The Sourdough Wars

doesn’t want us to know she’s got a murder motive.”
    “Listen—knowing Peter, he’d never have told anybody who dumped whom—it just wasn’t his style. And Bob would assume Peter dumped Sally because he’s macho and macho men always dump their women.”
    “But Sally dumped
him
.”
    “Well, he’d like to think men dump women. It’s pretty odd, don’t you think, that of the four potential bidders he’s the only one who’s really accepted the fact there’s probably not going to be a new auction? I think he’s got what he wants. The auction’s stopped and the Tosi Bakery remains on top.
    “When you think of it, he has the best motive of the four of them. He doesn’t need the starter to stay on top—he just needs to see that no one else gets it.”
    “You think he stole it?”
    “One of them did.”
    As we were crossing the bridge, Chris said, “I can’t get Sally out of my mind. She’s so sad.”
    “How do you mean?”
    “She wants to be an independent woman so badly—and she has a lot of talent; no question she makes the best bread of them all. But she seems so dependent on men.”
    “That’s been bothering me, too. Her husband was a baker, so she became one. Then she couldn’t leave him till she had another man. And now she’s got a backer. You know what’s the saddest part of it? Did you notice the way she kept asking us whether or not we really liked her sourdough? Deep down, she doesn’t really believe in that bread.”
    I dropped Chris off, found my parking place taken, and finally managed to get another one (no mean feat in North Beach). Then I stumbled up my stairs, exhausted, and turned on my message machine. What I heard didn’t make me happy.
    Rob had called. He was furious that I hadn’t told him about the second starter. The worst of it was, he was right. And he didn’t even know I’d failed to tip him on another hot story. I dialed the familiar number. “I forgot you, pussycat. I’m sorry.”
    “Don’t ‘pussycat’ me, you traitor. This is a huge story, don’t you understand? And it’s my story. And you’re my girlfriend, and you forgot me.”
    “I’ve been kind of busy. Did you hear about the brawl on Castro Street?”
    “Hear about it? I covered it. Some idiot yelled something about a gun and all hell broke loose.”
    “Did anyone have a gun?”
    “No. But the guy who was supposed to has a broken jaw. And half the pretty boys in the Castro got their noses smashed.”
    “I was there.”
    “You were
what
! Rebecca, where’s your loyalty? Why didn’t you call me, dammit?”
    “Listen, you don’t need me. You got both your stories, right? The second starter and the brawl. How’d you do that?”
    “Sources. I’m a reporter, remember? I’m supposed to know how to get information.”
    “My point exactly. Now shall I tell you about my day?” Naturally, he was all ears. The part that intrigued him the most was Clayton’s claiming the man in the leather jacket was trying to mug him. The man told police he’d simply asked for the time, and had chased us into the bar because Clayton threw a bag of groceries at him for no reason.
    “Well, he would say that, wouldn’t he? Wouldn’t you if you were a mugger?”
    “I guess so. Want to come to dinner tomorrow?”
    I said I did. I had to argue a divorce case the next day and I could use a home-cooked meal.

Chapter Eleven
    Rob lives on Cathedral Hill in a weird building with a great view. What makes the building weird is that it’s round. Otherwise, it’s just a characterless modern building. But it does have that view, and as for its banality, Rob says a person with an overactive imagination—such as himself—is stimulated by the ordinary. I’m not too sure what he means by that, but I’ll tell you one thing—if we ever decide to formalize our acquaintanceship, it’s not going to be there. I can tolerate it just about long enough for dinner.
    We had chicken that night. I happen to remember that because it’s all Rob ever makes. I know he knows how to make at least four or five things, because every once in a while he has. But usually he just pops a chicken in the oven with some potatoes and onions. This he serves on an oak table that also doubles as his desk and fits into a corner of his very masculine living room.
    Why do single men always have fake leather sofas? Do they think the Bachelors’ Union will drum them out if they sit on velveteen or corduroy? Rob’s got one just like all