A burst of memory flooded him. The son was a professor at the private school located in that town. What does he teach? Ricky demanded of himself. The answer came in a few seconds: history. United States history. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, and came up with a mental image: a short, wiry man in a tweed jacket, with horn-rimmed glasses and rapidly thinning sandy hair. A man with a wife who was easily two inches taller than he was.

He sighed, and equipped at least with a small parcel of information, reached for the telephone.

He dialed the number and listened while the phone rang a half-dozen times before being answered by a voice that had the unmistakable tone of youth. Deep, but eager.

“Hello?”

“Hello,” Ricky, said. “I’m trying to reach Timothy Graham. This is his Uncle Frederick. Doctor Frederick Starks…”

“This is Tim Junior.”

Ricky hesitated, then continued, “Hello there, Tim Junior. I don’t suppose we’ve ever met…”

“Yes, we did. Actually. One time. I remember. At grandmother’s funeral. You sat right behind my parents in the second pew of the church and you told my dad that it was a kind thing that grandma didn’t linger. I remember what you said, because I didn’t understand it at the time.”

“You must have been…”

“Seven.”

“And now you’re…”

“Almost seventeen.”

“You have a good memory to recall a single meeting.”

The young man considered this statement, then replied, “Grandmother’s funeral made a big impression on me.” He did not elaborate, but changed course. “You want to speak with my dad?”