The Sourdough Wars

leaning even closer. “You know who it was, then?”
    “Of course.” She looked at Peter. “It’s them. It’s got to be. God knows what they’d do. They’re used to it. They were raised that way.”
    “Who?” asked Rob, but Peter waved him quiet.
    “Sally,” he said softly. “You’re being ridiculous. I hope you’ll reconsider about the auction.” He stood up, signaling her to leave.
    She stood, too, and took a step closer to Peter. “But—” He put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sure it’s just some nut. I hope to see you tomorrow.”
    He saw her to the door and patted her back as she left. The whole thing seemed fishily perfunctory. If Peter were really as good a guy as Chris thought, I figured he knew something about Sally that the rest of us didn’t.
    He came back looking embarrassed. “This came up when she called about the auction,” he said. “She’s got some crazy idea about the—excuse me, I’d better get that.”
    Peter picked up the phone. “Mr. Thompson, how are you?” He listened for a moment, spoke reassuringly, and hung up. “Clayton Thompson got a call, too. He thinks it’s the mob.”
    “Is that what Sally thought?” asked Rob.
    “Not exactly. Sally’s fears are a little more specific. I guess I’d better tell you. She thinks if you’re Italian, you’re automatically some kind of criminal.” He shrugged. “It’s crazy.”
    “You mean,” Rob said, “she thinks it’s one of the Tosis.”
    “It’s nuts.” Peter was getting very upset. “I grew up with them. They’re honest business people.”
    Chris spoke. “Peter, some nut might call one person, but two got calls. Somebody is trying to stop the auction.” He shrugged again, looking frustrated.
    Chris spoke slowly, as if she were afraid to: “It must be Anita.”
    Rob zeroed in: “Who’s Anita?”
    “My sister,” Peter said. “The one who didn’t inherit the starter.”
    Rob’s face showed he didn’t get it.
    “She wanted it,” said Peter. “And I wanted the house. But our parents didn’t see it that way. She never gave up the idea of starting up the Martinelli Bakery again.”
    “And,” said Chris, “she’s been begging him to call off the auction.”
    “What difference does it make?” Peter was practically shouting. “Anita’s not going to hurt anybody. And neither are the Tosis. Everyone’s getting hysterical for no reason.”
    “I think,” I said, “we should call the police.”
    Peter picked up the phone and dialed. But he didn’t call the cops. He said, “Bob? Peter Martinelli. I was just wondering—has anything odd happened tonight?”
    After he finished talking, he turned to the rest of us. “Bob Tosi got a call and shrugged it off. Then his brother called and said he’d gotten one. Accused Bob of being the caller.”
    “I really think—” I said, but that was as far as I got.
    “Look,” said Peter. “Let’s call it a night, okay? See you at noon.”
    Chris looked hurt, and he gave her hair a reassuring ruffle. “Not you. You stick around.”

Chapter Three
    Chris came in late the next morning, about ten, but I was with a client. In fact, both of us had a busy morning, so we didn’t talk at all before the auction. Rob turned up at 11:45, and we went into Chris’s office to help her arrange the chairs and make coffee—Kruzick had already made some, but it was too awful to serve. It wasn’t quite twelve when he appeared at the door and said Clayton Thompson was there.
    Thompson was a slight fellow, with thinning blond hair and a thick Southern accent. He was from North Carolina and took a shine to Chris, whose own accent got a little thicker when she talked to him. Rob and I listened mostly, while they “passed the time of day,” which, in their language, means “made polite conversation.”
    “How long you been in New York, Mr. Thompson?”
    “Oh, seven, eight years. We were in Atlanta before that, my wife and I. Then the comp’ny said move, so we moved.”
    “Any kids?”
    “Two boys. I just happen to have a couple of pictures if y’all’d be interested.” Chris said we certainly would, and he showed us snaps of cute towheads.
    There was something about him that was knotted up hard and very controlled beneath the easy manner. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I wondered if his job would be on the line if he didn’t get the starter.
    “Mr. Robert Tosi to see you,” said Kruzick.
    Tosi stepped into the room. He was dark, burly, and had