Someone had made a Krispy Kreme run. Everyone but the black cop held a Styrofoam cup and a doughnut.

Boyd leaped up, nearly knocking himself unconscious against the roof when Ryan and I left him in the backseat. Righting himself, he stuck his snout through the six inches of open window and began licking the exterior glass in a circular pattern. His yips fol owed us to the little circle beside the blacktop.

After introductions, during which I simply identified Ryan as a visiting police col eague from Montreal, Larabee laid out the plan. Officers Salt and Pepper looked hot and bored, seeming curious only about Ryan.

“This property is supposed to be abandoned, but the officers are going to look around to see if they can interest anyone in their warrant.” Officer Salt shifted his feet, finished the last of his chocolate with sprinkles. Officer Pepper folded his arms across his chest. The muscles looked the size and strength of banyan roots.

“Once the officers give the go-ahead, we’l cruise the dog around, get his thoughts on the place.”

“His name is Boyd,” I said.

“Boyd sociable?” asked the CSU tech with the granny specs.

“Offer him a doughnut, you’ve got a buddy for life.”

Red sun flashed off a lens as she turned to look at the chow.

“Boyd hits, we dig,” Larabee went on. “We find any human remains our anthropologist here determines to be suspicious, the warrant says we can toss the place. Everyone OK with that?”

Nods al around.

Ten minutes later the cops were back.

“No signs of life in the house. Outbuildings are empty,” said Officer Salt.

“Place has the charm of a hazardous waste dump,” said Officer Pepper. “Watch yourselves.”

“OK,” Larabee said to me. “You three take the western half.” He raised his chin at Hawkins. “We’l take the east.”

“And we’l be in Scotland afore ye,” sang Ryan.

Larabee and Hawkins looked at him.

“He’s Canadian,” I said.

“Boyd hits, give a hol er,” said Larabee, handing me a radio.

I nodded and went to leash the chow, who was bursting with eagerness to serve.

The farm wasn’t real y a farm. My herb garden produces a higher yield of edibles.

The crop here was kudzu.

North Carolina. We’re mountains. We’re beaches. We’re dogwoods, azaleas, and rhododendron.

And we’re up to our asses in kudzu.

Pueraria lobatais native to China and Japan, where it’s used as a source of hay and forage, and for control of soil erosion. In 1876 some horticultural genius decided to bring kudzu to the United States, thinking the vine would make a great ornamental.

The legume took one look at the Southern states and said, “Hot diggity!”