The Sourdough Wars

him. He doesn’t nag me, and he doesn’t press me to do things I don’t want to do. And he doesn’t have to be babied.”
    Chris smiled. “Any more like him at home?”
    “Thank God! The fever’s broken. You’re going to live, aren’t you?”
    “I’m probably going to have a few bad days, but that’s okay. Knowing Peter was worth it. I just wish he’d had the chance to get over what was bothering him. I don’t think he really felt loveable; I think that’s why he was so alone.”
    Rob called then. “How’s Chris?”
    “Better. She thinks if she can’t have Peter, someone like you might do.”
    “Little does she know.”
    “That’s what I told her. Thanks for calling—it was sweet of you.”
    “Wait. There’s a development. Peter’s sister went over to Fail-Safe Cryogenics to look at her inheritance.”
    “I know. She called Chris to find out where it was.”
    “When she got there, she didn’t mention Peter was dead. Just said she was his sister and asked to have a gander.”
    “And they showed it to her?”
    “They tried. It seems there was a technical difficulty.”
    “Come on. I’m on the edge of my chair.”
    “The starter wasn’t there.”

Chapter Five
    Sometime—who knew when?—the starter had apparently been stolen. Whether before or after the murder was anybody’s guess. Or whether this year or last year. The starter had been freeze-dried very fast, in small pellets, in a vacuum—that was the only way you could be sure of keeping both microorganisms alive. It was stored in little vials in a chest freezer charged with liquid nitrogen to keep it extra cold. Anyone could have taken it out in a liquid-nitrogen vacuum bottle, the type used for transporting bull sperm. These, Rob explained, were aluminum and stainless steel containers about the size of large thermos bottles. You could keep the starter frozen indefinitely as long as you kept the thermos charged with liquid nitrogen. So maybe someone had taken it recently, and maybe not.
    As for Anita, she’d become the number-one suspect in Peter’s murder. Rob said the cops were still talking to her but hadn’t booked her yet. He figured they probably would, sometime that night, and the
Examiner
, the afternoon rag, would get the story first. He was pretty mad about that. It was one insult right on top of another, because it was already too late for the
Chron
to get the missing starter story in Wednesday’s paper. That meant that was the Ex's story, for sure, even if the cops let Anita go. But they wouldn’t, said Rob, not in a million years. Airtight case, he said. Some cop buddy had told him so.
    Next morning, about ten-thirty or so, I raced out to get the first edition of the
Ex
. I was surprised they were playing the missing starter story below the fold—I guess they’d decided it was a
Chron
extravaganza, a bit beneath their dignity. I scanned the story quickly, looking for news of Anita. But there wasn’t any.
    I called Rob for late-breaking details. She’d been released.
    * * *
    It was this way. A divorced lady, she’d spent Monday night at her house with her long-term lover. He’d driven her to her offices. At about nine-thirty, just as they were leaving, a neighbor came over to borrow something. The boyfriend dropped her off to teach a class at ten o’clock. Since she lived in San Anselmo, across the Golden Gate Bridge, there was no time for her to have killed Peter between nine-thirty and ten. Even if the boyfriend were lying for her, she had other witnesses to support her at both ends of the half hour.
    Much as I hated to admit it, it looked as if she was innocent. Chris was in court, so I took matters into my own hands. I phoned Anita, wondering whether she’d remember me.
    She did. “Rebecca Schwartz. Have you licked it yet?”
    “Have I licked what?”
    “Procrastination. You’re a terrible procrastinator.”
    “No, I’m not. I mean—I guess I have licked it.” I hadn’t procrastinated in so long I hardly remembered doing it—Anita’s course had done me a lot of good.
    “Good work. What can I do for you?”
    “I’m Chris Nicholson’s partner.”
    “Oh, you’re that Schwartz.”
    “I need to talk to you.”
    “Let’s see….” I could almost see Anita consulting her digital watch. “It’s eleven-thirty now and I was planning to play tennis at lunch—I was hoping to pick up a partner, but you’ll do. That is, if you play. Do you?”
    “Am I from Marin County?”
    “Good. Noon