The Sourdough Wars (3 page)

“I think,” I said, “we should call the police.”

Peter picked up the phone and dialed. But he didn’t call the cops. He said, “Bob? Peter Martinelli. I was just wondering—has anything odd happened tonight?”

After he finished talking, he turned to the rest of us. “Bob Tosi got a call and shrugged it off. Then his brother called and said he’d gotten one. Accused Bob of being the caller.”

“I really think—” I said, but that was as far as I got.

“Look,” said Peter. “Let’s call it a night, okay? See you at noon.”

Chris looked hurt, and he gave her hair a reassuring ruffle. “Not you. You stick around.”

Chris came in late the next morning, about ten, but I was with a client. In fact, both of us had a busy morning, so we didn’t talk at all before the auction. Rob turned up at 11:45, and we went into Chris’s office to help her arrange the chairs and make coffee—Kruzick had already made some, but it was too awful to serve. It wasn’t quite twelve when he appeared at the door and said Clayton Thompson was there.

Thompson was a slight fellow, with thinning blond hair and a thick Southern accent. He was from North Carolina and took a shine to Chris, whose own accent got a little thicker when she talked to him. Rob and I listened mostly, while they “passed the time of day,” which, in their language, means “made polite conversation.”

“How long you been in New York, Mr. Thompson?”

“Oh, seven, eight years. We were in Atlanta before that, my wife and I. Then the comp’ny said move, so we moved.”

“Any kids?”

“Two boys. I just happen to have a couple of pictures if y’all’d be interested.” Chris said we certainly would, and he showed us snaps of cute towheads.

There was something about him that was knotted up hard and very controlled beneath the easy manner. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I wondered if his job would be on the line if he didn’t get the starter.

“Mr. Robert Tosi to see you,” said Kruzick.

Tosi stepped into the room. He was dark, burly, and had something I liked around the eyes, but I couldn’t put my finger on that, either. He was dressed in khaki pants, a sports shirt with no tie, and an old corduroy jacket. I didn’t much care for the outfit, as I felt it set a bad example for Kruzick, who tended to emulate Rob in his dress. Reporters, as you may know, always wear old corduroy jackets, and that’s fine for them, but I feel a law office deserves more dignity. Kruzick does not share my opinion.

Despite his taste in clothes, Tosi had a warm handshake and a nice smile. He sat down, crossed his legs, and started chatting up Thompson.

“This your first trip?”

“Yes. It’s a beautiful city.”

“You should take a side trip to the wine country—breathe some fresh air for a change.”

Thompson looked a bit sheepish. “I’m afraid I don’t have much extra time.”

“What have you seen so far?”

Thompson flushed. “Ah—not much. Nob Hill, and that’s about it. I’m staying at the Stanford Court.” He appeared at a loss for words. It was odd; he had seemed so courtly and comfortable a few minutes before.

But I thought Tosi’s presence might have thrown him a bit off his stride. The man seemed to fill up a room, somehow. He had a sort of overflowing confidence that wasn’t exactly intimidating—to me, anyway—but might have been off-putting to a man. Especially a man who was about to go up against him in a big business deal.

I wondered how much money was about to change hands. Chris didn’t think half a million bucks was out of the question.

Kruzick brought Sally Devereaux in. She had on a beige suit and a light blue silk blouse with a bow. Her shoes were silly T-straps with four-inch heels. Her color had returned; in fact, her cheeks were quite attractively pink.

Tosi rose and stepped toward her, as if to kiss her. She stepped back and offered her hand.

“Sally. You’re looking good.”

She said, “Bob,” and nodded.

He seemed to unhinge her a little, too. She turned quickly to Thompson and gave him a big smile.

“I’ve heard good things about your bakery,” he said.

“It’s only a couple of years old, but I’m hoping to expand. I think I really do have a good product.”

“I’ll have to try it sometime,” said Tosi.

“You mean you haven’t?” Sally sounded outraged.

He looked confused, as if he couldn’t quite remember. “I really don’t think I—”

“You don’t even remember?”

He shrugged a pair of massive shoulders. “Sourdough tastes pretty much like sourdough.”

Sally didn’t answer. She was fuming.

Tony Tosi came in. He was big, like his brother, and they both had the same square jawline, but Tony’s hair was thinning faster and he seemed less substantial. I wasn’t sure what the difference was, but I figured maybe Bob worked out and Tony didn’t. They had different styles of dress as well. Tony was wearing a suit and every kind of Gucci accessory on the market.

“Bob,” said Tony. “Sally.”

He made no move to shake hands with either of the people he spoke to, and sat down quickly so he wouldn’t have to shake with Thompson either.

Chris looked at her watch. It was ten after twelve. “I’m sure Mr. Martinelli will be here soon,” she said. “Would anyone like coffee?”

They all said yes and not much else. It was true they were adversaries, but they were also experienced business people, and they were doing precious little to keep up minimum standards of politeness. At first I put it down to the feud between the brothers, but it wasn’t only that. Sally had snapped at Bob and generally seemed out of sorts. Thompson was uneasy about something. Perhaps they were thinking about the threatening phone calls. Maybe they were sitting there trying to figure out which of the other three had made them.

“Excuse me,” said Chris, and went to my office. When she came back, she said, “I just called Mr. Martinelli and got no answer. So I’m sure he’s on his way.”

“It’s twelve-twenty,” said Sally. “You’d think he could be on time for his own auction.”

“Miss Nicholson,” said Tony, “I think if he isn’t here by twelve-thirty, we have to assume he isn’t serious about selling the starter.”

Chris looked as if she might cry.

“Mr. Tosi,” I said, “you may assume anything you want. When Mr. Martinelli arrives, the auction will take place.” Rob gave me an “atta-girl” look. I could tell he was feeling sorry for Chris.

We gave them more coffee and even offered drinks, but no one accepted. Rob and Thompson and Bob Tosi and I managed to keep up a little desultory conversation, but Chris couldn’t say a word, and Sally and Tony appeared to have taken vows of silence.

At 12:45, Bob Tosi stretched, looked at his watch, and said he had a lunch date. “I expect the rest of you do, too,” he said. “Why don’t we leave together and set another date for the auction? I’m sure Mr. Martinelli must have gotten tied up or he’d have been here by now.”

“May as well,” said Thompson, rising and straightening his tie.

Tony rose without a word.

Only Sally seemed reluctant. She continued to sit a bit longer, looking as if she were trying to think of something to say. After a moment, she got up and left with the others.

Chris was dialing Peter’s number before they were out the door. She put down the receiver, sighing. “No answer.”

“Look,” I said, “I’ll go out and get sandwiches.” She nodded.

“I’ll go with you,” said Rob. It was obvious Chris needed to be alone.

We came back with three pastramis on rye and three Cokes. Rob ate all of his, I managed half of mine, and Chris stared into space while we ate. Every now and then she’d pick up half a sandwich and stare at it instead of the horizon, but she never got as far as biting into it.

She called Peter’s again. No answer. “I’m going over there.”

“Chris, you can't—”

“Rebecca, this is no time to be cool.”

Rob looked baffled, but I had to give Chris credit. She’d put her finger on the very thing I was thinking—when your boyfriend stands you up, you shouldn’t go spying on him or he might get the idea you like him. Maybe I’d never grow up.

“I guess not,” I said. “I think we should all go.”

She didn’t protest.

Peter didn’t answer his doorbell, and the manager didn’t answer hers. But just as we were about to give up, a woman who recognized Chris came in from walking her dog and let us in. We climbed the two flights of smelly stairs to Peter’s apartment and knocked. He didn’t answer. Chris tried the door—and jumped back when it opened.

Rob pushed it wide enough to see what police call “signs of a struggle.” A lamp was knocked over, and one of Peter’s charcoal drawings hung askew, as if someone had fallen against the wall. The furniture was like that, too—sort of pushed around and out of place. Peter was sitting on the couch, staring at us. He was wearing a white terrycloth robe with a number of bullet holes in it. Peter’s blood had run out of his chest and turned the robe a nasty rust color.

If I’d been alone, I’d have closed the door and run like crazy, but Chris is made of sterner stuff. She yelled Peter’s name and ran over to him. She touched him on both shoulders, as if to embrace him. His body fell forward.

It fell against Chris. She recoiled and swayed. Rob rushed forward, held her, maneuvered her into a chair. I stepped into the room and stared at Chris and Rob, not looking at Peter’s body and not knowing what to do. I thought I should call the police, but I was worried about messing up fingerprints. It’s funny what you think about at a time like that. “Stay with her,” said Rob, already headed toward the bedroom. He came back in a minute. “There’s no one here. And no gun. I’ll call the cops.” He asked for Inspector Martinez, a homicide cop we’d met a year or so earlier.

“Rebecca,” said Chris. “I think I’d better lie down.” She was awfully pale.

“Put your head on your lap.”

She sat doubled over for a moment, and then I heard her start to sob. I figured she couldn’t faint if she had the strength to cry, so I got a pillow and put it on the floor. She lay down while I went to get her some of Peter’s brandy. It was a few minutes before she could sip it.

Peter’s body was lying sideways on the sofa now. None of us wanted to look at it, but we were afraid to cover it up. Rob looked at me sheepishly. “I’ve got to call city desk.”

“No. They’ll send a photographer.”

He nodded, easily persuaded. I knew him well enough to figure out what was in his mind. Technically, he wasn’t really doing his job if he didn’t call for a camera, but he didn’t want to look at his paper the next morning and see a picture of Peter’s covered-up body being carried to a coroner’s wagon. Any more than I did. And neither one of us wanted Chris to see it.

We heard sirens, then clomping on the stairs, and then some uniformed cops came in. One of them took us downstairs to wait for the homicide inspectors.

It didn’t take Martinez very long. He was accompanied, as usual, by his partner, Curry, who always seemed to keep quiet while Martinez blustered. Both of them wore rumpled brown suits, as usual, and Martinez had on a blue tie with little pigs all over it. It was probably meant to be funny, but it suited him. He had wispy dark hair and a pale, washed-out face that always wore an impatient look, as if he wished you would just shut up. And yet he kept asking you questions and more questions and complaining that you weren’t telling him enough. As for Curry, he had no visible moles, scars, or other distinguishing marks, so it’s hard to describe him. But I’ll try: He had plain features, brownish hair, and ordinary eyes. He must have been great at undercover work—no one alive could remember a face like that.

Neither of them liked me much either.

Rob explained the situation, and they went upstairs and came down again. Martinez spoke to Chris: “What happened, Miss Nicholson?”

“Didn’t Rob tell you?”

“He told us he left you with Martinelli last night. Did you spend the night with the victim?”

“I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

“Let’s put it this way. Did you kill him?”

“How dare you!” She was taller than he was, and standing very straight.

He waved a placating hand. “It’s my business to know when you last saw him alive.”

“I left at nine this morning. He said he had a ten o’clock appointment.”

“Who with?”

“That was none of
my
business. Peter got a phone call sometime last night. He took it in the living room and talked a long time. He didn’t mention till this morning that he had an appointment at ten.”

“You think the caller made the appointment?”

“Yes. And kept it and murdered him.”

“So who was it?”

“I told you I didn’t know. Can’t the phone company…”

Martinez made a face. Cops hate it when you ask the questions. “Where was his appointment—here or somewhere else?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Okay. Do you know who his next of kin is?”

“His parents are dead. He has a sister—Anita Ashton.” They talked a few minutes more, but I didn’t listen. I was thinking of Anita Ashton—I’d known her for quite a while.

Chris and I went back to the office, leaving Rob to get his story. We sent Kruzick home, after having him cancel the rest of the day’s appointments. Then Chris found a bottle of bourbon and made herself a drink. I declined—I think you have to be from Virginia to stand the stuff.

For a while she stared out the window, and I let her. When she was ready to talk, she said, “I’m going to find the sucker who did this.”

I nodded.

“Will you help me?” she asked.

“Sure.” Revenge may not be the most uplifting theme of the human psyche, but it can be comforting sometimes. Of course I was going to help her.

The phone rang. Chris reached for it automatically. “Chris Nicholson. Yes, I’m his lawyer, but—oh. Mrs. Ashton. I have no idea whether he left a will or not. I was representing him on another matter. Yes… may I ask why you want to know? Very well. It’s at Fail-Safe Cryogenics. Their number’s listed.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “Peter’s sister thinks she’s inherited the starter.”

“You got it. She wants to go and look at it.”