The Sourdough Wars

steely layer, she’s sort of vulnerable. But she’s so worried somebody’s going to take advantage of her she tries to do it to them first.”
    Chris sighed. “I guess that’s how you get rich.”
    “Tell me something. Was Peter ever married?”
    “No. He was forty-one and never even engaged.”
    “In that case, assuming he didn’t make a will, there probably isn’t anyone else to inherit the starter. That gives Anita an excellent murder motive.”
    Chris looked excited. “She must have made the threatening phone calls. Maybe she tried to stop the auction and it didn’t work, so she killed him.”
    “Let’s not overlook anything. Maybe one of the bidders made the phone calls to get everyone else to withdraw. Then when it didn’t work, that person killed him.”
    “At any rate, he must have been killed to stop the auction.”
    “Well, for now Anita’s the best suspect. It couldn’t hurt to go down to City Hall and look at the Martinelli will.”
    “Okay.” She perked up at the prospect of doing something.
    We walked down to the Montgomery Street BART station (that’s Bay Area Rapid Transit) and took the train two stops to Civic Center. The station’s a block or two from City Hall, and the whole area is full of wind tunnels blowing close to the buildings. It was February, and that meant they were fierce. So we walked across Civic Center Plaza, which was sunny and pleasant.
    City Hall is an old-fashioned gray stone building, trimmed here and there in blue and gold. When you walk in, you’re standing in a wonderful rotunda in front of a sweeping stairway. Unfortunately, the effect is ruined by the presence of a guard who makes you walk through an unsightly metal detector.
    We took the elevator to the clerk’s office on the third floor. It’s a place of musty ledgers rather than crisp microfiches, a picturesque anachronism in the computer age. The people who work there, many of them elderly ladies, are friendly and unhurried. I always enjoy going there.
    We found the Martinelli will without any trouble. It was exactly as Peter had said: The house had been left to Anita; the starter to Peter. There were no provisions for the disposition of the estate in the event that either of the younger Martinellis died. In other words, Peter was free to leave the starter to whomever he chose. If he hadn’t made a will, it looked as if it would go to his closest relative—his sister, Anita. So that was that.
    “What,” said Chris, “do we do now?”
    “I can’t think of anything. If Anita did it, I’m sure the cops will figure it out.”
    She looked very downcast.
    “Let’s go to my house for dinner.”
    “It’s only four o’clock.”
    “So go home and change.” I reached out and touched her arm. “Look, Chris, there’s nothing else we can do right now, except maybe have our own private wake for Peter.”
    She nodded. I could see tears in her eyes. I figured she’d have a good cry while she was home.
    We went back to the office, got our cars, and I drove my old gray Volvo to Fisherman’s Wharf to pick up a couple of Dungeness crabs. Chris wouldn’t be able to eat much, and I figured cracked crab, which gives you a lot to do with your hands, ought to be about right. I got a loaf of Bob Tosi’s sourdough to go with it, and a bottle of white wine. Then I headed toward my apartment on Telegraph Hill.
    I was glad, as always, to be home. My apartment is white and red mostly; it cheers me up. Besides, I don’t live alone. I have so many pets I can’t even count them. They live in a hundred-gallon saltwater aquarium. I’ve got fish, shrimp, sea anemones, sea snails, and at the moment, a sea horse. I say at the moment because he wasn’t the first one I’d had—I can’t seem to get them to live very long, but I keep trying because they’re so cute. This one’s name was Durango.
    I fed Durango and his friends, and then I showered and changed into jeans. There was plenty of time left and no dinner to cook, so I played the piano awhile, Vivaldi to cheer me up. I like something baroque at the end of a long hard day.
    Chris turned up around six-thirty, rosy and refreshed. She had on jeans—skinny ones with about a forty-inch inseam. She is one long, tall drink of water.
    “You look a lot better.”
    “I went jogging.”
    Of course she had. I felt momentarily guilty. If I jogged, maybe my legs would get skinnier, but it was no good wishing they’d get longer. I am a five-feet-five endomorph