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Zusatztext Don?t you dare miss it! (Tony Hillerman) Johnson has continued a series that should become a ?must? read. ( The Denver Post ) Johnson delivers great storytelling in an intelligent mystery. ( The Oregonian ) Informationen zum Autor Craig Johnson is the New York Times bestselling author of the Longmire mysteries, the basis for the hit drama series Longmire . He is the recipient of the Western Writers of America Spur Award for fiction, the Mountains and Plains Booksellers Award for fiction, the Nouvel Observateur Prix du Roman Noir, and the Prix SNCF du Polar. His novella Spirit of Steamboat was the first One Book Wyoming selection. He lives in Ucross, Wyoming, population twenty-six. Klappentext Sheriff Walt Longmire investigates a death by poison in this gripping novel from New York Times bestselling author Craig Johnson, the second in the Longmire Mystery Series The hit drama Longmire is now streaming on Paramount+ When Mari Baroja is found poisoned at the Durant Home for Assisted Living, Sheriff Walt Longmire is drawn into an investigation that reaches fifty years into the mysterious woman’s past. Her connections to Wyoming's Basque community, the luctrative coal-bed methane industry, and the personal life of the previous sheriff lead to a complex web of half-truths and assumed alliances. Aided by his friend Henry Standing Bear, Deputy Victoria Moretti, and newcomer Santiago Saizarbitoria, Sheriff Longmire must connect the specter of the past to the present to find the killer among them. 1 “They used ?re, back in the day.” What the old cowboy meant was that folks who were inconsiderate enough to die in the Wyoming winter faced four feet of frozen ground between them and their ?nal resting place. “They used to build a bon?re an’ allow it to burn a couple of hours, melt through the frost, and then dig the grave.” Jules unscrewed the top from a ?ask he had pulled from the breast pocket of his tattered jean jacket and leaned on his worn shovel. It was 28 degrees outside, the jean jacket was all he wore, and he wasn’t shivering; the ?ask probably had something to do with that. “Now we only use the shovels when dirt clods roll into the grave from the backhoe.” The tiny man took a sip from the ?ask and continued the throes of philosophic debate. “The traditional Chinese cof?n is rectangular with three humps, and they won’t bury you wearing red ’cause you’ll turn into a ghost.” I nodded and did my best to stand still in the wind. He took another sip and didn’t offer me any. “The ancient Egyptians had their essential organs removed and put in jars.” I nodded some more. “The Hindus burn the body, a practice I admire, but we cremated my uncle Milo and ended up losing him when his top came loose and he fell through the holes in the rusted ?oorboard of a Willy’s Jeepster on the Upper Powder River Road.” He thought about it, shaking his head at the ignominious end. “That ain’t where I wanna spend eternity.” I nodded again and looked off toward the Big Horn Mountains, where it continued to snow. Somehow bon?res seemed more romantic than construction equipment or Willy’s Jeepsters, for that matter. “The Vikings used to stick ’em a?re on a boat with all their stuff and shove out to sea, but that seems like an awful waste of stuff, not to mention a perfectly good boat.” He paused, but continued. “Vikings considered death to be just another voyage and you never knew what you could end up needing, so you might as well take it all with you.” The jackleg carpenter turned his ferocious blue eyes toward me and took another sip in honor of his ancestors, still not offering me any. I buried my hands in my duty jacket, straining the embroidered star of the Absaroka County Sheriff ’s Of?ce, and dropped my h...
