The Sourdough Wars

baby, too.” Chris nodded, wise with an insider’s knowledge. “That’s probably why. It’s hard for people with children to find apartments in San Francisco.”
    “Must be. That’s all I can say.”
    “Listen, Clayton,” I said. “We were coming to see you because we’ve got something to tell you.” I told him about the second starter.
    “Well, glory be. My comp’ny’s gon’ be mighty happy to hear about that.” He sighed. “I was gon’ take a few days off, stayin’ with my friends. But I guess it’ll have to wait awhile. What’s the legal procedure on that starter?”
    “The court will appoint an administrator for the estate,” said Chris. “That is, if it turns out Peter died intestate—and I suppose his apartment’s been searched by now. If there’s no will there—or anywhere—that’s the procedure.”
    “Any chance one of y’all’ll be appointed? You, Chris? You were Martinelli’s lawyer.”
    She shook her head. “No. It has to be Peter’s sister, Anita Ashton. She’s his nearest relative, so she stands to inherit.”
    “Unfortunately,” I said, “I’m afraid in a case like this—when a woman is appointed—it’s called an ‘administratrix.’ ”
    “A bit archaic.” Thompson sounded distracted. “So if my comp’ny still wants a chance at that starter, I s’pose the person to approach is this Ms. Ashton.”
    We nodded. “But I happened to talk with her today, and I don’t think she’ll want to sell. A private sale isn’t possible at this point, anyway—not till the estate is probated.”
    “Never too soon to start thinkin’ about it, is it? I think my comp’ny’ll make her a mighty handsome offer.”

Chapter Nine
    We excused ourselves, stopped at a gas station, and looked up Tony Tosi in the phone book. He lived in the Sunset, the relentlessly middle-class district south of Golden Gate Park. The houses there give the famous ticky-tacky ones of Daly City a run for their money, though they do have bay windows. Many of them have no front yards, and they butt up against each other like town houses. The area looks so barren visitors sometimes think they’ve hit the sixth borough of New York, but if you stand in the kitchen of a Sunset house and look out the window, you can see green for blocks—everyone has a long skinny backyard.
    There’s not much traffic in the Sunset, not much crime, and hardly any sunsets that anyone can see. San Francisco weather varies from neighborhood to neighborhood, and some of the worst plagues the Sunset, which is sometimes known as Fogville.
    The young woman who opened the Tosi door was short and blond. And bland. At least that was my unkind take on her—anybody that cute and bouncy must be bland. I really ought to reform sometime, but meeting Cathy Tosi didn’t provide much inspiration for it. On closer inspection, it turned out she was bland.
    When she smiled, she showed a mouthful of perfect teeth. She had on a sort of honey-beige lambswool sweater that said, “Look at me—I’m fluffy and cute,” in case the casual observer was half-blind or something. She was remarkably similar to Sally Devereaux, but nearly ten years younger.
    Cathy took our names, seemed to recognize Chris’s, and went in search of Tony, leaving us in a sort of gold brocade wonderland. The living-room curtains were gold brocade and so was the sofa and so were the chairs. The carpet was gold wool, probably of very good quality, as were the various mass-produced dark wood tables in the room. There was a bit of Steuben glass, some heavy glass vases with bubbles in them, and on one wall was a reproduction of van Gogh’s
Sunflowers
. I couldn’t tell if it had been selected to go with the gold furnishings or the other way around.
    Tony came in, apparently from some TV-equipped room at the rear of the house. He wore a Ralph Lauren polo shirt, and a pair of Calvin Klein jeans, and he had a gold chain around his neck and a Rolex watch on his wrist. I was sure that if there were any way to get a plain gold chain with a manufacturer’s label on it, Tony would have done it.
    I had the same feeling I’d had before—that Tony was less substantial than Bob. But I could see the outline of his body very well underneath the polo shirt, and he certainly worked out, whether Bob did or not. Maybe Bob was a trifle overweight. Or maybe it wasn’t physical at all. Maybe it was the fact that Bob always seemed at ease, Tony perennially worried.
    “Hi, Chris,”