by Smith, Julie
“I don’t know if anybody’d really be interested in buying a frozen batch of dough,” said Martinelli. “But I thought I’d give it a try. Unless some money comes in from somewhere, the Town Theater’s going to have to fold, and I like to think it’s been kind of a cultural enrichment to the city. So I just thought I’d try. If anybody wants to bid, they can contact my lawyer, Chris Nicholson. I don’t guess they will, but just in case.”
I didn’t really approve. From what I’d seen of Peter Martinelli, he wasn’t really an “aw, shucks” type of guy, and I didn’t like it when actors played roles in real life. But tears came to Chris’s eyes when she read the story. “Rob really got him,” she said. “I can hear him saying that. He’s got so much going for him, and yet he’s so modest and unassuming. He doesn’t seem to believe things could really go right for once.”
“He could have fooled me.”
“You saw him after a performance, when he was on a high. He’s really a very sweet, rather insecure person.”
“That’s what Mickey says about Kruzick.”
Chris touched her long nose with an equally long finger, a sure sign she was getting upset. “Listen, you don’t have to—”
“I’m sorry. I liked the guy. Really. I just thought he laid it on a little thick in the interview.”
“You don’t know him.” She went into her own office. I didn’t know if he was Mr. Right, but I could see she was in deep.
* * *
Rob did a few more stories about the auction over the next few days, and we got four bidders. We set “The Great Sourdough Starter Auction,” as Chronicle readers had come to know it, for noon the following Tuesday, at the modest offices of Nicholson and Schwartz. Monday night Peter had Chris and Rob and me over for dinner.
He had a two-room apartment in one of those shabby buildings that San Francisco is full of, the kind you hate going to because the hallway carpet stinks and no one ever seems to vacuum the stairs. Peter’s had high ceilings and a fresh coat of high-gloss avocado-colored paint. His furniture was Cost Plus wicker, but he’d painted it aubergine and had had paisley cushions made for it. He’d ripped up the smelly carpet that probably came with the apartment, buffed the floor, and scattered tan and white cotton throw rugs about. A few nicely framed charcoal drawings hung on the walls.
It was a very eccentric, very elegant place, and it had obviously cost hardly anything. If I were starting to see Peter as a very resourceful young man, dinner persuaded me further. He served us homemade fettuccine with homemade pesto, a salad of Belgian endive and watercress, and pineapple sorbet he’d made himself.
I thought maybe Chris was on to a good thing. The two of them had been together every spare minute since they’d met, so I guess she thought so, too.
The bidders had agreed to Rob’s presence at the auction, and he was hoping to interview them afterward, but he wanted a little background information about them. That was the ostensible purpose of the dinner—to fill him in.
Rob got down to business after dinner. “So,” he said, whipping out his notebook, “Who are the bidders?”
Chris spoke before Peter had a chance. “Everybody who’s anybody.”
“Meaning?”
“Robert Tosi,” said Peter.
“Of the Tosi Bakery? Wow.” Rob was impressed for good reason. When the Martinelli company folded, the Tosi loaf had become the sourdough of choice. Most of the old restaurants served Tosi bread, though some of the newer, more chic ones bought their bread from one of the new chic bakeries.
“Who else?” asked Rob.
“Tony Tosi.”
“I don’t get it. Are there two Tosi bakeries?”
“In a manner of speaking. Tony runs the Palermo Bakery.” This was the oldest and best established of the new sourdough emporia.
“Are Tony and Bob related?”
“Brothers.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“It’s an even better story than you think. They’re bitter rivals. Barely speak to each other.”
“You know them?”
“I grew up with them. Their dad worked for my dad before he left to start his own bakery.”
“This is great stuff.”
“It gets better. The next bidder is a guy named Clayton Thompson. He was sent here from New York by none other than Conglomerate Foods—the frozen cake and pie folks. They want to market frozen sourdough.”
“I’ve died and gone to heaven. The two local biggies, brother against brother, and a giant, man-eating, New York-based corporation.”
If Chris could have looked like a cat or a cow, she would have. She had to make do with looking like what she was—a very contented Virginia aristocrat. Peter looked like a kid with a new bicycle.
“The fourth one’s not so exciting,” I said. “Some lady from Sonoma.”
“Ah, a provincial upstart—and a lady, too. I hope she’s photogenic.”
Peter shrugged. “She’s okay if you like short blondes.” Chris has the delicate skin of a blonde, but her hair is a rich light brown, and she’s six feet tall. So that was a tactful thing to say, and Peter reached for her hand as he said it.
“What’s her name?” asked Rob.
“Sally Devereaux. Of the Plaza Bakery.”
“Never heard of it. Anybody know anything about it?”
“The bread,” said Peter, “is incredibly good.”
“Incredibly good?”
“Fantastic.”
“So what does she need the starter for?”
“Beats me. Why do any of them need it? I’ve never gotten the hang of any of this.” He got up and came back with a tray of brandy snifters and a bottle of cognac. “I’ve been saving this,” he said, and was handing drinks around when the doorbell rang.
He stopped what he was doing, walked over to the intercom, and asked who was there.
“Sally Devereaux,” said the intercom. Peter pushed a button. He came back and finished pouring the drinks. “I guess,” he said, “we can ask her right now why she wants the starter.”
Sally Devereaux was not only blond; she was very pale. She was wearing jeans and a pink sweater that must have been an extra-large. It fit her snugly.
She was short, as Peter had said, rather plump, and rather top-heavy. Her hair was short and curly. A soft, fluffy kind of woman. And at the moment a very frightened one.
Tears started down her face when she saw Peter had company. “Oh, Peter, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know—”
“It’s all right.” Awkwardly, he rubbed the back of her sweater. “It’s okay.” He made a gesture to Chris, and she poured Sally a brandy. “Sit down.”
Sally did, and Peter made introductions. By that time Sally had a better hold on herself. “You’re all here about the auction?”
We nodded.
“I just had a threatening phone call. Someone called and told me not to bid.”
Rob leaned forward in his chair. Sometimes I thought he had a funny way of looking at people—as if they were all characters in one of his stories and not real at all. It worried me. “A man or a woman?” he said.
Sally shuddered. “One of those whispery voices. Peter, I can’t do it, I can’t do it. I just can’t.” Her voice rose on each “can’t.”
“It’s okay,” said Chris. She waved at Sally’s glass. “I think the brandy might help.” Sally sipped it, but she was still very pale.
Rob asked, “What did the voice say?”
“It said, ‘You know who this is. Drop out or you might get hurt.’ And then it hung up. I mean he hung up.”
Rob was leaning even closer. “You know who it was, then?”
“Of course.” She looked at Peter. “It’s them. It’s got to be. God knows what they’d do. They’re used to it. They were raised that way.”
“Who?” asked Rob, but Peter waved him quiet.
“Sally,” he said softly. “You’re being ridiculous. I hope you’ll reconsider about the auction.” He stood up, signaling
her to leave.
She stood, too, and took a step closer to Peter. “But—” He put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sure it’s just some nut. I hope to see you tomorrow.”
He saw her to the door and patted her back as she left. The whole thing seemed fishily perfunctory. If Peter were really as good a guy as Chris thought, I figured he knew something about Sally that the rest of us didn’t.
He came back looking embarrassed. “This came up when she called about the auction,” he said. “She’s got some crazy idea about the—excuse me, I’d better get that.”
Peter picked up the phone. “Mr. Thompson, how are you?” He listened for a moment, spoke reassuringly, and hung up. “Clayton Thompson got a call, too. He thinks it’s the mob.”
“Is that what Sally thought?” asked Rob.
“Not exactly. Sally’s fears are a little more specific. I guess I’d better tell you. She thinks if you’re Italian, you’re automatically some kind of criminal.” He shrugged. “It’s crazy.”
“You mean,” Rob said, “she thinks it’s one of the Tosis.”
“It’s nuts.” Peter was getting very upset. “I grew up with them. They’re honest business people.”
Chris spoke. “Peter, some nut might call one person, but two got calls. Somebody is trying to stop the auction.” He shrugged again, looking frustrated.
Chris spoke slowly, as if she were afraid to: “It must be Anita.”
Rob zeroed in: “Who’s Anita?”
“My sister,” Peter said. “The one who didn’t inherit the starter.”
Rob’s face showed he didn’t get it.
“She wanted it,” said Peter. “And I wanted the house. But our parents didn’t see it that way. She never gave up the idea of starting up the Martinelli Bakery again.”
“And,” said Chris, “she’s been begging him to call off the auction.”
“What difference does it make?” Peter was practically shouting. “Anita’s not going to hurt anybody. And neither are the Tosis. Everyone’s getting hysterical for no reason.”
“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.”
Chapter Three
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.
&n
bsp; “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.