“I got that Cookie’s Fortune poster signed by Robert Altman himself,” he said. “I think I would’ve gone crazy a long time ago without movies. Next week, I’m taking one of those TCM cruises down the Caribbean. I went a few years ago, back when Robert Osborne was still alive. I met Eva Marie Saint and Ruta Lee. She was in Seven Brides for Seven Brothers.”

“I remember you used to talk to me a lot about Westerns,” Quinn said. “I think you were the first person to tell me to watch Red River.”

“God, I love that movie.”

“And She Wore a Yellow Ribbon.”

“John Ford,” Mr. Phillips said. “I pegged you for a John Ford man right off. I think about people like that. Who are their directors. I don’t know you well, Miss Coleman, but I think you’d really like W. S. Van Dyke. Penthouse, Manhattan Melodrama. Ole One Take Woody, is what they called him. Some of my favorite films are from the Depression. So much realism. Cynical but with hope. Like your stories.”

“So you’re not sure where we can find Ansley Cuthbert?” Tashi said, reminding Quinn of Lillie. Enough with the small talk, getting right to the point.

“I haven’t seen her for twenty years,” Mr. Phillips said. “I do remember she and Brandon were very close. It was obvious they were boyfriend and girlfriend, always spending a lot of time in the darkroom. Hours and hours. He took a lot of pictures but never printed many photographs. I knew what they were doing in there but didn’t want to make any trouble for them. Kids will be kids. All those hormones. I remember you, Quinn. What was your girlfriend’s name?”

“Anna Lee Amsden.”

“Anna Lee,” Mr. Phillips said. “Of course, of course. She was lovely. She had that whole icy blonde Hitchcock thing. No wonder you were crazy about her.”

“Icy blonde,” Quinn said. “That’s about right.”

“I do have something for you,” Mr. Phillips said, standing and disappearing to a back room. He returned with a small filing box and set it down on the coffee table. “When I first heard from Jessica about the podcast, I went through my files. I kept the last few batches of photos Brandon left at the lab. When he died, I couldn’t imagine throwing them away. I can’t see any way in the world they would help you. Lots of pictures of the woods, artsy stuff. But here you go. Have at it.”

Quinn nodded and offered his hand. Mr. Phillips shook it, the bones in Phillips’s hand seeming thin and brittle, light, in Quinn’s fingers. “Appreciate it, sir.”