Death in Surfside is the ninth novel in the award-winning Myrtle Beach Mystery Series by Caleb Wygal, releasing March 3, 2026. Set against the familiar coastal backdrop of Surfside Beach, South Carolina, this latest mystery brings bookstore owner and amateur sleuth Clark Thomas face-to-face with his past when a shocking death rattles the quiet seaside town.
Early Praise for Death in Surfside
Early readers are already praising Death in Surfside for its fast pacing and compelling mystery.
“Wastes no time in kicking off the plot and never really slows down.” – Readers’ Favorite 5-Star Review by Gabriel Santos
Click here to read the full review.
Below, you can read the complete first chapter of Death in Surfside and get an early taste of the suspense, setting, and small-town intrigue that have made the Myrtle Beach Mystery Series a favorite among mystery readers.
Preorder Death in Surfside today and return to Surfside Beach for another gripping coastal mystery.
Read the First Chapter of Death in Surfside
Chapter One
“Three, two, one. Cut it!”
On one, with both hands, I used the oversized pair of scissors to cut an oversized ribbon.
Cheers erupted, echoing from our platform to the beach below.
I’d done it. Opened a third bookstore. This one came out of nowhere, but I’d practically jumped at it when the opportunity arose. I had been the first person to submit an application. They’d questioned how I could make my concept work, but I’d persuaded them with my charm and the verbal picture I’d painted.
First, Autumn and I had opened Myrtle Beach Reads, my flagship bookstore on the Myrtle Beach Boardwalk. Five years later, two after her death, I opened Garden City Reads near the pier with the help of my good friend Chris MacInally.
Both were brick-and-mortar. The newest addition to my growing book empire was on a much smaller scale.
In fact, it was nothing more than a kiosk on the Surfside Beach Pier.
We had enough room to display over one hundred titles on the kiosk. We wanted to feature books by local authors, such as myself, and other beachy books to appeal to the many tourists who walked the pier during their visits.
The people who mapped out the vendor spaces gave us a fantastic spot near the ice cream parlor. That saved us from having to lug boxes of books down the long pier from the elevator. It also provided us with shade during the afternoon hours coming from the primary structure of the pier.
Gina, Mom, and other family members mingled with members of the Myrtle Beach Chamber of Commerce and looky-loos interested in what was happening on our little corner of the pier. The ribbon cutting was delayed by two weeks because of Hurricane Bob. It was a rare late-April Category 3 storm that had a direct hit on Pawleys Island nearby to our south. The hurricane had a near-record storm surge, leading to flooding, damaged homes, and coastal erosion.
We were closing in on the unofficial start to the travel season along the Grand Strand, Memorial Day Weekend. If it weren’t for Bob, my book kiosk would have been open a week ago. I won’t have any idea how many sales we missed until the same weekend next year, but the July 4th weekend should give me a good idea.
My nephew, not of blood, Timmy had become almost my shadow since his mom died last year, and he moved in with Gina and me. Our time alone as newlyweds was short-lived. He had two weeks of second grade remaining. He was looking forward to a year-end class trip to Ripley’s Aquarium on the next-to-last day of school. He wanted to see the penguins. I did too.
He rushed to my side the first opportunity he saw after I handed the giant-sized scissors back to the Chamber rep who had come out for the ribbon cutting. We’d taken Timmy out of school for the occasion. The kids were studying for their end-of-year assessments, but Timmy was smart enough that he could miss an afternoon and not fall behind.
“Clark! That was cool!” He spread his arms as far apart as he could. “Those scissors were humongous!”
Gina, my wife of one year, stood next to me, wearing a pair of khaki shorts showing off her long, tanned legs and a blue blouse made of light fabric. Perfect for the heat and humidity. I’d dressed up for the occasion, wearing a purple Polo shirt, golf slacks, and navy boat shoes. My usual attire consisted of Hawaiian shirts, shorts, and flip-flops. I liked to live the beach life to its fullest, even if the way I dressed wasn’t always considered “professional.”
The eight-year-old’s wonderment and enthusiasm couldn’t help but make me smile. “Yeah, they sure were. Heavy too. I almost asked for your help.”
“Really? That would have been cool.”
I reached out and mussed the shaggy hair on top of his head. “Next time, Timmy.”
Considering that I didn’t have any plans to open another bookstore anytime soon, it might be awhile before that would happen.
“Okay.” He put a hand on his chin, pondering. “Did you know that Big Ben in London isn’t its real name?”
I’d learned not to be surprised when Timmy offered one of his obscure facts. He read stacks of nonfiction books, mostly to do with engineering, history, and river otters. Sometimes he repeated himself, and sometimes the “Timmy Facts” weren’t quite correct, but most of the time, it was something new that he’d learned that he couldn’t wait to share.
“No, I did not know that.”
A few members of the Chamber stood behind Timmy, waiting to congratulate me. My mom and dad came over, grabbed Timmy, and took him to get ice cream from Drippy’s at the start of the pier near my kiosk’s location.
Clouds did little to conceal the blazing sun high overhead. The only respite came from a breeze steady enough to cool you down, but not strong enough to blow books off the display. Our spot near the pier’s structure offered a shield from the wind. From the beach below, someone’s speaker played music as they lounged in the sun. Seagulls squawked.
We faced the direction where visitors appeared at the top of the steps. The length of the pier stretched out over eight-hundred feet behind us. Anglers passed by with their gear in tow, ready to spend a lazy afternoon among their friends. We had a table set up with refreshments where ribbon-cutting attendees helped themselves to cookies made by that goober Caleb’s wife, Tasha, and coffee from nearby Benjamin’s Bakery.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a man in a dark blue police uniform reach the top of the stairs and step onto the pier’s surface. He was middle-aged, of average height, with short gray hair, and a mustache stained yellow by cigarette smoke.
He waited his turn while I exchanged pleasantries with Diane Charno and Stuart Butler from Visit Myrtle Beach. After I thanked them for coming, the officer came to Gina and me.
Holding out a hand with rough edges, hinting at a life of labor, he introduced himself as Surfside Chief of Police, Art Robinson, and guided us to the side of the pier away from everyone.
In stark contrast to everyone else present, Robinson’s face didn’t reflect happiness.
In fact, his focused and serious appearance told me he was here for a far more serious matter.
What he wanted to ask was directed more at Gina than me, but he was here for both of us.
He didn’t mince words. “There’s been a murder a few blocks away that I’d like you to look at.”
Great. Here we go again. I have this awful habit of either stumbling across murders or of them finding me. There should be a Murder Investigator’s Anonymous support group to help people like me who didn’t want to get involved but couldn’t help it because of our natural curiosity and desire to help victims’ loved ones find closure.
It was a habit I needed to break before it broke me.
Preorder Death in Surfside — Book Nine in the Myrtle Beach Mystery Series
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