The next charming mystery from Carolyn Haines featuring spunky southern private investigator Sarah Booth Delaney. When a ritually murdered corpse is discovered at the new-found Native-American temple site smack in the middle of Sunflower County, Mississippi, the archaeology crew on the dig is immediately under suspicion ― with particular focus on its handsome, flirtatious leader, Dr. Frank Hafner. So when Sheriff Coleman Peters closes in on him, Hafner does the only logical thing: he hires the Delaney Detective Agency to clear his name. Rumors swirl around Mount Salla, the burial mound created centuries before by the local Native tribes, and no one is sure what the site contains ― bones, pottery, treasures, or a curse ― but the victims start to add up. Sarah Booth and her partner, Tinkie, have too many likely suspects to whittle down the list. It’s a race against time once Sarah Booth’s resident ghost, Jitty, in the guise of various Native American warrior women, points to the waxing of the coming Crow Moon as the time of maximum danger. Death and mystery cloak the site, and Sarah Booth isn’t sure who to trust or what to believe. But she won’t rest until she’s dug up the truth. "Distinctive characters and an atmospheric setting elevate this paranormal cozy. Series fans and newcomers alike will be satisfied."― Publishers Weekly "A dark mystery, effectively framed by its well-drawn Mississippi Delta setting."― Booklist Carolyn Haines is the USA Today bestselling author of the Sarah Booth Delaney mystery series and a number of other books in mystery and crime, including the Pluto's Snitch paranormal-historical mystery series, and Trouble, the black cat detective romantic suspense books. She is the recipient of the Harper Lee Award for Distinguished Writing, the Richard Wright Award for Literary Excellence, and the Mississippi Writers Guild Lifetime Achievement Award. She is a former journalist, bartender, photographer, farmhand, and college professor and lives on a farm where she works with rescue cats, dogs, and horses. Game of Bones By Carolyn Haines St. Martin's Press Copyright © 2019 Carolyn Haines All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-250-15415-6 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, of speed and agility. She wants to run, and after I bid the spring buds a welcome, I loosen the reins, lean in to 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 a rest and flops onto the cool earth for a moment. Horse, dog, and human amble over to a small spring-fed creek swollen with spring 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 Eart