The Sourdough Wars

by Smith, Julie

  He took me over to the oven, where one of the bakers was using a loaf-size board to lift the bread off its cotton cloth and put it on a “peel board,” a larger wooden one that held several loaves. The loaves were then peeled—dumped—in neat rows onto the first of thirty-six shelves on which they baked. “The bread goes from shelf to shelf,” said Tony, “changing shelves every fifty seconds. We bake them thirty-five to forty minutes at 435 degrees. Now let’s go see the good stuff.”

  There was no elevator to the second floor—only an old-fashioned narrow metal staircase. The room at the top was unbelievably light and airy, and piled here and there with bags of salt, sugar, and other ingredients. The effect was rather like a huge potting shed with a good supply of fertilizer and perlite stacked in hundred-pound bags.

  On our way to the room with the mixer, we passed a metal trough about twelve feet long and divided into thirds. One of the compartments was filled with dough. “That’s it,” said Tony. “That’s the sponge.” He plunged a fist into it and so did I. It felt wonderful.

  “There’s lots more of those.” In the next room, there were six or eight troughs, each about twelve feet long, and most weren’t divided, so a hunk of dough about the size of a couple of large men could repose in each one. I was in heaven.

  “They’re going to mix a batch now. But first, look over there—those are dividers.” The dividers were machines into which hunks of dough were being fed and cut into the round balls I’d seen on the first floor.

  “Feel anything?” asked Tony.

  “I think it’s an earthquake.” The floor was moving beneath my feet. A repeated loud thudding was going on in the mixer. The machine itself shook like a berserk washing machine. A little sign on it identified it as a product of the Triumph Company of Cincinnati, Ohio. I hoped the Triumph folks had done proper road tests; I was pretty sure the thing was about to fly apart. “Watch now. They’re going to take the dough out.”

  A baker opened the mixer and the shaking stopped. Hunks of dough as big as loaves splattered over the outside of the thing. Inside, a mean-looking blade slowed and a mammoth wad of dough dropped into a trough set below the mixer door.

  “Here goes the new batch.” The mixer had two compartments, like a stove with two ovens. The same baker opened the other door, and I saw that the second compartment had flour in it. Two men cut a troughful of dough into armfuls and shoved them in, letting them deflate like balloons. Then they closed up the mixer and the shaking and thudding began again.

  “Very impressive,” I said. “And where do you put in the secret ingredient?”

  Tony led me into another room, with nothing in it but troughs, most empty, but some delectably full. “It’s a secret, of course.”

  I let him have it. “I know where it is, Tony. It’s in the sponge, isn’t it? It’s been there a long time—ever since you stole the Martinelli starter.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I got your license number the night you stole the control batch.” I paused a moment for effect and then recited the number Rob had gotten for me that morning. “Five One Five WIN.”

  I was watching his eyes, not his hands. So imagine my surprise when I felt something hit my chest and then I sank down, down, deliciously down onto a twelve-foot pillow of sourdough. The dough was wonderfully fragrant as it closed over my face.

  I admit it felt good, being in there. I even admit I’d had a brief fantasy of throwing myself into one of the troughs. But I’d never have done it in my best black suit.

  And not if I’d known I wouldn’t be able to breathe. I had to get the dough off my face. I raised my arms, and pulled at it, but the more dough I pulled off, the more slid back on. I opened my mouth to yell—and got a mouthful of dough. I started to cough, then panicked, clawing at my face.

  And then I felt someone lifting me out. When I was righted, standing goo-covered in goo-covered shoes, my rescuer was still holding on to my arms—and a good thing, too, as otherwise I believe I’d have slugged Tony Tosi. The Good Samaritan was a baker, who looked quizzically at Tony, then at me, and walked away as if whatever happened next wasn’t any of his business.

  When I’d gotten done coughing and looked at Tony, the urge to slug him left me. His eyes weren’t wild, as I’d imagined they would be, but infinitely sad. “I… don’t know what to say,” he muttered. “I just lost control.”

  An elderly woman, crooning in Italian, led me to a bathroom with a shower.

  * * *

  My hair dripping, wearing the white uniform of a lady baker twice my size, I marched back into Tony’s office and threw my ruined suit on his knee-deep tan rug. I was furious about that suit.

  “I didn’t do it,” he said, before I had time to voice the eight or nine unpleasant things I had on my mind. Things like criminal charges, civil suits, dough-covered suits, possible injury, and ruined dignity.

  “What do you mean you didn’t do it, you schmuck? I suppose you nearly killed me to show how wrong I was.”

  “Okay, okay. Calm down.” He raised the hand with the Rolex on the wrist, not looking as if he expected results. But I let him talk. “Look, I took the starter a couple of years ago, all right?”

  I sat down, mollified.

  “But I didn’t take the second batch.”

  “I saw you, Tony. Remember?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. You saw me at the warehouse in China Basin.”

  “Then what are we arguing about?”

  He shrugged, as if in regret. “It didn’t occur to me to go back to the other Fail-Safe place to look for the starter. I thought it was in China Basin. That’s why I was there.”

  So Tony had attempted to steal the second starter, but he hadn’t succeeded. That meant somebody else had it.

  “I most sincerely wish,” said Tony, “that I had thought to go to the other place.”

  He certainly looked sincere. If I ever saw naked greed on anyone’s face, it was all over Tony’s. “But how did you know about the second warehouse?” I asked.

  He shrugged again. “I bribed someone at Fail-Safe.”

  “Well, tell me something else. How did a nice boy like you learn how to burgle?”

  “That’s the easiest part of all. You don’t own a building that needs security systems without learning how to disable them. Have you ever dealt with any burglar-alarm people? They’re always careful to tell you how a burglar can disable their cheaper systems so you’ll buy the more expensive ones. Then, of course, they have to tell you how those can be disabled, too. It’s not worth it for most burglars, but it was for me. You can’t know what having that starter in my bread did for me. Or—I guess you can. You’ve tasted the bread.”

  I just nodded, not willing, even as mad as I was, to tell him I didn’t think it made much difference.

  “Rebecca, listen to me.”

  I listened.

  “I’ve got to ask you something. Please don’t turn me in.”

  “Don’t turn you in? Look at my best suit.” I pointed to the doughy heap on the floor.

  “I’m sorry about that. Genuinely sorry. I’ll buy you a new suit—I’ll buy you as many suits as you want—”

  “Mr. Tosi. Please.”

  He flushed. “I apologize. I wasn’t offering you a bribe. I mean, I guess it sounded that way, but I kind of got carried away. Listen, what good would it do to turn me in? I’ve had that starter for two years.”

  “It’s Anita’s.”

  “It doesn’t exist anymore. It’s all mixed up with my starter. I can’t return it, and no harm was really done by my having it.”

  “I don’t think Anita would see it that way.” I gathered up my purse and stood up. “I advise you to work on controlling your temper.”

  “Listen, I’m sorry—you can’t imagine….”

  I left him carrying on that way, fully intending to tell the cops what I knew. He’d burgled and tried to burgle a second time and nearly killed me in an entirely undignified way.
What if Rob had had to write a story headed “Sourdough lawyer smothers in dough trough”? What if my mom and dad had had to read it? What if I never found another black suit on sale for half price? Being a city girl, I’d never seen any wet hens, but I could sympathize with them.

  I stormed into my office in my oversize white dress, hair still streaming, and stopped Kruzick before he could speak. “Open your mouth and I shove your typewriter in it.”

  He nodded, grasping the urgency of the situation, and held up two fingers. Then he held up one finger and tapped out numbers on an imaginary phone. Then two fingers, embracing an imaginary lover and puckering up in a pseudo-kiss.

  I got it: The first word was “call” and the second was “Rob.” Seeing my comprehending look, he touched his nose in the charades sign for “You got it, boss.” I liked that way of communicating with him. If only I could frighten him into permanent muteness.

  Chris’s door was closed, which meant she was with a client, so I went straight into my office and called Rob. “I know where the starter is.”

  If I’d hoped to surprise him, I was disappointed. “Okay,” he said. “I’m on deadline.” And he hung up.

  What was this? I called back and asked him.

  “I’m on deadline, Rebecca. I just called to let you know where the starter was, but you already know. So let’s talk later, okay?” He hung up again.

  My dialing finger was getting worn out, but I wasn’t going to stop now. When I had him on the line, I said, “Something tells me we’re talking at cross-purposes.”

  “Dammit, not now. I gave Alan the message.” And for the third time in a row, the love of my life hung up on me. Not only hung up on me, but left me to the tender mercies of my antic secretary. Feeling a little like Job, I considered the possibilities. I could wait until his deadline was past. I could burst into tears and suffer Kruzick’s idea of sympathy—probably a little tap dance to cheer me up. I could throw myself to the cruel pavement of the Financial District. Or I could pull myself together and beard the lion I called my employee.

  There was no question what Today’s Action Woman would do. As for me, I walked to the window and contemplated death by defenestration. And not necessarily my own—there was more than one way to get rid of Kruzick.

  In the end, maturity won out. I went back to the reception area and stood in front of Kruzick’s desk, tapping my foot till he finished the personal phone call that momentarily had his attention.

  “Why,” I said, “didn’t you tell me Rob left a message?”

  He pointed to his closed lips and shrugged.

  “You may speak now, Alan.”

  “Arf.”

  I picked up the phone book and threw it at him. Just like that, without giving it a thought. I didn’t even realize I’d done it until it was over.

  By that time, the missile had caught Alan satisfactorily in the chest, causing a delicious “oof,” and he had fallen over backward, chair and all. The phone had also started to ring, so I picked it up. “I’m sorry—Mr. Kruzick isn’t taking calls just now.”

  “Rebecca?” It was Rob. “Sorry I couldn’t talk, but I had about two paragraphs to go on the lead story. But anyhow, you know about that.”

  “I’ve got the funniest feeling I don’t.”

  “I guess I misunderstood you. Listen to this—Sally had an assistant at Plaza Bakery, and she’s agreed to keep the bakery going until the estate is settled. So she went in this morning to bake, and she opened the freezer to get something. It’s normally kept locked, and no one had opened it since Sally was killed. Guess what she found there?”

  “Omigod. The Martinelli starter.”

  “In its little bull-sperm thermos.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  So either Sally Devereaux was the second burglar, or she had somehow gotten the second starter away from the second burglar, who had then killed her for it. But I remembered the lighter fluid and the matches and the burned ball of dough. Also, I remembered the nasty little theory I’d developed in the redwoods, the one with a hole or two in it. This new bit of information answered one of my questions. The biggest one. The only thing that remained was to make the two phone calls I’d avoided making that morning.

  The first person I called was Clayton Thompson. I repeated to him what I understood Sally Devereaux to have said before she died and asked him if I was right in every particular. I especially wanted to make sure I understood where the pauses were. He said I did.

  The second call was tougher—it meant I had to disappoint myself. The all-new, spiritually improved Rebecca who wasn’t going to torture children anymore called Bob Tosi’s house and asked for young Bobby. “Remember,” I said, “when I asked you about your mom’s boyfriend? The one who was backing her in the sourdough auction?”

  Bobby said he remembered.

  “And remember how you laughed?”

  Bobby did.

  “Well, I’ve been kind of wondering—what was so funny about it?”

  Bobby gave me the answer I didn’t want to hear.

  So now I had a terrific little theory with no more holes in it. I went over it again and again in my head and I couldn’t poke any. Then I typed something I needed. And I went into Chris’s office and told her I knew who had killed the man she was dating.

  I told her the theory, step by step, and asked her if she could poke any holes in it. “Only one,” she said, and her voice had a bitter edge to it. “There’s no way in hell to prove it.”

  “Yes, there is.” I showed her the thing I’d just written and outlined a little idea I had.

  It was close to nine o’clock when we drove to the elegant redwood house in San Anselmo. Like so many Marin County houses, it was on a hill and we had to climb up about a hundred rough wooden steps to get to it.

  When we were on a deck about ninety steps up, we saw that we were actually at the first-floor level of the house, looking into one of its windows at a cozy study. Anita Ashton was seated at the desk, looking out at us. When she saw who was coming to visit, her bewildered look changed to one of pleasure.

  She stood and pointed up toward the second floor, where the front door was. We kept climbing and she met us at the door. “What’s up?”

  She ushered us in even as she spoke, ever the efficient user of time. The foyer had two camelback couches in it, each covered in shrimp-colored cotton, each attended by its personal ficus. The living room was beyond. Anita was wearing a sweat suit in the same color as the upholstery. It could have been a coincidence, but it was the sort of studied touch she was fond of. She probably had eight or ten sweat suits, all color-coordinated with her furnishings so she’d always look good around the house and never have to spend time thinking about it.

  We’d decided that I’d do most of the talking, so I spoke first, introducing Chris.

  “I guessed. What can I do for you?”

  Anita was leading us down the stairs to her study. It was rigged up to resemble some baronial library, with yards and yards of books lining the walls and looking as if they’d been bought that way—by the yard. There were also wing chairs and a fireplace with a healthy blaze in it. The concept was pretentious, but it was nevertheless a comfortable room. A bowl of freesias scented it, the only personal touch—possibly in the whole house. Hiring a decorator took so much less time than choosing one’s furniture.

  “We think,” I said, “that we know who killed Peter.” Her brown eyes flashed, just for a second, before she shifted them back to neutral. “Sit down.”

  “We think it was Sally.”

  “I see. But why not tell the police?”

  “Because we think if we did, they might get the wrong idea. They might think you were her accomplice.”

  “Me? But why on earth would they think that?”

  “Because we think the murder weapon is in your house.”

  She sank into one of the wing chairs. “I guess,” she said, “you’d better start at the beginning.” She sighed as she said it, and looked at h
er watch. Apparently, solving her brother’s murder was going to take too long to suit her.

  “Before Sally died,” I began, “she said something.”

  “Before?” Again, Anita glanced at her watch. “When before? A week before? A month before?”

  “With her last gasp.”

  Anita produced her own gasp.

  “One of the sourdough bidders, Clayton Thompson, found her with the knife in her chest, and she spoke to him before she died. These were her last words, as he understood them: ‘Peter.’ And then she paused. Then she said ‘I need a,’ and then she paused again. Then she said the word ‘gun.’ And then she paused again, and she said ‘I need a’ and again she paused. Her last word was ‘bathroom.’ So what he heard was something like this: ‘Peter… I need a… gun … I need a… bathroom.’ A strange thing for a dying person to say, don’t you think?”

  Anita shrugged.

  “But suppose she weren’t really saying ‘I need a’ but ‘Anita’? Where does that get us?”

  Again, she didn’t answer.

  “Not too far. But suppose she were trying to say, ‘Anita’s gun’ and ‘Anita’s bathroom.’ ”

  Now I had her attention. Her head jerked up and she stared, looking very alarmed. “I lent her my gun. I remember now. Oh my God, it was when she first moved up to Sonoma. She said she heard noises at night. But that was ages ago.”

  “She never returned the gun?”

  “No. I forgot about it till now.”

  “I think what she was trying to say is that she hid it in your bathroom.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  Anita was a no-nonsense person, so I didn’t mince words. “Frankly, Anita, I think she was trying to frame you.”

  Her shoulders tightened and she gripped the chair arm, but otherwise she kept as cool as ever.

  “Would she have had the opportunity?” I asked. “Could she have gotten into your house?”

  “She was my houseguest at the time.”