The woman hesitated, and then Olive saw that she had been eating a sandwich, which she still held in her right hand, half concealing it below the level of her desk. A bit breathless in her confusion, she said, “Missed my breakfast,” then placed the unfinished sandwich on her blotter and dialed the number. She handed the ringing receiver to Olive.

“This is Terry,” came the voice.

Sharkey had been staring out the window at the planter on the sill, the browned late-season blossoms. But as though to turn his back on Olive, he crept to an aquarium bubbling on a shelf, the yellow and blue fish flashing at his approach.

“You don’t know me,” Olive said into the phone. “I’m at your office, inquiring about a man named Max Mulgrave.”

In the long silence that followed, Olive wondered whether she’d been cut off.

“Hello?”

“I’m thinking,” the man said. “I haven’t heard that name for years. You kind of blindsided me with it.”

“You were in high school with him.”

“Coon’s age ago.”

“Were you friends?”

“What’s this concerning, miss?”

“My name is Olive Randall. I’m trying to trace old friends and acquaintances of Max Mulgrave’s.”

“I don’t reckon you’ll find any.”

“Why would that be?”

“He didn’t have but two or three to begin with. And when he left town he never come back. Or maybe once, but not more than that.”

“So he did come back?”

“That was the talk. It would have been years ago. Maybe it was to see his mother.”

“Is she still in town?”

“She passed.” The man sighed, a scraping sound in the phone. “I’m sorry, miss. I don’t have time for this.”

“Can I run a couple of names past you?”

“Do it real quick.”

Olive read from her notebook, “Curtis Rickards. Ray Siggins. Mary Lou Gordon.”

Interrupting her, the man said, “Mary Lou’s married. Moved long ago. Ray’s still in town, but he’s busted up about his wife’s passing. Curtis, you might find him at his garage. Gotta go. Bah now.”

The phone went dead. Olive handed the receiver back to the secretary, who said, “Mr. Baggett’s real busy.”

“Curtis Rickards,” Olive said. “Could you direct me to his garage?”

But the secretary was looking fretfully at Sharkey, who was twirling his finger in the bubbling aquarium, poking at the darting fish, his tongue clamped in his teeth in concentration.

“Sir, y’all mind leaving them fish be?”

Sharkey, still with his finger in the water, said sharply, “Do I tell you what to do?”

“Joe!” Olive said in sudden fury, and Sharkey shrank like a scolded child and sidled away from the aquarium.