“Detective Woolsey isn’t in today,” a man’s voice said.

“Can I cal her at home?”

“Yes, ma’am, you can.”

“But you’re not al owed to give me the number.”

“No, ma’am, I’m not.”

Damn! Why hadn’t I gotten Woolsey’s home number?

I left Woolsey a message.

“How about a number for the county coroner?”

“That I can give you.” He did. “Mr. Park might be in.” He didn’t sound like he believed it. “If not, you could try him at his funeral home.” I thanked him. Disconnecting, I spotted another black SUV. When I looked up from dialing the coroner’s office, the vehicle was gone. The chil intensified.

The operator was right. Park wasn’t in. I left my fourth message in ten minutes, then stopped at a gas station to ask directions to the funeral home.

The attendant conferred with his teenaged assistant, a lengthy discussion ensued, agreement was final y reached: Fol ow Highway 9 until it becomes West Meeting Street. Hang a right onto Memorial Park Drive, cross the tracks, hang another right about a quarter mile down, watch for the sign. If you pass the cemetery, you’ve gone too far.

Neither could remember the name of the road on which the funeral home was located.

Who needed Yahoo!? I had my own pair.

But their directions were accurate. Fifteen minutes and two turns later I spotted a wooden sign supported by two white pil ars. Embossed white letters announced the Park Funeral Home and listed the services provided.

I turned in and fol owed a winding drive bordered by azaleas and boxwoods. Rounding my ninth or tenth curve, I spotted a gravel lot and a group of structures. I parked and surveyed the setup.

The Park Funeral Home was not a large operation. Its nerve center was a one-story brick affair with two wings and a central portion that stuck out in front, two sets of triple windows to either side of the main entrance, and a chimney on an asphalt tile roof above.

Behind the main building I could see a smal brick chapel with a tiny steeple and double doors. Behind the chapel were two wooden structures, the larger probably a garage, the smal er probably a storage shed.

Ivy and periwinkle covered the ground around and between the buildings, and tangles of morning glories crawled up their foundations. Elms and live oaks kept the entire compound in perpetual shadow.

As I got out, the goose bumps did a curtain cal . My mind made an addition to the services listed on the entrance sign. Funerals. Cremation. Grief support. Planning. Perpetual shadow.

Stop the melodrama, Brennan.

Good advice.

Nevertheless, the place creeped me out.

I walked to the large brick building and tried the door. Unlocked.