Crossed Bones (Sarah Booth Delaney Series #4)

( 19 )

Overview

In rich, atmospheric mysteries set against the backdrop of modern-day Mississippi, Carolyn Haines has given the southern belle a brilliantly hip makeover. Now Haines and her unforgettable heroine, Sarah Booth Delaney, are back with a tale about skeletons in closets--and elsewhere.

Crossed Bones

Sarah Booth Delaney is no ordinary P.I. A born-and-bred Mississippi belle, she struggles to hold on to her family’s plantation and keeps up a running ...

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Crossed Bones (Sarah Booth Delaney Series #4)

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Overview

In rich, atmospheric mysteries set against the backdrop of modern-day Mississippi, Carolyn Haines has given the southern belle a brilliantly hip makeover. Now Haines and her unforgettable heroine, Sarah Booth Delaney, are back with a tale about skeletons in closets--and elsewhere.

Crossed Bones

Sarah Booth Delaney is no ordinary P.I. A born-and-bred Mississippi belle, she struggles to hold on to her family’s plantation and keeps up a running conversation with the ghost of her great-great-grandmother’s nanny, a busybody who decks herself out in a stunning new outfit every day--and schemes to save Sarah Booth from spinsterhood. Not one to wait around for a white knight, Sarah takes on the kind of cases no one else will touch. Like trying to exonerate a man accused of murdering Sunflower County’s most popular musician.

The two men met in prison: Ivory Keys, a gifted black blues pianist, and Scott Hampton, a rich white boy turned racist. Somewhere between the two men, a spark was lit. And by the time he came out of the joint, Scott Hampton had not only renounced his racist ways, he had learned to play a blues guitar that made grown women go weak in the knees. So why did Scott plunge a steel shank into his mentor’s chest? Ivory’s widow doesn’t think he did, and she’s paid Sarah Booth to prove it. No easy task, especially since the delicate racial harmony of Sunflower County is threatening to come undone under the heat of Sarah Booth’s investigation.

For a woman feeling a little heat of her own--navigating between a rich, available businessman, a married lawman with a waffling heart, and the sexy bluesman who is angling to become much more than her client--this case is taking dangerous twists. A town’s slumbering passions have awakened with a jolt, a matchmaking ghost is dressed up like Jackie O, and Sarah Booth is caught between her need to know the truth and the consequences it will have on her town--and on her life.

With riveting suspense and a sparkling cast of unforgettable characters, Carolyn Haines has woven a rich portrait of a part of America grappling with its past, its illusions, and its hopes. Crossed Bones is the most dazzling work yet from a uniquely gifted writer.

From the Hardcover edition.

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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
The Mississippi delta in the summer heat is not all that's steaming in Haines's (Splintered Bones, etc.) fourth outing featuring PI Sarah Booth Delaney, an atypical Southern belle who's fiercely independent and outrageously witty. Sarah is enjoying her family home, a mansion in Zinnia, Miss., complete with cotton fields, coral honeysuckle vines and the ghost of Jitty, her great-great-grandmother's nanny. When nightclub owner and black blues pianist Ivory Keys is stabbed to death at his club, Ivory's wife asks Sarah to vindicate the prime suspect, Scott Hampton, a talented white blues guitarist with a history of racism. Aided by her partner Tinkie Richmond, Sarah inadvertently stirs up passions among the townspeople that were long thought forgotten. Jitty's continual lectures on marriage and family and Sarah's mixed feelings about Sheriff Coleman Peters and two new suitors complicate the investigation. While the ghostly Jitty's advice can be wearying and the clothing details verge on the tedious, Haines delivers some real heartwarming moments in a mystery with some fascinating twists. This cozy read is the next best thing to curling up with a mint julep on the porch swing on a lazy afternoon. Agent, Marian Young. (Apr. 8) Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
Library Journal
Sarah Booth Delaney, series PI (Splintered Bones), Southern belle, and owner of a Mississippi plantation house with its own interactive ghost, defends up-and-coming blues guitarist Scott Hampton (white), accused of murdering popular juke joint owner Ivory Keyes (black). Sadly, Hampton's previous life as a convict and his blatant racism condemn him in locals' eyes. Ivory's widow (immediately) and Sarah Booth (eventually) believe in Hampton's innocence, but the road to the truth is mined with ex-prison buddies, noose-hanging threats, and ghostly cautions. A sympathetic heroine, colorful small-town characters, and Southern allure commend this title to most mystery collections. Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
Zinnia, Mississippi, has two things going for it: The best white blues-guitarist, Scott Hampton, strums away at African-American Ivory Keys's roadhouse, Playin' the Bones; and a passel of Daddy's Girls (DG), who've grown up, like Tinkie, to epitomize southern womanhood-except for Sarah Booth Delaney, the slightly askew DG who runs her own detective agency and so is hired by Ida Mae Keys to prove that, despite the evidence, Scott didn't murder her husband. So who did? Her black-supremacist son Emanuel is a possible candidate. So are ex-con racist bikers Spider and Ray-Ban and wealthy, impossibly perfect blues collector Bridge, who begins courting Sarah to the despair of smitten but married sheriff Coleman Peters. As Sarah Booth and Tinkie, their beloved dogs Sweetie Pie and Chablis, and a smart-mouthed ghost who's been hanging around Sarah Booth's house for years try to sort out the good 'uns from the others, race blasts the community apart, with nooses dangling, white-supremacist tattoos peeking out from beneath good-ol'-boy T-shirts, Molotov cocktails, and tombstone desecration. Scott's biggest fan is a certifiable nutcase even if she is a DG, and there are rumors of a stash of never-released studio recordings of Elvis and Ivory that are worth millions. But who has them, and who'd kill for them? A down-home valentine, far superior to Splintered Bones (2002), that couldn't be more southern if it were packaged with grits. Haines plays every race card in the deck and throws in some bedroom scenes for readers who like a little romance.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780440240938
  • Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 2/3/2004
  • Series: Sarah Booth Delaney Series , #4
  • Edition description: Reprint
  • Pages: 384
  • Sales rank: 187,006
  • Product dimensions: 4.15 (w) x 6.89 (h) x 1.02 (d)

Meet the Author

Mississippi native Carolyn Haines, a former photojournalist, has written numerous books and was recently honored with an Alabama State Council on the Arts literary fellowship. She now lives in southern Alabama with her horses, dogs, and cats, including the real-life Sweetie Pie, where she is hard at work on the next Sarah Booth Delaney mystery, Hallowed Bones. Crossed Bones is her fourth mystery for Bantam Dell.

From the Hardcover edition.

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Read an Excerpt

Chapter 1

Crossed Bones

My Great-Aunt Cilla was fond of saying that there's nothing like the feel of a blooded animal between a woman's thighs. Of course with Aunt Cilla, that might apply to a Thoroughbred or a Southern gentleman with good lineage. Although most of the women in my family have been cursed with the Delaney womb, Great-Aunt Cilla was the only one of my female forbears who didn't bother to hide her affliction. She was exiled to Atlanta for her honesty.

Lying here in the porch swing with my hound at my feet and a mint julep in my hand, I can't help but think of my ancestors and the history of this land I love. I've just concluded an Old South tradition-perusing my cotton fields from the vantage point of a horse.

Tidbits of Aunt Cilla's wisdom are coming back to me. Her womb might have had a vociferous appetite, but it was nothing compared to her brain. It was she who pointed out to me the two most potent symbols of the Old South: King Cotton and blood.

On my morning rides, I see the past, present, and future of my home: the cotton, with its green leaves covered in early morning dew; the whisper of money, of times long gone and of a way of life that seems both a dream and a nightmare, depending on perspective. The wealthy settlers of the rich Delta soil in Mississippi understood the powerful combination of horse and land, the addictive pleasure of riding one's property on a healthy and responsive animal.

Aunt Cilla had her own uses for healthy, responsive animals-especially of the human species. An excellent horsewoman, she was especially fond of grooms. Horses, leather, a virile young man-Aunt Cilla's favorite aphrodisiacs.

"Sarah Booth Delaney, you are one worthless gal. Out here sittin' on the porch, fantasizin' about lettin' the hired help poke you. If you were worth a lick, you'd be wedded, bedded, and bred by some respectable gentleman."

The disapproving tone belied the soft richness of the voice. And voice was all it was. Jitty, the itinerant ghost of my great-great-grandmother's nanny, had yet to materialize.

"I would have thought you'd be glad to know I was thinking about anyone, hired help or gentleman caller, pokin' me, as you so delicately call it." I was far beyond getting ruffled at Jitty's nagging. We were on old, familiar ground. My lack of use of the legendary Delaney womb was her favorite topic of haranguing.

"If you were thinkin' of a real hired hand, like that Willie Campbell fellow, I might be interested. You let that man use your land, might as well let him plow your furrow."

I declined to dignify her bawdy remark with a comment. Willie Campbell had leased the land around Dahlia House, and he had a fine crop of cotton in the ground. Egyptian cotton and the new strain that burst into boles of fiber already tinted green and blue. Ignoring Jitty, who was wavering in and out of existence at the foot of the swing, I sipped my julep and rubbed Sweetie Pie's belly with the toe of my boot.

"You lookin' mighty self-satisfied for a woman whose inner thighs are sore from a horse. There's a better way to get that lazy look on your face." She crystallized to the left of the swing, effectively blocking my view of the driveway.

My eyebrows rose in an inquisitive arch. Only yesterday she was one hot mama in spandex and spikes. Now she looked like Sunday morning church in a black-and-white photograph. Jitty was once again hip-hopping the decades, searching for the era that best suited her current attitude.

"What gives?" I asked, indicating the shirtwaist dress and sensible flats. "Your space boots need new heels?"

"I've been giving our predicament a lot of serious thought. What we need around here is some conviction, a dream, something to work toward. I'm gonna get it for us."

On my last three cases I'd been stabbed, shot, and generally bruised on all body parts. None of that struck fear into me the way Jitty did. I sat up a little straighter in the swing, taking care not to spill my julep. It contained the last bit of scraggly mint I'd been able to grow. "What do you mean by that?"

"I'm talking about passion and a belief in something. Have you forgotten your mama, Sarah Booth? She believed in something, and she fought to have it."

I nodded. "Yeah, I remember. Folks around here refer to Mama as 'that socialist.' "

"She wasn't a socialist. She was a woman who saw inequality, and she wanted to change it. She wanted all people, no matter what color or gender, to have equal opportunity."

"And she started a commune on this land, which nearly sent the entire county into a convulsion."

"It was your daddy who started the commune. Your mama just went along with it."

"You know, Jitty, if I'd had normal parents and been raised to be a Daddy's Girl, I might have turned out more satisfactorily, from your point of view."

I was a bitter disappointment to Dahlia House's resident haint. It was an uphill climb for Jitty as she tried to force me into the role of MFF, manipulative femme fatale. She wanted me wed and bred, or at least bred, so there would be an heir to reside in Dahlia House. Delaneys had occupied this land since before the War between the States. Jitty had no desire to find a new place to hang out should I not produce the next generation.

"You don't have to be a Daddy's Girl, Sarah Booth, but it would be nice if you'd bathe and hold off on the drinkin' until after lunch." She pointed at the julep cup in my hand. It was fine pewter, engraved with my mother's initials in an intricate pattern of twining ivy. "Puttin' that devil's intoxicant in a fine cup won't change what it is."

I looked at her from under a furrowed brow. "You're not turning into a teetotaller, are you?" I'd endured a number of different attitudes from Jitty, but I wasn't about to tolerate someone who lectured me constantly on my vices-especially not when that same someone would put me in the most intimate of acts with a perfect stranger if it would produce a child.

"Nothin' wrong with a drink ever' now and again, as long as it don't rob a person of her dreams. Looks to me like you might be headed down the path to destruction, what with your heels hiked up on the swing and those skintight britches clingin' to your ass."

I studied Jitty closer. She was wearing a dress that looked like it had come out of my Aunt LouLane's closet. One thing I'd always admired about Jitty was her flair. She could carry off just about any look. She'd even straightened her hair and curled it under. All she needed was a sweater thrown over her shoulders and a Bible in her hand. She'd make a perfect minister's wife, circa 1960-something.

"What, exactly, is it you want me to do?" I asked.

"It's a toss-up between findin' you a man and findin' you some work. Either one will do at this point."

The bullet wound in my arm had healed just fine. There wasn't a reason I couldn't get out and beat the bushes for a client. The truth was, I'd given in completely to the joy of riding Reveler and feeling the rhythm of the passing summer days. There was plenty of time in the future to concentrate on what I ought to be doing.

Jitty took two steps away from the swing to face the front of the house. The shadows of the pink lemonade and coral honeysuckle vines that crept up the trellis beside the porch cast an intricate pattern of light and dark over her, and I was reminded again of a black-and-white photograph.

She took a deep breath and slowly began to hum. Deep, rich, and throbbing with emotion, the sound seemed to seep from her, as she stared down the driveway. I was transfixed. With all of her talents, Jitty had never confessed that she could sing. I was also jealous.

"Sum-mertime, and the livin' is ea-sy. Fish are jumpin', and the cotton is high."

I closed my eyes and let the words slide through me. It was a song that always touched me, and in Jitty's powerful contralto, I felt the hairs on my arms stand on end.

"Your daddy's rich, and your mama's good-lookin'." She stopped abruptly, forcing me to open my eyes and glare at her.

"Now that you've shown me you can sing, keep doing it," I commanded.

"Shush," she said, cocking her head in an age-old attitude of listening. "If you ain't got the blues now, you're gonna," she said as she vanished into thin air.

"Jitty!" I hissed. I hated it when she delivered one of those enigmatic one-liners and then disappeared. "Jitty, you're cheating. You can't just say something like that and take off." But she could. Jitty could not be summoned or dismissed. If she'd ever been servile, she'd long forgotten the basic deportment.

"Sarah Booth?" The voice that called out held some concern. "Who are you talkin' to?"

I recognized John Bell Washington's voice instantly. He was a blues guitarist I'd met on my last case, thanks to the cyber-intervention of a teenager. Nonetheless, J. B. was a nice guy who'd risked a lot to help me.

"I'm over here in the swing," I called out to him, rising to give him a hug as he came up the steps to the secluded shade of the small side porch. J. B. was every woman's dilemma-handsome and frequently unemployed. The work schedule for a blues guitarist was strictly seasonal. J. B. had another major talent as a masseur when he chose to work the day shift, which wasn't often as long as his mama supported his desire to play music.

He walked around the corner of the porch toward me, a puzzled look on his handsome face. "Who were you talkin' to?" he asked again.

"Myself, I guess." I blushed becomingly. For all that I'd disavowed the tactics of a Daddy's Girl, there were a few harmless maneuvers that I deployed when necessary.

The blush effectively derailed his curiosity. At a momentary loss, he thrust a newspaper toward me. "What do you think of this?"

Luckily, women of the Delta in the Daddy's Girl ilk aren't expected to read newspapers. In fact, being even moderately well-informed is a deadly sin and can lead to freethinking. I took the paper from his hand and read it with open curiosity. It wasn't easy to miss the article he wanted me to see. It was outlined in bold black ink.

"Blues Blizzard Scott Hampton Arrested for Brutal Murder." I scanned the story, which was a thumbnail sketch of race, music, and hot tempers that had plagued the nation since the sixties.

The dead man was one Ivory Keys, an acclaimed piano player who owned the most popular nightclub in Kudzu, a thriving, mostly black community on the west side of Sunflower County. Needless to say, Ivory was black. Scott Hampton, heir to the Michigan auto-manufacturing family, was white. Of interest was the fact that both men had served time in the Michigan State Penitentiary, their sentences overlapping slightly in the nineties.

Ivory Keys had been brutally stabbed in his own nightclub, Playin' the Bones, where Scott was the featured talent of the wildly popular club band. Keys had hired the white musician when he got out of prison after serving his time on a cocaine charge. Apparently, Keys and Hampton had had a rather unusual relationship dating back to their prison days.

The murder weapon and money, thought to have been stolen from the club, were found in Hampton's possession. He was in Sunflower County jail charged with first-degree murder.

"Do you know him?" I asked slowly.

"I knew them both. A better man than Ivory Keys never walked this earth."

"And Hampton?"

J. B.'s face showed his ambivalence. "He's one of the most talented guitarists I've ever known. Maybe better than Stevie Ray Vaughan."

"What's he doing stuck in Kudzu, Mississippi, then?"

"If I had to name one reason, I'd say attitude. He's got a chip on his shoulder larger than the Rock of Gibraltar. And he's always eager for someone to try and knock it off."

"Drugs?" I asked. After all, he'd been in the Big House once for possession. Many a crime had been fueled by a snoot full of white powder.

J. B. shook his head. "I heard he was clean. That was one of Ivory's demands before he gave Scott the job. No drugs."

"And Scott lived up to his promise, until he plunged a knife into Ivory's back." I sounded skeptical because I was. The picture of Scott Hampton in the newspaper showed an arrogant, angry man, with light eyes and pale hair expertly cut to look oh-so-disheveled. I could easily read the "spoiled rich kid" smirk. I was familiar enough with it on the faces of the young men my age from the Delta: the sons of Buddy Clubbers, who'd grown up to believe the entire world was their oyster. These were the men who were paving the rich Delta soil to create strip malls and other eyesores called progress.

"It may not be that simple," J. B. said.

The hint of doubt in his voice hooked me. "So you believe he's innocent?" I asked.

"What I believe isn't important. What Mrs. Keys believes is. And she believes Scott is innocent. She wants to hire you to find the real killer."

I motioned J. B. into the house. I'd already suffered a lapse as a hostess by not offering a cool libation. I was about to remedy that, as well as replenish my own drink.

When we were in the dim interior of Dahlia House's parlor, I poured the bourbon over ice and handed him his glass.

"To music," he said, and we both drank.

"Now let me get this straight. The widow of Ivory Keys wants to hire me to prove Scott Hampton, the man who was found with the murder weapon in his possession, not to mention some three thousand dollars in possibly stolen money, is innocent."

J. B. reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. He unfolded it and handed it to me. It was a check for five thousand dollars signed by Ida Mae Keys.

"I told her your fee was ten thousand, and she said she'd pay the rest when you got Scott out of jail."

From the Hardcover edition.

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Customer Reviews

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 5, 2013

    Recommend fun read!!!

    I was easily hooked on the Sarah Booth Delaney Series. She is such a likeable character,along with best friend,Teeney.Great detectives figuring out each case at the very end of the book.One cannot ommit the resident ghost,Jitty,who appears to Sarah Booth with advise,sometimes needed..other times only to be ignored.

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  • Posted January 9, 2013

    Sarah Booth is at it again! This time she is hired to defend a

    Sarah Booth is at it again! This time she is hired to defend a man who is being charged in the murder of a blues club owner and player.

    She is quickly told by Scott that he doesn't want her help but being that she wasn't hired by him, she continues on the case, only to find herself falling for this man, yet having stronger feelings for the sherrif.

    The town of Zinnia is about to fall apart with all of the racial activities, but in the end everything comes back together and Sarah Booth is again left alone with no man.

    Like the other books, this one will leave you suspecting quite a few people of this murder to only be surprised at the end to who it actually was.

    Every book leads me to wanting Sarah Booth to fall in love with a certain man, but I just can't stop wanting her to be with the sherrif even though he is married, but not happily.

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  • Posted December 9, 2008

    more from this reviewer

    well-written colorful mystery

    The Mississippi Delta and her home Dahlia House are in Sara Booth¿s Delaney¿s blood. She will do almost anything in her power to keep them both, even work as a private detective. Almost anything excludes marrying a man from her social set and letting him take care of her even though Jitty, the ghost of her great great great grandmother nanny, wants the last Delaney married. Sarah Booth is enjoying the land, her house and her dog when she is dragged into the homicide investigation of the famous blues musician, Ivory Keys. His wife Ida Mae Keys wants Sarah Booth to prove that while blues singer Scott Hampton didn¿t kill his friend and employer Ivory. The two men met in prison and shared a vision that music could be the bridge between the races. Circumstantial evidence points to Scott as the perpetrator and if Sarah Booth doesn¿t find the real perpetrator soon, the town of Zinnia will erupt into violence. CROSSED BONES is a well-written colorful mystery that gives the reader some terrific insight into the workings of a small southern town. The heroine is strong, independent and straightforward, and not your typical southern belle; while her partner is all those things and lends a sense of comic relief to the plot when it begins to boil. Sarah Booth is attracted to the bad boy musician but not enough to give him her heart while the man she really wants reconciles with his wife. Readers will empathize and sympathize with the heroine, hoping she will get the perpetrator and collect her fee. Harriet Klausner

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