Eleanor Mintz lived in a small Victorian house in one of the most beautiful spots in the world. Situated on the winding road that followed the coastline of Pacific Grove, it looked out on the ocean with an unobstructed view that made the property, Hudson knew, worth more than he could even imagine. As he walked to the front door up the narrow path bordered on both sides by lavender, he saw the door open, and a small, gray-haired woman stepped out. She looked over Hudson’s head to the sea beyond. When her eyes came finally to rest on him, she was smiling.

“You must be Hudson,” she said.

“Mrs. Mintz,” said Hudson.

She showed him into her house. Keeping with the Victorian look, it was decorated in outdated, but perfectly preserved, furnishings. Hudson eyed the overlarge sofa with its high carved back, the wallpaper patterned in William Morris roses and an excess of flourishes. On a stand beside the fireplace, a seated black china cat dipped its paw into a large glass bowl in which a goldfish swam in tight circles.

“It was a nice surprise to get your call last night,” Hudson said as he was shown into the living room.

“Well, Helen told me what you’re doing, and she thought I might be of some assistance. I don’t know how, but I told her that I’d try.”

Hudson sat on the edge of a chair, feeling as if he were becoming part of a museum installation. Drawing rooms of the nineteenth century, he thought. And in the next gallery, dresses of the American first ladies. Eleanor Mintz took another chair. She folded her small hands neatly in the lap of her blue dress. Behind her, looking over her shoulder like a trusted sentry, a portrait of a white-haired, mustachioed man in black, eyed Hudson suspiciously. Her husband? Hudson mused, then noted the facial resemblance. No, her father.

“Well, as Helen probably told you, I’m doing research on Steinbeck’s novels,” Hudson said. “I’m particularly interested in the influence Ed Ricketts had on him.”

The woman nodded slightly. “That’s been covered in great detail,” she said. “Is there anything more to say?”

Hudson was taken aback. He hadn’t expected to have his work questioned by this woman who looked more like somebody’s grandmother than an academic. But, he reminded himself, she might yet have some useful information. “You’re right,” he said calmly. “There has been a lot written about their relationship. But, as I’m sure you know, there’s always something new to say.” He smiled at her warmly, hoping to disarm her.

“I doubt it,” she said firmly. “But you can ask me what you like.”