She’d grown up in the Avondale part of Cincinnati. Her mother had moved there from San Francisco to be near Gail’s uncle Joe, who’d come from Europe to teach composition at the music department of the nearby university. “The most wonderful man, Ray. Whatever love for music I have, he gave me. He taught me piano. Patient? If I didn’t want to practice and wanted to go to the movies instead, he’d say, ‘Today we’ll practice by going to the movies.’ He’d point out to me how film composers manipulated my emotions, especially in scary pictures.

“ ‘Where’s the music coming from?’ I’d ask him.

“ ‘Don’t worry,’ he’d say.

“ ‘But the music is scaring me,’ I’d tell him.

“ ‘No, no, dear one. It’s just people playing little notes on paper. Dots on paper.’ ”

It wasn’t until her uncle knew she’d be leaving Cincinnati to attend Berkeley that he decided to return to Europe to compose for some film studios there. The money being offered was excellent, and he’d left her a small trust fund that helped cover her room and board. She was rightfully proud that she had won a working scholarship at Berkeley, the work consisting of playing the carillon (which she adored) and accompanying voice majors at recitals (which she frequently loathed).

I gleaned that her mother doted on her a bit more than Gail liked. “She’s far too overprotective, moved out here just to be near me. It makes her crazy that I have a room of my own on campus. She thinks it’s a waste of hard-earned money, but I’d go loopy living under the same roof with her seven days a week. As it is, I feel obliged to spend my weekends in Chancery Lane, where she lives with Russ Hewett, just to keep her happy.”

“And who is Russ?” I asked her for the second time that day.

“Russ is . . . well, to be honest”—she lowered her voice—“it’s kind of sweet, I guess. He’s supposed to be a casual friend of my mother’s. They share a house along Fruitvale Creek. A really lovely place. The story is that she does housekeeping and cooking, he’s a bachelor and one of those fellows who’s great about building things on an elaborate scale but can’t take care of himself. I think everybody knows that she’s his girlfriend, although for propriety’s sake they never, ever behave romantically in public. I mean, you’d think my mother would at least admit it to me, but I suppose it’s—. She’s just this very self-contained woman.”

I asked her what Russ did for a living.