The Sourdough Wars

a little background information about them. That was the ostensible purpose of the dinner—to fill him in.
    Rob got down to business after dinner. “So,” he said, whipping out his notebook, “Who
are
the bidders?”
    Chris spoke before Peter had a chance. “Everybody who’s anybody.”
    “Meaning?”
    “Robert Tosi,” said Peter.
    “Of the Tosi Bakery? Wow.” Rob was impressed for good reason. When the Martinelli company folded, the Tosi loaf had become the sourdough of choice. Most of the old restaurants served Tosi bread, though some of the newer, more chic ones bought their bread from one of the new chic bakeries.
    “Who else?” asked Rob.
    “Tony Tosi.”
    “I don’t get it. Are there two Tosi bakeries?”
    “In a manner of speaking. Tony runs the Palermo Bakery.” This was the oldest and best established of the new sourdough emporia.
    “Are Tony and Bob related?”
    “Brothers.”
    “You’ve got to be kidding.”
    “It’s an even better story than you think. They’re bitter rivals. Barely speak to each other.”
    “You know them?”
    “I grew up with them. Their dad worked for my dad before he left to start his own bakery.”
    “This is great stuff.”
    “It gets better. The next bidder is a guy named Clayton Thompson. He was sent here from New York by none other than Conglomerate Foods—the frozen cake and pie folks. They want to market frozen sourdough.”
    “I’ve died and gone to heaven. The two local biggies, brother against brother, and a giant, man-eating, New York-based corporation.”
    If Chris could have looked like a cat or a cow, she would have. She had to make do with looking like what she was—a very contented Virginia aristocrat. Peter looked like a kid with a new bicycle.
    “The fourth one’s not so exciting,” I said. “Some lady from Sonoma.”
    “Ah, a provincial upstart—and a lady, too. I hope she’s photogenic.”
    Peter shrugged. “She’s okay if you like short blondes.” Chris has the delicate skin of a blonde, but her hair is a rich light brown, and she’s six feet tall. So that was a tactful thing to say, and Peter reached for her hand as he said it.
    “What’s her name?” asked Rob.
    “Sally Devereaux. Of the Plaza Bakery.”
    “Never heard of it. Anybody know anything about it?”
    “The bread,” said Peter, “is incredibly good.”
    “
Incredibly
good?”
    “Fantastic.”
    “So what does she need the starter for?”
    “Beats me. Why do any of them need it? I’ve never gotten the hang of any of this.” He got up and came back with a tray of brandy snifters and a bottle of cognac. “I’ve been saving this,” he said, and was handing drinks around when the doorbell rang.
    He stopped what he was doing, walked over to the intercom, and asked who was there.
    “Sally Devereaux,” said the intercom. Peter pushed a button. He came back and finished pouring the drinks. “I guess,” he said, “we can ask her right now why she wants the starter.”
    Sally Devereaux was not only blond; she was very pale. She was wearing jeans and a pink sweater that must have been an extra-large. It fit her snugly.
    She was short, as Peter had said, rather plump, and rather top-heavy. Her hair was short and curly. A soft, fluffy kind of woman. And at the moment a very frightened one.
    Tears started down her face when she saw Peter had company. “Oh, Peter, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know—”
    “It’s all right.” Awkwardly, he rubbed the back of her sweater. “It’s okay.” He made a gesture to Chris, and she poured Sally a brandy. “Sit down.”
    Sally did, and Peter made introductions. By that time Sally had a better hold on herself. “You’re all here about the auction?”
    We nodded.
    “I just had a threatening phone call. Someone called and told me not to bid.”
    Rob leaned forward in his chair. Sometimes I thought he had a funny way of looking at people—as if they were all characters in one of his stories and not real at all. It worried me. “A man or a woman?” he said.
    Sally shuddered. “One of those whispery voices. Peter, I can’t do it, I can’t do it. I just can’t.” Her voice rose on each “can’t.”
    “It’s okay,” said Chris. She waved at Sally’s glass. “I think the brandy might help.” Sally sipped it, but she was still very pale.
    Rob asked, “What did the voice say?”
    “It said, ‘You know who this is. Drop out or you might get hurt.’ And then it hung up. I mean
he
hung up.”
    Rob was