She was right, and as I thought about having a day to myself, my spirits lifted.

“There’s not a thing I can’t reschedule,” she added. “Besides.” She smiled. “We’re having a touch of Indian summer and it’s supposed to be glorious, in the eighties with a big blue sky. Leaves are at their peak, poplars an almost perfect yellow. Maples look like they’re on fire. Not to mention, it’s Halloween. You can carve a pumpkin.”

I got suit jacket and shoes out of my locker. “You should have been a lawyer,” I said.

Two

The next day, the weather was just what Rose predicted, and I woke up thrilled. As stores were opening, I set out to stock up for trick-or-treaters and dinner, and I drove far out on Hull Street to my favorite gardening center. Summer plantings had long since faded around my house, and I could not bear to see their dead stalks in pots. After lunch, I carried bags of black soil, boxes of plants and a watering can to my front porch.

I opened the door so I could hear Mozart playing inside as I gently tucked pansies into their rich, new bed. Bread was rising, homemade stew simmering on the stove, and I smelled garlic and wine and loamy soil as I worked. Marino was coming for dinner, and we were going to hand out chocolate bars to my small, scary neighbors. The world was a good place to live until three-thirty-five when my pager vibrated against my waist.

“Damn,” I exclaimed as it displayed the number for my answering service.

I hurried inside, washed my hands and reached for the phone. The service gave me a number for a Detective Grigg with the Sussex County Sheriff’s Department, and I immediately called.

“Grigg,” a man answered in a deep voice.

“This is Dr. Scarpetta,” I said as I stared dismally out windows at large terra cotta pots on the deck and the dead hibiscus in them.

“Oh good. Thank you for getting back to me so quick. I’m out here on a cellular phone, don’t want to say much.” He spoke with the rhythm of the old South, and took his time.

“Where, exactly, is here?” I asked.

“Atlantic Waste Landfill on Reeves Road, off 460 East. They’ve turned something up I think you’re going to want to take a look at.”

“Is this the same sort of thing that has turned up in similar places?” I cryptically asked as the day seemed to get darker.

“Afraid that’s what it’s looking like,” he said.

“Give me directions, and I’m on my way.”

I was in dirty khakis, and an FBI T-shirt that my niece, Lucy, had given to me, and did not have time to change. If I didn’t recover the body before dark, it would have to stay where it was until morning, and that was unacceptable. Grabbing my medical bag, I hurried out the door, leaving soil, cabbage plants and geraniums scattered over the porch. Of course my black Mercedes was low on gas. I stopped at Amoco first and pumped my own, then was on my way.