Clacking Bones: Sarah Booth Delaney Short Mystery

Clacking Bones

A Sarah Booth Delaney Short Mystery

Carolyn Haines

Copyright © 2018 by Carolyn Haines

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Cover design by Cissy Hartley

Formatted by Priya Bhakta

For Ritter Ames, who inspired me to write a Halloween story

Contents

Clacking Bones

A Gift of Bones

About the Author

Also by Carolyn Haines

Clacking Bones

A Sarah Booth Delaney Halloween Tale

Standing before the tri-paned mirror in my bedroom, I had one thought. Get back, Satan!

The paisley Capri leggings I’d purchased with such high expectations had gone demonic on me. They warped and stretched in a way that made me fear my thighs might explode at any minute.

And Cece was to blame. All I’d wanted was to look fetching while sporting the leggings, boots, and tunic look that my friend carried off so well. Cece Dee Falcon, the society editor at our local newspaper, the Zinnia Dispatch, had tempted me with the joys of Lycra, spandex, and brightly colored patterns. She wore such an ensemble and looked like a million dollars.

She was an agent of Satan.

What the mirror showed me was not a chic, svelte fashionista, but the high cost of a long, hot summer of frozen margaritas and choco-licious mudslides. Before I could rethink my instantaneous decision, I slipped some gym shorts over the leggings, laced up my sneakers, sprinted down the stairs and out the front door of Dahlia House, and into the brisk October morning.

The only course of action open to me was to flog my wayward body back onto the path of righteousness and caloric accountability. I would begin immediately—before my subconscious had a chance to talk me out of exercise.

I rocketed down the long driveway beneath the branches of the bare sycamore trees. I was strong, confident, assuming control of my body. Halfway to the road, I felt the burn. Yes! No pain, no gain. I recited the mantra in my head and pushed on.

At the road, I did a victory dance and turned around to head home. I was ten steps into the journey when my butt muscles seized and began to twitch. And jerk. And spasm.

The return trip was not going to happen because I couldn’t catch my breath, had a stitch in my side, and I thought my heart was going to explode. I collapsed into a pile of dead sycamore leaves, gasping.

My body was in revolt. I was going to die, just like Great-great-great Uncle Leonard Delaney when he ran down the driveway chasing a carpetbagger who’d dared to make an offer on Dahlia House and the land. Uncle Leonard had become so overwrought at the varmint who meant to steal his property, he’d unloaded both barrels of a shotgun at the skunk and then keeled over dead. Uncle Leonard died in pursuit of revenge. My sin was vanity. I saw it clearly now.

Would Sweetie Pie, my loyal hound, lead the search party to my body? Would someone find me before the flies arrived? Would the worms crawl in and worms crawl out?

I made a bargain with God. I wouldn’t jog again. Ever. I would not be a slave to vanity and body shaming. I would go into the house, find a hammer, smash the mirror, and burn the leggings in the fireplace. Whatever in the world possessed me to order them in the first place? If this was punishment for a lapse in fashion judgment, I had paid the price.

It was the third of June, another sleepy, dusty Delta da-ah-ah-ah.

What the hell? I sat up in the leaves to find the elegant Delta songbird, Bobbie Gentry, standing in the driveway playing her guitar and singing Ode to Billy Joe, the ballad that made her famous.

What are you doing here? I asked. Bobbie hadn’t aged a bit since 1967 when her Delta tune was a huge hit and she became a sensation. She still looked great in a mini-dress and her long hair lifted gracefully on the late October breeze.

I need your help. I want to hire the Delaney Detective Agency, she said.

I couldn’t believe it. Bobbie Gentry had come home to the Delta to ask me for help. This was a private investigator career moment if ever there was one.

Sure. I tried to jump to my feet but every muscle that I’d abused let me know payback was going to be hell. I hobbled upright.

Are you okay? Bobbie asked. You look like you’ve got some joint issues.

I’m fine. Just a cramp. I had to squeeze the words past gritted teeth. What can I do for you, Bobbie?

It’s a missing…person case. I heard you were pretty good with those.

"I’ve had some success. Come with