The Sourdough Wars

her rich and famous. So she wouldn’t need the Martinelli starter, and neither would they. Tony Tosi wouldn’t be any worse off, because Bob wouldn’t have the starter, and Bob wouldn’t be, because Tony wouldn’t have it either.”
    “What about Anita?”
    “I guess she’s lost out.”
    “Sally says Conglomerate wouldn’t be interested in her because she doesn’t have the Martinelli name. She thinks all they’re after is prestige.”
    “But they already have prestige. If they had Sally’s starter, then
it
would be the starter of choice.”
    “She doesn’t see it that way. She’s a complicated person—she’s got the best product of the bunch of them, and she doesn’t trust it, because—” I stopped, unsure why. “I think,” I said finally, “she doesn’t really see reality. She sees only the image of a thing, rather than the thing itself.”
    “If you ask me, that doesn’t make her any different from anyone else in this caper. You know something? None of this would have happened if we hadn’t started it.”
    “Don’t say that. It was Peter’s idea.”
    “It was Kruzick’s idea. The point is, I wrote the stories. A major newspaper said that stupid doughball was important, so that made it important.”
    “You’re doing a lot of soul-searching today.”
    “Look, I know I didn’t make any of this happen, but I can’t help feeling responsible.”
    “That way lies madness. Have some more wine.”
    He did, and some sourdough as well. “Sally’s is really better than this?”
    “Lots.”
    “Let’s go get some.”
    “Are you crazy? I’ve got work to do.”
    “You actually have clients coming in today?”
    “No, but I’ve got to catch up on things.”
    “Now, don’t be prissy, dear. It’s two-thirty and we’re both half-sloshed. You won’t be any good to your clients and I can’t do a thing for the
Chronicle
.”
    “What’ll you tell your boss?”
    He shrugged. “I’m on special.”
    I already knew that meant special assignment—newspaper jargon for get out of the office and don’t come back till you’ve got a story.
    “Let’s go check into the Sonoma Mission Inn,” he said. “It’s Valentine’s Day.”
    We stopped at his apartment for some clothes and at mine for the same thing, plus bruise camouflage and a phone call.
    I couldn’t get Chris, so I left a message with Kruzick, knowing he’d forget to give it to her as usual.
    We hadn’t yet finished our bottle of wine, so we took it with us, along with a couple of paper cups. This is illegal, but I didn’t want Rob to think me prissy, so I went along with it.
    Over the bridge and through Marin, to Sally’s place we went. This time, since it wasn’t dark, we could see the vineyards. The vines in February are like squat black sculptures, and the mustard, in full, canary-colored bloom, billows about them. What with the wine and the spirit of adventure and Valentine’s Day and all, my head felt billowy, too. Pleasantly billowy. I thought maybe I’d have a massage at the inn’s famous spa.
    We were just entering the town of Sonoma when Rob said, “Look—it’s Thompson.” He honked his horn but got no response.
    I opened my eyes, which I admit I’d been resting, and saw a brown car going the other way: West. Clayton Thompson was driving it, and there was another man with him. “Who’s' the other guy?”
    “Don’t know him,” said Rob. “Where’s Sally’s bakery?”
    “On the plaza, I guess. Just about everything is.”
    There was another bakery on the plaza—Sonoma French Bakery—and we wasted some time there before we found the authentic Plaza Bakery. It was tiny, and there seemed to be no one there. Some peculiar things were lying on the counter—a pack of matches, a can of lighter fluid, and a tiny ball of dough, all scorched.
    We could see the ovens and some tables back in a light airy space behind the counter, but it didn’t look as if there were any other rooms in the place.
    “Sally,” I called. No answer.
    “There must be a bathroom,” said Rob.
    I called Sally again. Again, silence.
    Rob said, “Let’s have a look.” He stepped behind the counter and gasped. “Rebecca, don’t come back here.”
    But I was already there. Sally was lying on the floor, near enough to the counter so she was out of sight if you were on the other side of it. She had a bread knife sticking out of her chest.
    “The phone,” said Rob. “Call the cops.”
    I nodded and glanced around. At first