The Sourdough Wars

I couldn’t see a phone. But there it was, in the back of the room. Rob stood still, staring at Sally, and then he bent down and picked up her hand, feeling for a pulse, I supposed. I walked past them, on very shaky legs, to get to the phone. I picked up the receiver and started to dial 0. But there was no dial tone. Impatiently, I pulled on the cord, and it hung loose in my hand. It had been cut, just like in the movies.

Chapter Fifteen
    “I can’t do it,” I said. “I can’t do it.” I said it the second time to help myself understand. I
should
call the police; the situation cried out for calling the police; but I couldn’t call the police. That was all I meant, but Rob apparently read more into it.
    He glanced over at me, stood up, and started walking toward me, speaking in a voice that was ever so slow and understanding, the kind you use with a person standing on a ledge twenty stories up. “Rebecca, it’s all right. Everything’s okay. Maybe I could call the cops instead? How would that be?”
    I held the cut end of the cord up and made a face at him. Sally was dead, and somewhere inside I was sure I was upset about that, but at the moment all I felt was annoyance at Rob. My only thought was to show him I had my wits about me—I was today’s woman. Today’s Action Woman, able to call the cops when necessary, do whatever had to be done. I stepped past him, thinking to walk out the door and find a phone booth somewhere, not noticing I hadn’t told him what I was about to do. Not even noticing that a car had just squealed to a stop outside and two uniformed cops were even now coming in the door. I bumped smack into them.
    I would have fallen, but one of them grabbed my arm, and not just to steady me. “Just a minute, young lady,” he said. Even in the state I was in, I was glad he hadn’t said, “Not so fast.” That would have put me over the edge, and I would have disgraced myself with a giggle fit.
    But everything was all right now, just like Rob said; the cops were there, and all I had to do was explain the situation in a calm and collected manner. Rob stole my chance. “Rob Burns of the
Chronicle
,” he said.
    “Oh, foot!” I blurted.
    “Foot?” The cop holding my arm looked confused.
    “That’s what my law partner says when she’s mad. She’s Southern, see, and that’s why she talks funny.”
    The cop let go of my arm and scratched his head. “
You’re
a lawyer?”
    Rob came over and put an arm around me. “Rebecca, I think you’d better sit down. Officer, I think you should have a look behind the counter.”
    The cop went for a look and I did sit down, right on the floor. Rob sat with me, either to humor me or because his legs had given out, too. The second cop stood over us, making sure we wouldn’t make a break for it. She had a very pretty face, but her body armor was more functional than flattering.
    I remembered to tell her the phone cord had been cut, and then the male cop came back, pale as paper, and there was a great flurry of radioing for an ambulance and more cops.
    “She’s dead, isn’t she?” I asked, but no one answered me. And then I said, “Thompson! Clayton Thompson!” No one answered me that time either.
    The cops finally introduced themselves: Officers George Williamson and Stella Tripp. I managed to tell them about seeing Thompson on the way into town, while the ambulance arrived and then went away, its occupants unable to revive Sally. I told the cops they should pick up Thompson, better get out a bulletin right away, they could probably find him before he got too far. But they wouldn’t listen.
    Finally, Officer Tripp could stand it no longer. “You stay here,” she told her partner. “I’ve got something to do.”
    She left and came back with four cups of coffee, black, that we sipped while we waited for the coroner and more cops. Eventually, the first two took us to the police station and we told our story. The coffee had a calming effect—that and Rob’s arm around me—and I was able to contribute in a coherent manner. In fact, I pretty well had to carry the narrative thread, because Rob seemed to have lost the power of speech. Somehow, this had been a lot worse than finding Peter. That time, we knew something was wrong, because Peter hadn’t shown up for the auction. And somehow, the sight of that bread knife sticking out of Sally’s chest was a lot more final and terrible even than the sight of blood all over Peter.
    Once we were