The Sourdough Wars

and even offered drinks, but no one accepted. Rob and Thompson and Bob Tosi and I managed to keep up a little desultory conversation, but Chris couldn’t say a word, and Sally and Tony appeared to have taken vows of silence.
    At 12:45, Bob Tosi stretched, looked at his watch, and said he had a lunch date. “I expect the rest of you do, too,” he said. “Why don’t we leave together and set another date for the auction? I’m sure Mr. Martinelli must have gotten tied up or he’d have been here by now.”
    “May as well,” said Thompson, rising and straightening his tie.
    Tony rose without a word.
    Only Sally seemed reluctant. She continued to sit a bit longer, looking as if she were trying to think of something to say. After a moment, she got up and left with the others.
    Chris was dialing Peter’s number before they were out the door. She put down the receiver, sighing. “No answer.”
    “Look,” I said, “I’ll go out and get sandwiches.” She nodded.
    “I’ll go with you,” said Rob. It was obvious Chris needed to be alone.
    We came back with three pastramis on rye and three Cokes. Rob ate all of his, I managed half of mine, and Chris stared into space while we ate. Every now and then she’d pick up half a sandwich and stare at it instead of the horizon, but she never got as far as biting into it.
    She called Peter’s again. No answer. “I’m going over there.”
    “Chris, you can't—”
    “Rebecca, this is no time to be cool.”
    Rob looked baffled, but I had to give Chris credit. She’d put her finger on the very thing I was thinking—when your boyfriend stands you up, you shouldn’t go spying on him or he might get the idea you like him. Maybe I’d never grow up.
    “I guess not,” I said. “I think we should all go.”
    She didn’t protest.
    Peter didn’t answer his doorbell, and the manager didn’t answer hers. But just as we were about to give up, a woman who recognized Chris came in from walking her dog and let us in. We climbed the two flights of smelly stairs to Peter’s apartment and knocked. He didn’t answer. Chris tried the door—and jumped back when it opened.
    Rob pushed it wide enough to see what police call “signs of a struggle.” A lamp was knocked over, and one of Peter’s charcoal drawings hung askew, as if someone had fallen against the wall. The furniture was like that, too—sort of pushed around and out of place. Peter was sitting on the couch, staring at us. He was wearing a white terrycloth robe with a number of bullet holes in it. Peter’s blood had run out of his chest and turned the robe a nasty rust color.
    If I’d been alone, I’d have closed the door and run like crazy, but Chris is made of sterner stuff. She yelled Peter’s name and ran over to him. She touched him on both shoulders, as if to embrace him. His body fell forward.
    It fell against Chris. She recoiled and swayed. Rob rushed forward, held her, maneuvered her into a chair. I stepped into the room and stared at Chris and Rob, not looking at Peter’s body and not knowing what to do. I thought I should call the police, but I was worried about messing up fingerprints. It’s funny what you think about at a time like that. “Stay with her,” said Rob, already headed toward the bedroom. He came back in a minute. “There’s no one here. And no gun. I’ll call the cops.” He asked for Inspector Martinez, a homicide cop we’d met a year or so earlier.
    “Rebecca,” said Chris. “I think I’d better lie down.” She was awfully pale.
    “Put your head on your lap.”
    She sat doubled over for a moment, and then I heard her start to sob. I figured she couldn’t faint if she had the strength to cry, so I got a pillow and put it on the floor. She lay down while I went to get her some of Peter’s brandy. It was a few minutes before she could sip it.
    Peter’s body was lying sideways on the sofa now. None of us wanted to look at it, but we were afraid to cover it up. Rob looked at me sheepishly. “I’ve got to call city desk.”
    “No. They’ll send a photographer.”
    He nodded, easily persuaded. I knew him well enough to figure out what was in his mind. Technically, he wasn’t really doing his job if he didn’t call for a camera, but he didn’t want to look at his paper the next morning and see a picture of Peter’s covered-up body being carried to a coroner’s wagon. Any more than I did. And neither one of us wanted Chris to see it.
    We heard sirens, then clomping