“Kinsey Millhone,” I said. My impulse was to shake his hand, but that would have necessitated his opening the screen and I could tell he was already wondering if I was selling soap products door-to-door, while I was wondering if he was married. The Polk and the Haines hadn’t mentioned a spouse, and he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. The cornflower blue of his eyes was the same shade as Henry’s.

“Mind if I ask what the P. F. stands for?”

“Placido Flannagan. People call me Flannagan, or sometimes Flan,” he said. “I have an uncle and two cousins named Placido, so I use my middle name.”

“So you’re Harry Flannagan’s, what, great-grandson?”

“Let me guess. You’re an amateur genealogist. That’s usually the story I get when a stranger asks about Harry.”

“Actually, I’m a private detective.”

He scratched his chin. “That’s a new one. What brings you to my door?”

“I found your telephone number on an ID tag, buried with a dog. I was curious about the circumstances. In case you’re wondering, you’re listed in Peephole in two crisscross directories, which is how I came up with your address.”

“A dog.”

“A dead one.”

His mouth pulled down with skepticism. “Woofer’s the only pooch I own and you’re looking at him. He may be old, but as nearly as I can tell, he’s not dead yet. You sure about this?”

“Pretty sure,” I said. “The dog’s name was Ulf.”

He stood stock still for a moment and then squinted at me. “What did you say your name was?”

“Kinsey.”

He opened the door. “You better come in.”

I entered the house, stepping directly into the main room with Woofer at my heels. The dog padded the perimeter with his nose down, following the scent of an unseen creature, very possibly himself. The place was old. The thick walls were stucco and the ceiling was exposed timber, dark with age. The fireplace itself was a half-round of stucco tucked into one corner. The mantel was a curve of raw wood with a pair of antlers mounted above it. The furniture was Victorian, four chairs and two sofas lined up against the walls as though the center had been cleared for dancing. Three dingy rag rugs had been tossed on the floor and Woofer chose the biggest for the next phase of his nap. The room smelled like damp ash, the lingering scent of last winter’s fires.