“Sorry about that,” Ethan said as he returned to his seat. “Nice of you to drive all this way. Were you a friend of his?”

I shook my head. “A relative. Rebecca Dace was my grandmother. She was married to Quillen Millhone. I believe their son, Randy Millhone, was your father’s favorite uncle.”

His face was blank, unclouded by recognition. “You lost me there. Who’s this?”

“My father’s name was Randy Millhone. Uncle R.”

“Oh, sure, sure. Uncle R. I remember hearing about him.”

“I don’t know if my father was actually your father’s uncle. The title might have been used to simplify the blood tie.”

“So we’re related? The two of us?”

“It looks that way. My guess is we’re cousins, but I’m not sure what kind. First, second, once removed.”

He cracked his knuckles and his right knee jumped a couple of times. This was the first hint I’d had that he was anxious about the subject. I could see the neck of a guitar resting against the back of the couch behind him. He reached over, picked it up, and tucked it in against him as though prepared to play. His action had the same air as a man reaching for a pack of cigarettes.

“I like your guitar,” I remarked.

“It’s a 1968 Martin D-35. Guy let me take it out on loan to see if I like it. Three thousand bucks, I better like it,” he said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. Your dad grew up here, is that it?”

“That’s right. At some point, he moved to Santa Teresa. He and my mother married in 1935 and I was born fifteen years later.”

“That must have been a surprise.”

“A good one, I hope. When I was five, both were killed in a car wreck, so I was raised by a maiden aunt, my mother’s sister. I didn’t know anything about my father’s side of the family until recently.” I wanted to kick myself for babbling on and on. What was it to him?