“Calvin and I were friends from earliest childhood, and she has kept me from him most successfully all these years. So if your Negro writer was hoping to see Calvin, Renee would have made sure he wasn’t able to do so. Why do you imagine your Negro wanted to talk to Calvin?”

I recited my piece on Whitby’s interest in Kylie Ballantine and her contract with Bayard. To my surprise, Geraldine knew Ballantine.

“Calvin took an interest in her work. When he was enthusiastic, he wanted everyone to share his interests, so we all drove into the city to watch her dance. He bought art from her and we all had to follow his lead and buy one of her African masks. When she gave a recital, we all drove to the city to watch her dance. In 1957, 1 think it was, or perhaps ‘fifty-eight. He had just brought Renee out here, I remember. I was prepared to feel sorry for her, a little patronizing toward her, twenty-year-old bride of an older, domineering man. What a mistake that was!”

She made a bitter face. “Ballantine was in her fifties the night I saw her, but she still moved like a young woman. I didn’t care much for the dance. It was African, and I’ve never cared greatly for African art or music: it all sounds like boomlay, boom! to me. But heaven lent her enough grace for me to admire past the sound.”

“It’s a pity Mr. Whitby didn’t have a chance to talk to you.” I returned to my seat. “He might have found your recollections useful. Had Ballantine been blacklisted during the McCarthy hearings? Was that what brought her to Mr. Bayard’s attention?”

Geraldine Graham slowly shook her head. “I don’t know, young woman. It was about that time that my husband died, and Mother and Darraugh were-I remember the evening at the ballet because it was vivid, but much else that year is gray in my mind.”

I would dearly have loved to know what Mother and Darraugh had done. Fought in a loud, unrefined way about MacKenzie Graham’s death was my guess. After a decent pause to show respect for her unhappy memories, I pulled the picture of Whitby and his sister out of my bag.

“You notice a lot around you. Did you notice him?”

Geraldine Graham took the photograph from me and picked up her magnifying glass to study it. Her hands were misshapen by age and arthritis and they trembled. She laid the picture on her lap and held the glass with both hands.

“I’ve never seen him, but Lisa might have. She is always here in the evenings to help me with my meal and my night routine.”

She picked up a bell on the table next to her, but Lisa had remained in earshot and came in before Geraldine could ring it. “This is the man who drowned in our pond, Lisa.” She handed the picture to the other woman. “The detective is wondering if we saw him here on Sunday.”