Sunny Side Up (Lake Erie Mysteries Book 1) Read Free

proud owners of our first floating weekend home. The boat was small and light and didn’t handle well in rough water, but what did we know? We were officially boaters now and about to make the first of hundreds of this very same drive to the perfect weekend spot for affordable family fun.
    My thoughts came back to the present as Hamm rolled up to the gate of Beacon Pointe Resort. The middle-aged guard in the gatehouse put on his glasses, adjusted the brim of his floppy hat, and inspected our residence sticker on the windshield. “Welcome back, Mr. and Mrs. Egge. Hope you had a good winter.”
    “Thanks, Steve. The winter was uneventful, cold, and way too long, just like every year.”
    I leaned across the seat and added, “We’re just excited to be back to our happy place!”
    The guard raised the gate-arm and allowed us to enter the resort. The speed limit was ten miles per hour, just like it had been for over fifteen years. Children laughed and squealed on the swing set as we drove past the park. I remembered how my own kids had spent hours doing the same things, running and playing until dark when they were forced to come in, eat something, and crash, too tired even to protest, just to wake up early and do it all again the next day.
    Fit, young athletes with earbuds and iPods checked their times as they jogged around the walking path. A couple, well into their eighties by the looks of them, strolled hand-in-hand along the same route. Geese honked and pooped everywhere. Some things never change.
    We pulled up to the cedar and stone condominium we now called our second home. Fuchsia geraniums in white clay pots stood sentry on the front porch complementing the cream window trim and rich rose-colored front door. I stepped slowly out of the passenger door. Practicing a few yoga moves, I managed to loosen up the muscles in my back and legs that had tightened from spending over an hour in the car. I made my way out toward the backyard. Tall sea grass framed the restful view of the gray blue lake, and I inhaled deeply. Lucky for me, the breeze was out of the south, so I smelled blossoms and fresh air instead of dead fish. Off in the distance, boats dotted the water. Some were pulling water-skiers, others hauled kids in tubes, and there was one brave soul floating in the air above a boat with a parasailing logo emblazoned on its hull.
    Entering the condo through the back door, I noticed the faint scent of lemon polish originating from the entry hall. Anna, our seasonal cleaning lady, had been here this morning. Gold flecks in the kitchen’s granite island sparkled in the afternoon sun. Real lemons and limes filled a glass bowl on the counter adding to the sheer citrusy pleasure of the room. I tossed my bag into our bedroom and returned to the kitchen to perform my seasonal ritual of opening and closing all of the cupboards and drawers, reacquainting myself with the whereabouts of the day-to-day trappings of what I thought of as my “real life.”
    I noticed the open bottle of Ménage à Trois Hamm had already set out for me. I truly am spoiled. I’m by no means a wine connoisseur, but I have a few small quirks that make my drinking ritual special. I especially enjoy the gurgly, whiny song the red wine sings as it passes through the aerator into my awaiting stemware. I poured a small glass then made my way outside to the patio where Hammond was lounging in the sun, admiring the golden glow of his Jack Daniels on the rocks. He was about to light his first cigar of the season when the expression on his face turned stormy.
    I followed his stare upward to the dark shadow descending over our patio. Some lunatic had actually released that parasailer, and the wayward adventurer was making a landing right on the beach behind our condo. The person touched down in the sand, and then forward momentum pushed both parachute and rider smack into the middle of the petunia bed that edged our patio. Hammond and I sprung out of our chairs and