Growing up, summer meant going to the beach on Saturday. Our parents took us to Oyster Bay, a beach on the North Shore of Long Island, that had gentle waves suitable for little kids. At low tide, you could walk quite far out and still have your head above water.
For a longer vacation, we went to Boothbay Harbor, Maine, which wasn’t really a swimming kind of beach place although we explored the rocks and tidepools. Some of those memories made it into MURDER AT THE BEACH HOUSE.
Next, we graduated to Jones Beach, on the South Shore, that had miles of beach to choose from but all with what seemed to me high crashing waves. We had my father’s Army blanket and a striped umbrella to shade us from the sun, but we always came home sunburnt.
Now I live in Arizona, about four hours from the nearest beach in the Gulf of California and eight hours from San Diego. With Covid, we’ve been reluctant to travel and I really miss the ocean.
I hope you get a chance to get away somewhere where it’s cool and there’s water. Our pool will have to do for now.
Nurse Aggie Burnside is looking forward to a quiet vacation at a beach house in Morgan’s Cove, Maine. But neighbors quarrel, old feuds erupt and someone dies. Can this amateur sleuth sift through the strands of deception to solve the crime?
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