Mysteries with pulse-stimulating

excitement and laughter.

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Stan Stanton leaves Pittsburgh and becomes a financial advisor in New York. He

marries a sex maniac, Fran Tone, who gives him a fortieth birthday present that he will

never forget, a mystery adventure at Frankenstein’s Castle. But Fran’s intent, which was

to get rid of her man and collect big time insurance money, misfires and the plot twists to

claim the life of Dr. Holiday. Helping Dr. Holiday’s blind daughter with cremation and

burial, Stan falls in love with the young blond maiden.

Putting the pieces together, Stan realizes his wife was out to finish him off. Tracing

Fran’s background, he learns an uncanny secret which leads him to face his own and

his wife’s demise.

Stan’s brother enters the picture to look into his brother’s death. Collaborating with Bob

Hawkins, an insurance investigator, they discover an international scheme to buy and

sell nuclear warheads to supremacists throughout the world. Learning of the scheme, its

players and a hidden secret at Frankenstein’s castle, they undertake an undercover

assignment for the British Ministry to rid the world of those intending to induce violence

and destruction for the sake of wealth.

Their successful mission leads to the partnership of “S & S, Private Investigators,” and

future ventures. Their thrilling adventures will hold your interest, introduce humor at its

best and prove mind over matter in solving mysteries through cleverness, not firearms.

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ISBN: 0-7596-205-8 (hardcover)

Genre: - Mystery/Action - Adventure - Adult

One of the Stan Stanton Thriller Series

Price: $10.95 paperback, $15.95 Dust-jacket Hardcover

Electronic Book - $3.95

ISBN: 9780759652033

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On the plane from New York to London, I met an interesting gentleman, Bob Hawkins by name, who worked as a private insurance

inspector for Lloyd's of London. He was very interested in my fictional mystery excursion, but was quick to inform me that his work

carried him into the realm of realistic mysteries. One case, which had baffled him for years, was that of a suspected fraud, wherein a

husband poisoned his wife, cremated the body before a positive autopsy could be performed, and collected a five-million-dollar

insurance claim. A case he vowed to resolve, one way or other, before he retired from his work. Bob certainly made our flying time

pass quickly, and with tremendous interest.

All the airline and train connections were on time, perfectly coordinated, and in general, inflated my bubble of excitement. I took a cab

to the village square in Transylvania, and waited, like a youngster anticipating his first date, for my carriage to arrive.

At exactly midnight, as the Gothic cathedral bell rang its first chime, the rumble of steel carriage wheels and the thunder of hoofs broke

the stillness of the black night on the cobblestone street. A black carriage, devoid of decoration and identification, led by twin black

stallions, came to a skidding halt in front of me. I could see no driver atop the carriage, as the door burst open inviting me to enter. As I

threw my handbag inside and barely closed the door, the horses again charged frantically down the streets, screeching and sliding at

every turn, horses and driverless carriage violently anxious to fulfill their appointment with mystery and intrigue.

Soon we were out of the village proper and into the total darkness of he countryside, with the horses galloping on, knowing exactly

where to go in the moonless foggy night. Throughout the ride I held on for dear life, fearing that these mad runaways could miss a turn

and we would wind up at the bottom of a mountain.

The carriage again came to a sudden stop, as I bounced from one seat to another, giving me an indication that my riding adventure

was over. The carriage door sprang open, inviting me to take my handbag and get out. With a firm grip on my bag, I moved eagerly

into the darkness outside. I could hear the horses snorting and panting, nervously prancing about, anxious to again be off away from

the ill-fated castle. No sooner did my feet hit the ground, than I heard the crack of a whip. The horses exploded with a compelling

desire to escape the lingering mystical aura of the night. I never did see the driver, and often wondered if there ever was one.

The heavy dew gave way to a steady rain as I approached the entrance. It all seemed too perfectly timed to be accidental, unless of

course, super-naturalists were on call by the master of intrigue himself, Dr. Victor Frankenstein.

Let me think. The instructions were to strike the door knocker three times, so here goes. I waited as the sound of thunder and flash of

lightning danced ever so close. My nerves were calmed when I heard the bolt sliding on the door and the squeaking of the hinges, as

the door opened.

The little man who opened the door, a dwarfish misfortune of life, no more than four feet tall, greeted me with a hard foreign accent.

"Gut evening, Miester Stanton, the count and the House of Frankenstein velcomes you. I am Igor. I vil show you to yor ruum."

Without a second thought, I felt compelled to hand the little man my suitcase, and follow him. With his slight limp, he led me up the

center hall staircase, which was grand enough to belong in the New York Plaza Hotel. At the top of the stairs, we walked along what

seemed an endless dim lit corridor, past a number of rooms, till Igor stopped, turned to look at me, and said.

"Dis ruum vil be yors."

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