Bradley retrospective, she was delighted. Without hesitation, she suggested that Rob join her for tea at four that afternoon.
Rob was undoubtedly familiar with the Samuels’ mansion and the lovely piece of property on which it stood. Nevertheless, when Louise showed him into the home’s sunroom, he was impressed with his surroundings.
Alma entered and reached out to take his hand. She immediately said, “Mr. Timmons, I’m delighted to welcome you to my home.”
“Call me Rob, please.”
“Of course—Rob,” she said with a faint smile. “Let me start by saying how pleased I am that you are doing a piece on dear Warren’s life. His death is an unspeakable tragedy, and he should never be forgotten! He was too kind, and too vigilant a journalist to be forgotten. The Ladies of Liberty have been discussing where we might erect a statue in Warren’s memory. Perhaps, a bust sitting atop a pillar in the plaza outside of city hall would be the best choice. There are many groups, charities, and organizations that I’m certain would contribute to the project.”
Rob felt a shiver go down his spine over the thought of a Warren Bradley memorial, particularly after completing his review of Warren’s columns. Perhaps a third of the town would like a bronze bust on a marble pillar, a third would agree to a likeness of Warren’s head placed on a spike, and the final third would remain undecided as they were on nearly every local issue.
Alma thanked Louise, who placed a tray of tea and cookies on the antique coffee table between them. “Now, Rob, fire away. I hope you’re doing a thorough job in making Warren come alive again for everyone who knew him.”
“I hope so, as well. Let me begin by asking if you remember when you first met Warren.”
“Confident you’d ask, I was thinking about that this morning. My best guess is twenty-five years ago—or perhaps a little more.”
Rob nodded. “That would have been close to the time Warren settled in Sausalito. I’m also uncertain as to where he lived before he arrived here. Did he ever share that information with you?”
Alma frowned. “Warren and I discussed many things over the years, but I don’t recall the topic of his years before Sausalito coming up. He did mention that he studied at the Culinary Institute, in Saint Helena. He also said that he majored in finance, at Carnegie Mellon in Pittsburgh. But I don’t have any idea of the actual years he attended either of those distinguished
