BOOK BLAST: “Bridge at the Beach” by Garrick Jones.
BOOK BLAST
Book Title: Bridge at the
Beach (A Clyde Smith Mystery
#4)
Author and Cover Artist:
Garrick Jones
Publisher: Moshpit
Publications
Release Date: April 12,
2024
Genre: Crime Thriller
Themes: Sowing one’s oats; Finding Mr. Right; Acceptance in community;
Historical fiction; Crime Fiction; Detective Fiction
Heat Rating: 2 flames
Length: 134 000 words/ 392
pages
It is part of the Clyde Smith
Mystery Series, but does not end on a
cliffhanger.
Buy Links
Amazon US | Amazon AU | Amazon UK | Smashwords
Blurb
Clyde’s idyllic afternoon in the surf with his mates is
interrupted by the news that there’s been a quadruple suicide in an apartment overlooking
the beach.
Two of the deceased are the parents of Barry Wilkinson,
one of Clyde’s childhood friends, a man he hasn’t seen since Clyde donned the khaki and left
for war. Wilkinson engages Clyde to discover the identity of a mysterious woman who has
been left a huge sum of money in his father’s will.
On the surface, what appears to be a straightforward case
evolves into a complex story of deception, lies, violence and murder. Relationships are
tested, new ones formed and Clyde discovers that those connections that seem unrelated
are closely linked behind a veil of secrecy.
The early summer of 1957 is a time in which Clyde nearly
loses everything he holds dear—his own life included—all because of two couples who died
while playing bridge at the beach.
Excerpt
My awareness of Harry’s arrival was having my swimming
trunks pulled down to my ankles then a grinning redhead surfacing between Mark and
me.
“Take your foot off my cozzies, Jones,” I said, trying not to
laugh and vainly struggling to pull them back on.
“Did he pants you?” Mark asked.
“Yes, and if it wasn’t for you, Mark,” Harry said, “I’d be
twirling them over my head and racing him to the beach.”
A large wave slapped us in the face; we’d been so busy
laughing none of us had spotted it.
“I’ve ordered a float for Mark,” Harry said to me. “Do you
think you could pick it up while I chat with my favourite dick?”
“Don’t take him out too far,” I replied, smiling at Harry’s
purposeful innuendo. Mark’s eye-roll was slight, but noticeable.
“I’m not totally clueless, Clyde. I know he can’t swim. I just
want to show him how to use the float and see if we can’t catch a few waves.”
“All right. See you in a bit.”
I put my shoulder into the next decent breaker and body-
surfed to the beach. I recognised the lad in charge of the float rentals. We locals called them
floats or floaters, but to visitors they were known by their brand name: Surfoplanes. The
long black rubber blow-up surfboard-type things were very popular with people from the
western suburbs who weren’t used to swimming in the ocean. They were very cheap: only
sixpence an hour to hire.
“How’s it going, Barney?” I asked. “I thought you were
working for my mate Craig at his pool these days?”
“Nice to see you, Mr. Smith,” he replied, his eyes fixed on
the front of my swimmers. “When are you going to wear those sexy yellow speedos I keep
hearing about?”
“You know I’m taken, Barney, and you get to see me naked
nearly every morning at the pool …”
“Yes, but somehow the way men fill out their cozzies and
imagining what’s hidden in them is far more alluring than the bare truth … not that you’ve
got anything to worry about on either count, Mr. Smith.”
I shook my head at his wink and was about to ask him
sarcastically how he knew what the word “alluring” meant when I heard someone call out
my name.
“Here, take your float, Mr. Smith,” Barney said. “I just need
to nick off for a second.”
It was when I turned that I understood Barney’s sudden
disappearance. “Hello, Clyde,” the policeman said.
“Gidday, Dave. What brings you down to the beach … and in
uniform?”
“Looking for D.S. Dioli. He told me this morning at work that
he was having a half day off and spending the afternoon at the beach with you and your
mate Luka Praz.”
“He’s in the water. Want me to get him for you?”
“Bloody hot day like this, I’m tempted to take my clobber
off and go fetch him myself.”
“Problems at work?”
“Yeah, bad one, Clyde. Four dead. Looks like a suicide
pact.”
I whistled softly. “Where?”
He turned and pointed to the north end of the beach.
“Baden Street, number five, top floor.”
“What, the Wilkinsons’ place?”
“You know them?”
“Sure thing, Dave. I hauled Sidney Wilkinson into the nick
countless times just after I first started. Petty stuff, mostly: handling stolen goods,
moneylending, associating with known criminals. He was the lowest of the low back then,
but out of the blue opened a jewellery shop up at Peter’s Corner and seemed to have gone
straight. Suicide? You said there were four dead?”
“I don’t know much about it yet. But the D.I. told me to
bring D.S. Dioli in; he wants him on the case.”
I snorted. Typical of Brendan, telling Mark to fuck off and
take a break because he was annoyed with him, next minute calling him into work by
sending a constable on the first half day Mark had taken in ages. Although Brendan was a
very close friend, when it came to business there were very strict lines never to be crossed
that sometimes challenged our friendship.
“Are we still on for tonight, Clyde?”
“Of course we are. Last revision on forensic procedures,
after which you’ll piss in your detective’s exam on Thursday morning.”
“What will I bring?”
“Just yourself. I’m cooking Moroccan food. Harry will be
home at half six—he’s in charge of dessert—and we’ll eat around half past seven if that suits
you.”
“Thanks. I owe you one.”
“You owe me more than one, Dave. But seeing I used to
babysit you when you were a toddler, I feel you’re part of the family. Now, I better go get
Mark.”
“Clyde …”
“Yes, mate?”
“There’s another personal thing I want to talk to you about
sometime. Can I take you out for a bite to eat or for a beer sometime?”
“Why not tonight over dinner? Harry’s
trustworthy.”
“I’d rather it be just between you and me.”
“Trouble with Katie?”
“Well … sort of, but as I said, it’s personal.”
“Any night but Wednesday, Dave.”
“Thanks, Clyde.”
As I ran down the beach with the float under my arm, I
glanced up over the north end. Had I not been looking for them, I may not have noticed how
many cars were parked outside number 5 Baden Street.
About the Author
From the outback to the
opera.
After a thirty-year career as a
professional opera singer, performing as a soloist in opera houses and in concert halls all
over the world, I took up a position as lecturer in music in Australia in 1999, at the Central
Queensland Conservatorium of Music, which is now part of CQ University.
Brought up in Australia,
between the bush and the beaches of the Eastern suburbs, I retired in 2015 and now live in
the tropics, writing, gardening, and finally finding time to enjoy life and to re-establish a
connection with who I am after a very busy career on the stage and as an
academic.
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