The Sourdough Wars

of sympathy—probably a little tap dance to cheer me up. I could throw myself to the cruel pavement of the Financial District. Or I could pull myself together and beard the lion I called my employee.
    There was no question what Today’s Action Woman would do. As for me, I walked to the window and contemplated death by defenestration. And not necessarily my own—there was more than one way to get rid of Kruzick.
    In the end, maturity won out. I went back to the reception area and stood in front of Kruzick’s desk, tapping my foot till he finished the personal phone call that momentarily had his attention.
    “Why,” I said, “didn’t you tell me Rob left a message?”
    He pointed to his closed lips and shrugged.
    “You may speak now, Alan.”
    “Arf.”
    I picked up the phone book and threw it at him. Just like that, without giving it a thought. I didn’t even realize I’d done it until it was over.
    By that time, the missile had caught Alan satisfactorily in the chest, causing a delicious “oof,” and he had fallen over backward, chair and all. The phone had also started to ring, so I picked it up. “I’m sorry—Mr. Kruzick isn’t taking calls just now.”
    “Rebecca?” It was Rob. “Sorry I couldn’t talk, but I had about two paragraphs to go on the lead story. But anyhow, you know about that.”
    “I’ve got the funniest feeling I don’t.”
    “I guess I misunderstood you. Listen to this—Sally had an assistant at Plaza Bakery, and she’s agreed to keep the bakery going until the estate is settled. So she went in this morning to bake, and she opened the freezer to get something. It’s normally kept locked, and no one had opened it since Sally was killed. Guess what she found there?”
    “Omigod. The Martinelli starter.”
    “In its little bull-sperm thermos.”

Chapter Nineteen
    So either Sally Devereaux was the second burglar, or she had somehow gotten the second starter away from the second burglar, who had then killed her for it. But I remembered the lighter fluid and the matches and the burned ball of dough. Also, I remembered the nasty little theory I’d developed in the redwoods, the one with a hole or two in it. This new bit of information answered one of my questions. The biggest one. The only thing that remained was to make the two phone calls I’d avoided making that morning.
    The first person I called was Clayton Thompson. I repeated to him what I understood Sally Devereaux to have said before she died and asked him if I was right in every particular. I especially wanted to make sure I understood where the pauses were. He said I did.
    The second call was tougher—it meant I had to disappoint myself. The all-new, spiritually improved Rebecca who wasn’t going to torture children anymore called Bob Tosi’s house and asked for young Bobby. “Remember,” I said, “when I asked you about your mom’s boyfriend? The one who was backing her in the sourdough auction?”
    Bobby said he remembered.
    “And remember how you laughed?”
    Bobby did.
    “Well, I’ve been kind of wondering—what was so funny about it?”
    Bobby gave me the answer I didn’t want to hear.
    So now I had a terrific little theory with no more holes in it. I went over it again and again in my head and I couldn’t poke any. Then I typed something I needed. And I went into Chris’s office and told her I knew who had killed the man she was dating.
    I told her the theory, step by step, and asked her if she could poke any holes in it. “Only one,” she said, and her voice had a bitter edge to it. “There’s no way in hell to prove it.”
    “Yes, there is.” I showed her the thing I’d just written and outlined a little idea I had.
    It was close to nine o’clock when we drove to the elegant redwood house in San Anselmo. Like so many Marin County houses, it was on a hill and we had to climb up about a hundred rough wooden steps to get to it.
    When we were on a deck about ninety steps up, we saw that we were actually at the first-floor level of the house, looking into one of its windows at a cozy study. Anita Ashton was seated at the desk, looking out at us. When she saw who was coming to visit, her bewildered look changed to one of pleasure.
    She stood and pointed up toward the second floor, where the front door was. We kept climbing and she met us at the door. “What’s up?”
    She ushered us in even as she spoke, ever the efficient user of time. The foyer had two camelback couches in it, each