by Smith, Julie
The wine had come and I’d drunk half a glass, but I was no less tense than I’d been all morning. “Rob, be serious.”
“I don’t know what to say, Rebecca.” He looked forlorn. “I’ve apologized about ten times. What else can I possibly do?”
“Like my mom used to say when I was a kid, you’re not sorry enough.”
He was silent. “Look,” I continued. “Was a crummy newspaper story really so important you had to risk your life and mine and get me beat up and thrown in jail for it? That’s what’s bugging me.”
He shrugged, seemingly at a loss. “It’s my job.”
“You wouldn’t have gotten fired if you’d missed the home edition. Nobody would even have noticed.”
“The Ex would have had it first.”
“And they’d have been up a creek, wouldn’t they? Because you wouldn’t have talked to them, and I wouldn’t have talked to them, and they’d have had about a quarter of the story, and you’d have creamed them tomorrow.”
“But it would have been tomorrow.”
“You’re out of control, Rob.” I turned toward the bar and took a big gulp of wine. Then I stared down at my glass, not wanting to look at him.
“Rebecca, I’ve had about enough from you, you goddam—you, you… princess!”
“Princess?”
“Yes, princess. JAP. I mean, that’s what you are, but you act more like some prissy WASP than anything else.”
“Oh, great. Slurs on two ethnic groups in the same sentence. Just because you’ve got a foot in both camps and can’t really call yourself anything—”
He started laughing. “You calling me a half-breed?”
“You calling me a JAP?” I was laughing, too.
“We’re ridiculous.” Rob was laughing so hard he had to put his head down on the bar.
“What if anyone heard us?” I wasn’t laughing as hard as he was. I had a reputation as a liberal lawyer to uphold. But it would have served me right if anyone had overheard me—I’d have been paid back for calling my own mother a bigot. Rob couldn’t pull himself together. “I can’t stand it—”
“Rob, you know what? I don’t care what kind of breed you are. But you know what I can’t stand about you? It’s all the different colors you are. You yellow journalist! You black-and-white-and-red-all-over newshawk! You purple-prosesmith!”
He stopped laughing. “You really mean that, don’t you?”
“Yes. And I feel a lot better now.”
“You don’t respect my work.”
“It’s not that. I do respect your work. You just get too carried away, that’s all.”
“I refer you, Miss Schwartz, to Tocqueville.”
“Huh?”
“‘In order to enjoy the inestimable benefits that the liberty of the press ensures, it is necessary to submit to the inevitable evils that it creates.’ ”
“Necessary?”
Rob nodded solemnly. “Absolutely necessary.”
I made up my mind. I guess I already had. “Oh well, if it’s necessary.”
“That’s the spirit. Just think of me as an inevitable evil.”
“How about those inestimable benefits?”
“Let’s bag lunch and go to the Grand Central Baths. It’ll be a great opportunity.”
“For what?”
“To see me turn red all over.”
And so it was. The Grand Central Baths is one of those pure-scrubbed, Japanese-style, hygienically perfect California establishments where you can not only sweat in a sauna but also soak in a hot tub, rinse in a shower, and recover on a bed in your own little hospital-clean chamber for an hour. If you wish, you can also cause loud music to play in your chamber to cover the noise of whatever else you want to do in there. We did it all, Rob and me. He’s beautiful when he’s red.
We were in the last stage of the adventure—recovery—when Rob said, “You take it back.”
“Take what back?”
“My prose is not purple.”
“You take it back about me being a JAP.”
“I will not. You’re demonstrably Jewish American, and you’re the princess of my heart.”
How was I supposed to stay mad? I thought of a way: “Okay, then. Say I’m not prissy.”
“What color’s my prose?”
“A leathery brown, I think. Sinewy. Tough. Lean and taut, like you.”
“That’s more like it. All right. You only get prissy when I act like a yellow journalist. And I’m sure I deserve it.”
I sat up so fast I got dizzy. “Is that an apology?”
He touched my right breast, ever so lightly. “Rebecca, listen. I was on adrenaline last night. When I woke up this morning and realized you really could have been hurt, I reformed. I’m a changed man, honest.”
“You didn’t seem to be an hour ago.”
Now he touched my bruised cheek. “Well, it wasn’t exactly the minute I woke up. It was while we were in the sauna. Your make-up dribbled off.”
“You actually sound sincere.”
“I am, believe me. You know that other time you got hurt? Last year, when that creep hit you—I wanted to kill him. When you got hit, it was like me getting hit. And then this time—when I saw your bruise, it was like I’d hit you myself. And you know how that made me feel?”
I shook my head.
“Kind of yellow and purple. I’m hungry.”
That was about as sweet as he ever got, but it was good enough for me—I didn’t want to get diabetes or tooth decay. Civic Center Plaza was just a few blocks away, so we decided to have a picnic there, wet hair and all.
It was a gorgeous day for February. Probably there’d be more rain before winter was officially over, so we had to enjoy the good weather while we had it. That was my reasoning.
We were happily sipping white wine and munching on sourdough and salami when we got to talking about Sally. I told Rob all about how Chris thought she was a poor, downtrodden little wife-child and how Bob Tosi said she was a conniving liar and how I wasn’t sure at all. I just felt sorry for her. “But she can sure bake,” I said. “Have you ever had her bread?”
He shook his head.
I indicated the loaf we’d nearly demolished. “It’s lots better than this.”
“You know what would solve the whole problem? If Conglomerate would just buy Sally’s starter, they’d have the best loaf going and they could make her rich and famous. So she wouldn’t need the Martinelli starter, and neither would they. Tony Tosi wouldn’t be any worse off, because Bob wouldn’t have the starter, and Bob wouldn’t be, because Tony wouldn’t have it either.”
“What about Anita?”
“I guess she’s lost out.”
“Sally says Conglomerate wouldn’t be interested in her because she doesn’t have the Martinelli name. She thinks all they’re after is prestige.”
“But they already have prestige. If they had Sally’s starter, then it would be the starter of choice.”
“She doesn’t see it that way. She’s a complicated person—she’s got the best product of the bunch of them, and she doesn’t trust it, because—” I stopped, unsure why. “I think,” I said finally, “she doesn’t really see reality. She sees only the image of a thing, rather than the thing itself.”
“If you ask me, that doesn’t make her any different from anyone else in this caper. You know something? None of this would have happened if we hadn’t started it.”
“Don’t say that. It was Peter’s idea.”
“It was Kruzick’s idea. The point is, I wrote the stories. A major newspaper said that stupid doughball was important, so that made it important.”
“You’re doing a lot of soul-searching today.”
“Look, I know I didn’t make any of this happen, but I can’t help feeling responsible.”
“That way lies madness. Have some more wine.”
He did, and some sourdough as well. “Sally’s is really better than this?”
“Lots.”
&nb
sp; “Let’s go get some.”
“Are you crazy? I’ve got work to do.”
“You actually have clients coming in today?”
“No, but I’ve got to catch up on things.”
“Now, don’t be prissy, dear. It’s two-thirty and we’re both half-sloshed. You won’t be any good to your clients and I can’t do a thing for the Chronicle.”
“What’ll you tell your boss?”
He shrugged. “I’m on special.”
I already knew that meant special assignment—newspaper jargon for get out of the office and don’t come back till you’ve got a story.
“Let’s go check into the Sonoma Mission Inn,” he said. “It’s Valentine’s Day.”
We stopped at his apartment for some clothes and at mine for the same thing, plus bruise camouflage and a phone call.
I couldn’t get Chris, so I left a message with Kruzick, knowing he’d forget to give it to her as usual.
We hadn’t yet finished our bottle of wine, so we took it with us, along with a couple of paper cups. This is illegal, but I didn’t want Rob to think me prissy, so I went along with it.
Over the bridge and through Marin, to Sally’s place we went. This time, since it wasn’t dark, we could see the vineyards. The vines in February are like squat black sculptures, and the mustard, in full, canary-colored bloom, billows about them. What with the wine and the spirit of adventure and Valentine’s Day and all, my head felt billowy, too. Pleasantly billowy. I thought maybe I’d have a massage at the inn’s famous spa.
We were just entering the town of Sonoma when Rob said, “Look—it’s Thompson.” He honked his horn but got no response.
I opened my eyes, which I admit I’d been resting, and saw a brown car going the other way: West. Clayton Thompson was driving it, and there was another man with him. “Who’s' the other guy?”
“Don’t know him,” said Rob. “Where’s Sally’s bakery?”
“On the plaza, I guess. Just about everything is.”
There was another bakery on the plaza—Sonoma French Bakery—and we wasted some time there before we found the authentic Plaza Bakery. It was tiny, and there seemed to be no one there. Some peculiar things were lying on the counter—a pack of matches, a can of lighter fluid, and a tiny ball of dough, all scorched.
We could see the ovens and some tables back in a light airy space behind the counter, but it didn’t look as if there were any other rooms in the place.
“Sally,” I called. No answer.
“There must be a bathroom,” said Rob.
I called Sally again. Again, silence.
Rob said, “Let’s have a look.” He stepped behind the counter and gasped. “Rebecca, don’t come back here.”
But I was already there. Sally was lying on the floor, near enough to the counter so she was out of sight if you were on the other side of it. She had a bread knife sticking out of her chest.
“The phone,” said Rob. “Call the cops.”
I nodded and glanced around. At first I couldn’t see a phone. But there it was, in the back of the room. Rob stood still, staring at Sally, and then he bent down and picked up her hand, feeling for a pulse, I supposed. I walked past them, on very shaky legs, to get to the phone. I picked up the receiver and started to dial 0. But there was no dial tone. Impatiently, I pulled on the cord, and it hung loose in my hand. It had been cut, just like in the movies.
Chapter Fifteen
“I can’t do it,” I said. “I can’t do it.” I said it the second time to help myself understand. I should call the police; the situation cried out for calling the police; but I couldn’t call the police. That was all I meant, but Rob apparently read more into it.
He glanced over at me, stood up, and started walking toward me, speaking in a voice that was ever so slow and understanding, the kind you use with a person standing on a ledge twenty stories up. “Rebecca, it’s all right. Everything’s okay. Maybe I could call the cops instead? How would that be?”
I held the cut end of the cord up and made a face at him. Sally was dead, and somewhere inside I was sure I was upset about that, but at the moment all I felt was annoyance at Rob. My only thought was to show him I had my wits about me—I was today’s woman. Today’s Action Woman, able to call the cops when necessary, do whatever had to be done. I stepped past him, thinking to walk out the door and find a phone booth somewhere, not noticing I hadn’t told him what I was about to do. Not even noticing that a car had just squealed to a stop outside and two uniformed cops were even now coming in the door. I bumped smack into them.
I would have fallen, but one of them grabbed my arm, and not just to steady me. “Just a minute, young lady,” he said. Even in the state I was in, I was glad he hadn’t said, “Not so fast.” That would have put me over the edge, and I would have disgraced myself with a giggle fit.
But everything was all right now, just like Rob said; the cops were there, and all I had to do was explain the situation in a calm and collected manner. Rob stole my chance. “Rob Burns of the Chronicle,” he said.
“Oh, foot!” I blurted.
“Foot?” The cop holding my arm looked confused.
“That’s what my law partner says when she’s mad. She’s Southern, see, and that’s why she talks funny.”
The cop let go of my arm and scratched his head. “You’re a lawyer?”
Rob came over and put an arm around me. “Rebecca, I think you’d better sit down. Officer, I think you should have a look behind the counter.”
The cop went for a look and I did sit down, right on the floor. Rob sat with me, either to humor me or because his legs had given out, too. The second cop stood over us, making sure we wouldn’t make a break for it. She had a very pretty face, but her body armor was more functional than flattering.
I remembered to tell her the phone cord had been cut, and then the male cop came back, pale as paper, and there was a great flurry of radioing for an ambulance and more cops.
“She’s dead, isn’t she?” I asked, but no one answered me. And then I said, “Thompson! Clayton Thompson!” No one answered me that time either.
The cops finally introduced themselves: Officers George Williamson and Stella Tripp. I managed to tell them about seeing Thompson on the way into town, while the ambulance arrived and then went away, its occupants unable to revive Sally. I told the cops they should pick up Thompson, better get out a bulletin right away, they could probably find him before he got too far. But they wouldn’t listen.
Finally, Officer Tripp could stand it no longer. “You stay here,” she told her partner. “I’ve got something to do.”
She left and came back with four cups of coffee, black, that we sipped while we waited for the coroner and more cops. Eventually, the first two took us to the police station and we told our story. The coffee had a calming effect—that and Rob’s arm around me—and I was able to contribute in a coherent manner. In fact, I pretty well had to carry the narrative thread, because Rob seemed to have lost the power of speech. Somehow, this had been a lot worse than finding Peter. That time, we knew something was wrong, because Peter hadn’t shown up for the auction. And somehow, the sight of that bread knife sticking out of Sally’s chest was a lot more final and terrible even than the sight of blood all over Peter.
Once we were restored to near-sanity and Officers Tripp and Williamson were satisfied that we really were who we said we were, they did, per my very intelligent suggestion, put out a bulletin on Thompson, and even as we talked, someone came in and said the highway patrol had him.
Eventually, Officers T and W even trusted us enough to answer a couple of questions we had. They told us they’d turned up at Sally’s bakery in response to an anonymous tip, and they hadn’t turned on their siren because they thought it was a nut call. Just a routine check on a nut call. Nothing ever happened in Sonoma.
Just as things were going along fine, or as fine as they get when someone’s been murdered, I remembered Robert, Jr., and Today’s Action Wo
man burst into tears. “She has a kid,” I blubbered.
Officer Williamson nodded. Apparently, Sally was well known in Sonoma. “We’ve already checked on him. He’s in San Francisco with his father.”
They asked us a few more questions and then said we could go. “What about Clayton Thompson?” I asked, but the nice officers only shook their heads.
We were getting into the car when Rob suddenly came alive, like a man coming out of a coma. “My story! Jeez, my story!”
“Your what?”
“I’ve got to get to a phone.”
* * *
The resulting story was on Page One, of course. He certainly has a nose for news, I thought, a little bitterly, and then I repented. It wasn’t his fault that all this had been unleashed by the Great San Francisco Sourdough Auction. I wished we could run the last few weeks backward like a movie, and start again with all of us sitting at the Sherlock Holmes pub, talking about anything but sourdough.
Mom called on cue, just as my English muffin popped out of the toaster. “Your father didn’t sleep a wink last night.”
“I’m sorry, Mom. I’m fine, honest. Rob stayed with me.”
“Rob! I thought you were done with him, and then he leads you off to some hinterland, where you get in more trouble.”
I was buttering my muffin as we talked. Now I took a bite, and it tasted like fish food. “Gosh, Mom,” I said. “I forgot to feed my fish.”
And I hung up with a great rush, as if my finny pals were about to give up their collective ghost. Surely one mother would understand another’s need to feed her family.
But the phone rang before I could do my maternal duty. “Listen, Mom, really—”
“It’s Rob. Thompson’s been released.”
“He didn’t do it?” I hadn’t really thought about whether he’d killed Sally or not. I guess I’d just assumed he had.
“Apparently not. He found the body before we did.”
“Ah. He was the anonymous tipster.”
“Right. The brain’s back in gear, I see.”
“But why not wait for the cops? I don’t get it?”