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  “Seemingly, so. The minute Alan caught on, he was going to call the feds. And DayZSeed was also caught up in this without any malicious intent. Sure, they were eager to have that new, magic seed, but they never intended to produce anything poisonous.”

  “Alan asked me out on a date so he could find out what I know, didn’t he?” Tabitha asked.

  “Well, I’m sure he thought you were pretty hot.” Roger finally smiled. “If he didn’t, he was blind.”

  “Me-ow!” Trouble added.

  They stopped at the front of the house and the door opened and the tall, handsome sheriff and a dark-haired woman that had to be Sarah Booth Delaney came out of the house to greet them. They were joined by a red tick hound and the plump black cat, Pluto.

  Trouble jumped out the open truck window and ran toward Pluto. The two cats did a meet and greet and ran to the end of the porch. Trudy and Dirk, along with Vesta, pulled up and got out of the car. Vesta joined the black cats and they all three ran into the house. Charline and Samuel arrived, with Tammy Lynn in the backseat. Hannah and Antoine were the last to pull up.

  “Looks like homecoming week,” Roger said as he made the introductions all around.

  Coleman pulled Roger and Tabitha aside. “Thanks for helping my deputies put this case to bed.”

  “Glad we could help,” Roger said. “You actually should be thanking those cats.”

  Coleman nodded. “I know. A lot of folks would be skeptical, but not me.” He leaned in a little closer. “I asked Millie from the café to cater this brunch. Sarah Booth tries, but bless her heart, she isn’t much of a cook. I’d hate to see y’all survive a kidnapper and murderer only to die of ptomaine poisoning.”

  “Thanks,” Tabitha said. “Do you know what the USDA is going to do with the cotton that was planted?”

  “They’re going to pull it up and destroy it. That land will have to remain fallow until there’s research done to make certain it isn’t contaminated. You guys prevented a serious disaster.”

  “Glad we could help,” Tabitha said.

  “Let’s go inside and eat.”

  * * *

  Roger couldn’t help glancing at his mother and Antoine. He’d already apologized for assuming the worst, and surprisingly, Hannah had been very reasonable and forgiving. Antoine had excused himself, and Roger had had a long conversation with his mother. She’d told him that Micah Malone was his father, and that at long last, she was going to be able to put that loss behind her.

  “The bitterness of losing Micah nearly ruined my life. And yours,” she’d said. “But I want to make a fresh start, if you can allow that. Antoine and I won’t be staying in Sunflower County. We’re going to continue our work, Antoine with the FBI and me with Green World. We seem to make a very good team. But I’d like to feel welcome with you and Charline and Samuel.”

  It had been a happy resolution, and now he smiled at his mother and she blew him a kiss. Dirk and Trudy, too, seemed to have found a groove where they had a shot at some happiness. Roger had gotten over his first impulse to take her to task for not confiding in him. And he still had one unanswered question.

  “Trudy, how did you come to work in Sunflower County? How did you know about the experimental seed?”

  “I was waiting tables in the French Quarter and I fell in with some young people who were passionate about the environment and politics. They’d heard a rumor about a new seed being developed by a chemical company. The rumors were really bad, and they had a line on the fact that the Mississippi Delta had been targeted as the place to try out the seed. We knew it had to be stopped.” She grinned. “Yeah, they were talking about agri-espionage. They needed someone undercover in the business here in Sunflower County. I showed a talent for that kind of science and also for undercover work. I took a few classes and set up to move to Sunflower County. The dating service was their idea, and it worked like a charm. I hooked Dirk.” She cast a smoldering look at him.

  “She hooked me good,” Dirk said. “I think she saved me from a lifetime of woe.”

  “You don’t mean to say you’re giving up your womanizing ways,” Roger teased him.

  “It’s time for me to grow up. Lily gave me license to stay forever a juvenile, but I don’t want that. I really don’t. I want to be someone a woman can be proud of.”

  Roger raised his eyebrows and squeezed Tabitha’s hand. “Wow. The bigger they are, the harder they fall.”

  His comment drew laughter from everyone around the table.

  Roger looked around at his family and realized how lucky he was. He counted Tabitha among his family. He didn’t know what the future held for them, but he wanted a chance to get to know her better. New Orleans wasn’t that far away. And he had a sneaky suspicion that Trudy intended to spend a lot of time in the Delta. He glanced into the kitchen and saw the three cats chowing down together. Yes, there were many reasons that the two sisters needed to spend a lot of time in the Delta.

  * * *

  Tabitha finished the brunch, which was delicious. Millie Roberts was highly touted as a local chef and she lived up to the billing. Everyone was engaged in lively conversation, but movement in the kitchen caught Tabitha’s eye. She excused herself and stepped into the kitchen. The swinging door shut silently behind her.

  “Still hungry?” The striking black woman dressed in a costume from the 1860s stood at the stove.

  “Who are you?” Tabitha asked. Her breath condensed in front of her and she felt a sudden bitter cold.

  “I’m Jitty. Sarah Booth’s haint.”

  Tabitha realized she was speaking with an apparition, and one that knew she was dead. And she wasn’t in the least bit shocked or afraid. “Why do you haunt Sarah Booth?”

  “To keep her company. To keep her straight. To give her the advice that only a lovin’ family member can give.” She shrugged. “To keep her from bein’ too lonely about the past.”

  Tabitha understood completely. “You’re her guardian angel.”

  Jitty scoffed loudly. “She wouldn’t see it that way.”

  “But I do.”

  “I got a message for your friend, Charline. It’s from her ma-in-law.”

  “Suellen.” Tabitha breathed the name.

  “That’s her. She says to tell Charline to plan a wedding. Not summer, but fall, when the weather is cool and the cotton is comin’ in.”

  Tabitha laughed. “Are you talking about my wedding?”

  “Listen, Missy, I’m not askin’ you to interpret. Just deliver the message. Tell her Suellen recommends the rose garden on a fine November day. Could be a double wedding if that Dirk Cotwell plays his cards right.” The apparition faded slightly. “Maybe you could inspire Sarah Booth to think about makin’ a commitment. That girl is gonna end up a spinster if she doesn’t get busy.”

  Before Tabitha could even laugh at the idea, the kitchen door swung open and Roger entered. “You okay?”

  “Better than okay,” she said, bending down to refill the cat bowls. “Way better than okay.” She stood up and put her arms around Roger’s neck and kissed him with all of her heart.

  * * *

  I hear Tammy Lynn calling my name. I can leave Sunflower County in the capable hands of Pluto and his lady love, Vesta. I even feel a small fondness for the red hound dog snoring by the stove. For a dog, she’s smart and non-intrusive.

  It’s been a fine adventure in the Mississippi Delta. Now it’s on to new cases, new scenery, and new black cat fun.

  Acknowledgments

  Many hands are involved in the creation of a successful book. I want to thank Priya Karsan Bhakta. None of the books we write would exist were it not for her. She designs the interior, formats for the various platforms, creates promotional materials, runs contests, and deals with a million other vital issues. I'd also like to thank Rebecca Barrett, Susan Y. Tanner, Claire Matturro, and Beth Terrell--all members of the Mad Catters for their help and comments on this story. And the efforts of our wonderful Beta readers must be ackno
wledged. They have saved me from embarrassment more than once! Thank you. A special thanks to Cissy Hartley at www.writerspace.com who creates our covers. If you enjoy this book, please check out the other Trouble books by writers in the coalition. We all share the Sherlockian cat detective, Trouble, but each writer brings her unique gifts to the telling of the story.

  About the Author

  Carolyn Haines is the USA Today bestselling author of over 70 books. She was the recipient of the Harper Lee Award for Distinguished Writing and the Richard Wright Award for Literary Excellence, as well as the "Best Amateur Sleuth" award by Romantic Times. Haines writes in a number of genres, from cozy mystery to horror and short fiction. She got her start in publishing in romantic mysteries with one savvy black cat detective called Familiar. She's delighted to bring back the first Familiar stories--and to introduce Trouble, son of Familiar, in a delightful new Familiar Legacy series which features a number of talented authors (and cat lovers!)

  www.carolynhaines.com

  Game of Bones

  Sarah Booth Delaney mystery series #20

  Game of Bones

  Chapter 1

  March is the month when hope returns. Even a spirit sorely challenged and worn down finds renewal in a shaft of warm March sunlight or the sight of green pushing through the soil. The new plantings that stretch from horizon to horizon across the vast Mississippi Delta seem to vibrate with a soft green haze that is nothing less than magical.

  It’s the perfect, crisp morning for a horseback ride, and I’ve saddled Miss Scrapiron and set off around the western property line with my loyal hound, Sweetie Pie, at my side. The smell of the soil is familiar and calming, as is the motion of my horse. This is a morning of perfect awareness, a feast for the senses. I stop at a brake that bisects a field to take in the tiniest buds on the tupelo gum trees. Miss Scrapiron stamps her foot and snorts, impatient. She is a creature of movement, of elegant maneuvers, speed and agility. She wants to run, and after I bid the spring buds a welcome, I loosen the reins, lean into her neck, and let her sweep me across the land in a rhythm of pounding hooves that is as primal as a heartbeat.

  I let her run until her neck is flecked with foam where the reins touch her, and when she slows of her own accord, I look back to see Sweetie Pie coursing toward us. She, too, is glad of the rest and flops onto the cool earth for a moment. Horse, dog, and human amble over to a small spring-fed creek swollen with February rains. Sweetie Pie unceremoniously leaps into the middle of it, despite the chill, and comes out shaking.

  In the stillness of the brake, I listen to the trill of tiny songbirds. They flash yellow and brown through the pale and leafless tree trunks. In another two weeks, the green haze will settle over the trees as winter yields to spring.

  I awoke this morning after a troubling dream. Only the fragments remain—a bare-chested man wearing a bear head mask. There are images scrawled across his chest with red, white, and black paints. I wonder if this is a visit from a past dweller on the acreage that comprises my property and home, Dahlia House. Long ago, before the white men came down in wagons to claim the land as their own, the Mississippi Delta was home to numerous indigenous tribes.

  At times, most often dusk or dawn, I’ve seen the spirits of slaves or state prisoners contracted out for labor clearing the land or hoeing the long rows of crops. They are a vision from a long dead past, but I’ve watched them toil against the purpling sky, hearing the chants of the field hollers that allowed them to work in a steady, unrelenting beat. Those old work songs are the bedrock of the blues.

  Today the fields are empty of ghosts. The sun and rain must do the work to bring the tiny plants taller. Humans have no magic for this part of the process. This is Mother Earth’s gift to us. The vast acreage of Dahlia House is leased to a local farmer. I have none of the talents—or the love of gambling—that is necessary to put a fortune into a crop of corn, soybeans, or cotton and hope the weather and the market cooperate enough to bring a profit. I’ve saved out forty acres around Dahlia House for a hay field where the same man who leases the property cares for the Alicia Bermuda grass pasture to make winter hay for my horses. That’s risk enough for me.

  I turn Miss Scrapiron toward home. I’m meeting Coleman for breakfast. He’s cooking and I’m eating, which is a fine arrangement. Last night he worked late so he didn’t spend the night with me, but we’ll catch up before we both begin our work day. His inclusion in my life has given me, like the land I love, a sense of balance. I’m still terrified of allowing myself to love him with everything in me, but on mornings like this, as I anticipate seeing him pull into the driveway and get out of his cruiser, I feel the shell around my heart softening. No one can protect us from loss or injury. If you love, you risk. I want to risk. I want to abandon my fear, but right now, caution is the only path I can travel.

  “Sweetie Pie,” I call my dog from the brake where she’s gone sniffing the trail of a raccoon or opossum. She’s a hunting dog who now seizes on the scents of evil-doers and has more than once saved my skin from bad people. The small furry creatures that roam the land, though a point of curiosity, are safe from her. And from me.

  The wind blowing across the wide-open fields has a chill to it, but the sunshine on my back warms me through the light polar riding vest I wear. Miss Scrapiron rocks my hips with her long-legged Thoroughbred stride. I close my eyes and simply enjoy the sensation of sun and movement. My cell phone rings out with “Bad to the Bone.”

  Tinkie Bellcase Richmond, my partner in the Delaney Detective Agency, is on the horn. Tinkie, aside from being my best friend, is the Queen Bee of all the Delta society ladies. She is bred-in-the-bone Daddy’s Girl, the 180-degree opposite of me. She holds teas, cotillions, garden club gatherings, and debutante balls for the social elite. She knows the DG handbook backward and forward and manages to cram in her social obligations between caring for her husband, Oscar, and helping me solve crimes. Beneath the coiffed hair and haute couture wardrobe she wears beats the heart of a forensic accountant. Tinkie’s daddy owns the local bank and her husband is president. Tinkie comes from money and she knows how to track it, find it, and sort through the many paper trails every criminal leaves behind.

  “What’s shaking?” I asked. I like to sit on my horse and talk on the phone. It could only be better if I had a cigarette. Sadly, those days were behind me.

  “What do you know about the archeological dig at Mound Salla?” Tinkie asked.

  “Let’s see. No one knew the mound was actually a real Indian mound until recently, though it’s been in plain sight for at least two centuries. An archeological crew started digging back around Thanksgiving. It’s a team of university professors, some students, some archeologists. They believe Mound Salla was a sacred site for the Tunica tribe that once settled all up and down the Mississippi River.”

  “How did you know all that?” Tinkie asked.

  “Mound Salla is not on the Mississippi River but here in Sunflower County. That’s why it wasn’t really explored or excavated until recently. No one knows why the Native Americans decided to build a mound this far from their normal settlements. It was hidden until recently. Well, not hidden, but there was a house sitting on top of it. Folks thought the mound was simply an outrageous foundation for the old estate house, but it’s more than that. It’s a burial ground.”

  “That doesn’t explain why you’d know this.” She sounded a little testy.

  “I thought I might go and volunteer to help with the dig so I read up on it,” I said. “I love the idea of studying the original people that lived on this land.”

  “Old pottery shards, arrowheads, and for your trouble you get dirt under your fingernails that takes a professional manicure to clean out. And for what?”

  Tinkie had never enjoyed making mud pies—it wasn’t her style. She was more the accessorizing kind of girl. I loved finding treasures, even buried ones. “It’s exciting to find things that tell the story of the past. Archeological digs show the day-to-day li
fe of people who lived hundreds of years ago. Their struggles and celebrations. Their beliefs. It’s fascinating.” Okay, so I was a bit of a history geek sometimes. Most Delta society ladies were all over genealogy, doing their damnedest to prove they were descendants of the original Mayflower refugees. Right. My reading of the Pilgrims made them a club I didn’t want to join—they were religious fanatics and a rather unpleasant lot. I kept hoping for more exotic DNA. Maybe gypsy!

  “Hey, Sarah Booth. Did you hear me?” Tinkie’s voice came over the phone. “We need to run out to the dig today. And Coleman said to cancel breakfast plans.”

  “Why? Why is Coleman cancelling breakfast and why do you want to go to the dig?” Tinkie wasn’t about to volunteer as a worker bee. The day was sunny and warming, but the cotton fields were still damp from a recent rain. The gumbo, as the soil was called, was notorious for clinging in thick cakes to the boots of anyone foolish enough to walk through the fields. And Mound Salla was in a large forested area beside two vast plantings of cotton.

  “There’s been a murder.” Tinkie was excited and repelled. I could hear it in her voice. I was aggravated.

  “Tinkie! Why didn’t you say that right off?”

  “It’s not like the dead person is impatient, Sarah Booth. Time means nothing to the dead.”

  I wasn’t so sure that was true. My experiences with the ghost of my great-great-great grandmother Alice’s nanny, Jitty, had taught me that dead people were keenly attuned to the passage of time, and the ticking biological clock of my eggs. “Who died?”

  “One of the scientists involved with the dig.”

  “Not Dr. Frank Hafner?” I was shocked at the thought. Hafner was a poster boy for the dedicated scientist who also worked out at the gym. Handsome, charming, and known to be a lady’s man, he’d also headed up three of the most successful archeological digs of the past two decades. He was quickly developing almost a cult-like following among serious archeologists.