Refocusing on the mound at my feet, I began to share his apprehension. I picked up a stick and poked at the center. Plastic popped, then a stench like rotting meat rose from the leaves. Flies buzzed and darted, bodies iridescent in the sticky air.

Boyd, the self-taught cadaver dog, strikes again.

“Shit.”

“What?”

I heard rustling as Katy worked her way toward the chow and me.

“What did he find?” My daughter squatted beside me, then bounced to her feet as though tied to a bungee. A hand flew to her mouth. Boyd danced around her legs.

“What the hel is it?”

Palmer joined us.

“Something’s dead.” After that masterful observation Palmer squeezed his nostrils with a thumb and forefinger. “Human?”

“I’m not sure.” I pointed to semi-fleshed digits projecting from a tear Boyd had made in the plastic. “That’s definitely not a dog or deer.” I probed the dimensions of the half-buried bag. “Not many other animals are this big.” I scraped back dirt and leaves and examined the soil below.

“No evidence of fur.”

Boyd moved in for a sniff. I elbowed him back.

“Holy crap, Mom. Not at a picnic.”

“I didn’t wil this here.” I flapped a hand at Boyd’s find.

“Are you going to have to do the whole ME bit?”

“This may be nothing. But on the outside chance it’ssomething,the remains have to be recovered properly.” Katy groaned.

“Look, I don’t like this any more than you do. I’m supposed to leave for the beach on Monday.”

“This is so embarrassing. Why can’t you be like other mothers? Why can’t you just”—she looked at Palmer, then back to me—“bake cookies?”

“I prefer Fig Newtons,” I snapped, rising to my feet. “Might be best to take the kids back,” I said to Sarah’s father.

“No!” the boy yelped. “It’s a dead guy, right? We want to see you dig up the DOA.” His face was flushed and glossy with perspiration. “We want to know who you like for the hit.”

“Yeah!” The younger girl looked like Shirley Temple in pink denim coveral s. “We want to see the DOA!” Inwardly cursing TV crime shows, I chose my words careful y.

“It would be most useful to the case if you’d col ect your thoughts, talk over your observations, and then give a statement. Could you do that?” The two looked at each other, eyes grown from saucers to platters.

“Yeah,” said Shirley Temple, clapping chubby hands. “We’l give cool statements.”

The crime scene truck arrived at four. Joe Hawkins, the MCME death investigator on cal that weekend, showed up a few minutes later. By then most of the McCranies’ guests had folded their blankets and chairs and departed.

So had Katy, Palmer, and Boyd.