The Sourdough Wars

stake.
    I considered again the question of whether he could have known Peter before the Great Sourdough Starter Auction. Maybe he’d had other business trips to San Francisco and they’d met and been lovers. And maybe he’d killed Peter in some kind of ex-lover’s quarrel, and Sally’d found out about it, so he’d killed her.
    There was something wrong with it, though. Sally’d been killed with her own bread knife. If you drove all the way to Sonoma to kill someone, wouldn’t you take an appropriate weapon? And what about that little still life on her counter. Lighter Fluid, Matches, and Burned Doughball. What was that all about?
    I wanted to ask Thompson some more questions, but I wasn’t quite sure how to phrase them. “By the way, Clayton, did you happen to kill your lover or possibly ex-lover, and also Sally Devereaux?” That wasn’t going to get it. I needed an excuse—something I could use as a reason for my visit; then I could segue neatly into the matter of homosexual love and death.
    I went over our conversation that morning—was there something there I could use? There was. Indeed, there was. By the time I got to the Stanford Court, I’d half-convinced myself the answer was vital. Why hadn’t I asked about it that morning? It was Rob’s interview, not mine—that was why. But now Today’s Action Woman was going to get some answers. Maybe I could even say, “Look, Clayton, baby, I want answers and I want ’em now.” I could Bogart the whole phrase, maybe, twisting the old lip, and I could stand all casual with one hand in my pocket.
    But then I saw what was wrong with that picture; I’d turned Today’s Action Woman into a man. I looked lousy in a suit and tie. I pulled into the hotel’s porte-cochère, reminding myself to read more Sharon McCone mysteries so I could get my fantasies right.
    I asked for Thompson on the house phone. He wasn’t registered, but I was undaunted. I simply drove to “Rick and Mary’s”—his purported Castro friends’ apartment—and rang the doorbell. Someone inside pushed the buzzer that let me in. Upstairs, Clayton Thompson answered the door with a wide smile. Which faded as soon as he saw who’d come to call: “Rebecca. I was expecting someone else.”
    “May I come in?”
    “Of course.” He didn’t speak enthusiastically, but he stepped aside to let me in. If anyone named Mary lived there, my name was Susie Creamcheese. There wasn’t any lavender in the place, but there were a lot more antiques, fussy bric-a-brac, and copies of weightlifting magazines than a woman with a baby needed. Not to mention pictures of strapping young men on fishing trips, playing volleyball, clowning at parties, posing with arms around each others’ shoulders.
    I was sure Clayton shared my opinion of his friend’s taste. The look on his face confirmed it, but he seemed determined to bluff, maybe figuring I’d be too polite to suggest a decorating course for the kid. “Sit down.”
    I sat on one end of a peach velvet sofa, and he sat at the other end. “I’ve been thinking about what you said this morning—about Sally. It seemed so horrible—so sort of mundane and worthless—to live your life and then die wanting to go to the bathroom.”
    Thompson smiled a stingy smile. “It’s not so much the needin’ to. It’s the havin’ nothing else to say.”
    “Exactly. It bothered me.”
    He said nothing, just glanced toward the door.
    “It’s been nagging at me all day.”
    “What can I do for you, Rebecca?” His voice said his patience was fish-scale thin.
    “I need to know what she said.”
    “But I told you. I’m afraid I don’t get this at all.”
    “I mean exactly what she said. Verbatim.”
    “I told you. She said she wanted to go to the bathroom and she wanted a gun.”
    “I thought she mentioned Peter’s name as well.”
    “She did.” His voice was outright cold now. He wanted me to get out of there.
    “But what
exactly
did she say?”
    “She said Peter’s name. That’s all.”
    “Just Peter? Or Peter Martinelli?”
    “Just Peter.”
    “Ah. And did she say that first or last?”
    “I really don’t see what difference it makes.” The voice was high-pitched and strained, teetering on outrage.
    “Well, if she said it first, it might mean she’d mistaken you for Peter.”
    “Really, Rebecca. She knew Peter was dead.”
    “But she may have been out of her head.”
    “Then what difference could that possibly make?”
    Thank