Mysteries, Midsummer Sun and Murders: A Cozy Mystery Anthology
by Hillary Avis, Benedict Brown, Catherine Coles, Paula Darnell, Connie B. Dowell, Ellen Jacobson, Joann Keder, Patti Larsen, Cate Lawley, Gayle Leeson, Daisy Linh, Rimmy London, R.B. Marshall, Megan Mayfair, Wendy Meadows, Phillipa Nefri Clark, Michele Pariza Wacek, Erin Scoggins, Cathy Tully, Victoria LK Williams and Carly Winter
About Mysteries, Midsummer Sun and Murders
Mysteries, Midsummer Sun and Murders: A Cozy Mystery Anthology
Aye Alba Publishing (June 21, 2022)
Number of Pages ~1600
Digital B09K9NN64X
Poisonous picnics, burgled barbeques, deadly deckchairs… and midsummer mayhem!
From a brilliant bunch of amazing authors, including multiple prizewinners and USA Today best sellers, comes this wonderful collection of 21 summer-themed cozy mysteries.
Featuring peril at the pool, blood on the beach, and felony at the festival, these fabulous stories—21 brand new and exclusive tales—will keep you entertained until long after the sun has set.
With stories from Hillary Avis, Benedict Brown, Catherine Coles, Paula Darnell, Connie B. Dowell, Ellen Jacobson, Joann Keder, Patti Larsen, Cate Lawley, Gayle Leeson, Daisy Linh, Rimmy London, R.B. Marshall, Megan Mayfair, Wendy Meadows, Phillipa Nefri Clark, Michele Pariza Wacek, Erin Scoggins, Cathy Tully, Victoria LK Williams and Carly Winter, you’ll surely find some of your favourite authors and discover some great new writers within the ~1600 pages of this set.
This collection will only be available for a limited time so don’t miss out – grab yourself a bargain today!
Excerpt
The High Tide Deception by Patti Larsen
You know how fun it is to go to the beach, get some sun, swim in the ocean, lounge back with a good book and a cold drink and really settle into a hot, beautiful summer escape?
Not how my day was going.
When I’d taken the job as an infiltrate for a new sand sculpture competition, I have to admit, I jumped on it without looking into the actual position I’d accepted. See, I’d been working hard lately, doing what I’d only come to discover I did best—pretending to be someone else and spying on other people to make sure they toed the line for whoever paid me to rat on them.
Okay, I know how that sounds, but I honestly loved being a deception expert and aside from the few (yes, more than a few) bodies I’d stumbled over, the jobs I’d taken up until now had been relatively simple and an easy paycheck.
I swiped at the sweat making it through the bandana I’d wrapped around my head, scowling at the reminiscence of my second job working in a greenhouse. I’d sworn I’d never take another assignment like that one. Certainly hadn’t come here to Fairmile, Virginia, to lug, lift, heft and hurl mounds of sand into a giant pile for three days.
Which, I’m sure you’re now realizing from my rambling and unhappy mental state, was exactly what I ended up doing.
Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t opposed to physical labor or sunshine or sand or the ocean or anything to do with summer. It was the unique combination of those elements that had me knee-deep in a shifting pile, blisters long formed on my hands despite the gloves I wore, sweating out my weight in water as the late August sunshine had its way with me.
“No, no. I said more sand here.” I scowled sideways at the tall, silver-haired man who snapped orders like a career general, the target at least not me this time, but one of the other team members helping unload the last of the specially imported sand that would form the base of the giant creation he planned to erect before the end of competition on Sunday. He’d already assembled the wooden frames we now filled with—and then compacted—with sand. The sound of someone using a hand tamper nearby only added to my headache. Though it was more him than anything driving me toward a migraine.
Since I was the newbie—grunt slave, in other words—I’d borne the brunt of his dissatisfaction since I showed up this morning. While Martin Littlefield might have been a world-renowned artist and sand sculptor, the man had an attitude like a beat-up old truck—loud and nasty.
I was this close, I have to admit, to dumping my shovel, forfeiting the payout and getting my fine behind back to Marigold before I did something I’d regret. Only the tenacious drive instilled by my Very Sparkly and Super Fantastic Special Agent dad, Andrew Walker, kept my stubborn self from telling Mr. High and Fighty Littlefield where he could shove his tons of precious sand. Instead, I grit my teeth and dug in while the sound of screaming, laughing children, the faintest breeze carrying scents of ice cream and pretzels and suntan lotion mixed with the matching sounds of exertion from the three others shifting piles of sand into various wooden shapes for our lord and master had me firmly deciding from now on, no matter how good the job sounded?
Research, Petal Morgan. Lots and lots of research.