Lead a Horse to Murder
Lead a Horse to Murder
“—Mark Twain As I headed toward Heatherfield early Sunday afternoon—alone—I opted to take a different route. I figured I might as well take advantage of being footloose and fancy-free—again—to enjoy the sights.
I rolled down the windows as I wound along the tree-lined back roads of the North Shore, enjoying the warm, sunny September day with its pale blue, cloudless sky. This part of Long Island was idyllic, probably much the way it had been during the days the area had been the world’s polo cen...ter. I drove past country clubs and golf clubs and mansions tucked behind large elms and high stone walls, noting how perfectly manicured every inch of the countryside was.
My route took me into the charming village of Laurel Valley. There wasn’t much to the exclusive downtown area, just two crisscrossing streets lined with small businesses. I drove past gift shops that appeared to specialize in highly breakable items and chic clothing boutiques that mainly sold cashmere sweater sets and little black dresses.MoreLess
I rolled down the windows as I wound along the tree-lined back roads of the North Shore, enjoying the warm, sunny September day with its pale blue, cloudless sky. This part of Long Island was idyllic, probably much the way it had been during the days the area had been the world’s polo cen...ter. I drove past country clubs and golf clubs and mansions tucked behind large elms and high stone walls, noting how perfectly manicured every inch of the countryside was.
My route took me into the charming village of Laurel Valley. There wasn’t much to the exclusive downtown area, just two crisscrossing streets lined with small businesses. I drove past gift shops that appeared to specialize in highly breakable items and chic clothing boutiques that mainly sold cashmere sweater sets and little black dresses.MoreLess
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