I’d offered to pick up Gail by taxi so that we could arrive at her mother’s home together, but she’d insisted this made no sense, as Berkeley and Chancery Lane were in equal and opposite directions from the Claremont. Thus I found myself ringing the doorbell of a man named Russ Hewett, alone.

He answered the door. I remembered his robust appearance from the few seconds we’d had before Marie Prasquier had landed—no, landed was not the right word—nearby us. I had a little more time to appraise him as he in turn surveyed me. He seemed about fifteen years my senior. He had sun-bleached hair on his arms atop the kind of uncultivated tan a person acquires while working outdoors. His eyes were a friendly gray, with a permanent squint as if he were always looking into the sun. His features formed a smile readily enough.

“So, you’re Gail’s jazz musician? I think I half-met you when that girl killed herself.”

“Yes, sir.” Stupid response. I was thirty-eight years old. “Yessiree,” I appended, trying to make it sound as if that’s what I had meant all along. I introduced myself.

He nodded toward the parlor. “Well, come in then.” He called out, “Martha! Company’s here.”

I walked into the cool, dark parlor. It was manly and comfortable-looking. There were a lot of built-in bookshelves and a room divider with a glass display case. A simple dining room verged on an enclosed porch whose windows oversaw a near jungle of foliage. Russ waved me toward a sofa and explained that Gail had called a short while earlier to say she’d missed her bus and might be a half hour late. She’d have to take a trolley into Oakland and change for an eastbound bus from there. This left me with the horrendous task of sitting alone with the man of the house as if being scrutinized prior to a first date with his daughter.

“Get you something to drink?” asked Russ. “We have mixers, with and without, bottled beer, and, uh, we have some soda pop, I think.” He raised his voice. “Martha, do we have any pop?”

A female voice shouted back, “No, but I fixed some orangeade.”

Russ made a face and called out, “Well, I’m having a beer!” He turned to me. “Joining me?”

I shook my head. “No thanks, Russ, I’m sort of here to work.”

He laughed deeply. “I’d love to tell my Caterpillar men that you call listening to piano music ‘work.’ ” He called out, “He’ll have your orangeade, Martha! I’m having myself a beer!” He didn’t get up. “So, Sherwood, you have an interesting occupation. How’d you fall into your line of business?”

“Well, my parents weren’t particularly musical but they wanted me to have—”