Mysteries with pulse-stimulating

excitement and laughter.

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Stan Stanton and partner Sandra Hawkins receive an assignment from Lloyds

Insurance of London to investigate why two prominent heads of an international

development corporation have met violent deaths under the strangest of

circumstances.

The unusual happenings appear to stretch from Piccadilly of London to Port of Spain,

Trinidad, with hypnosis and voodoo devil worship as their nucleus. It is in the Western

Hemisphere that our dynamic duo, find themselves at the mercy of the hot sun and the

violent, obscene rituals they encounter.

Surviving with the help of a British secret service agent, they return to London to learn

that the entire situation involved developing of an alternate fuel for domestic use in lieu

of Middle East oil.

Uncovering terrorists in South America, our skillful pair provide the expertise needed to

solve the case, but not until they themselves experience the local magnificence and

allure of Caracas, Venezuela.

Sit back and allow yourself to enter an alternate atmosphere of thrills, pulse-stimulating

excitement and laughter. The adventure is only a few pages away.

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Page last updated: January 27, 2017

ISBN: 9781420820172 (hardcover)

Genre: - Mystery/Action - Adventure - Adult

One of the Stan Stanton Thriller Series

Price: $14.50 paperback, $23.00 Dust-jacket Hardcover

Electronic Book - $4.95

ISBN: 9781420820126

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Have you ever had the feeling that an invitation to dinner suggested more than sharing food and a few laughs? That’s the feeling I had

when my friend Bob Hawkins suggested we get together for a private dinner at a remote diner on the fringe of Piccadilly. Behind his

congenial invitation, I could sense an air of mysticism. I’m sure you remember Piccadilly, the place where respectable individuals fear

to tread and where men are reluctant to take their wives.

Bob tried to convey that it was just a friendly spot, maybe a little off the beaten path, with a unique flavor of quaintness. I couldn’t help

but wonder however. The secrecy, the location, and the emergency invitation had an odor to them that raised my curiosity. In fact, the

entire situation reeked of suspense and intrigue. Even for a seasoned private investigator, I had reservations about what to expect at

any time. It draws heavily on your nerves when your pulse beats faster than the second hand of your “Timex” and you are always on

guard for who knows what.

Here is how it began. It was two in the afternoon when the phone rang. Mrs. Twombly popped her head into my office, just as my

eyelids were getting heavy and I was about to surrender to an afternoon nap, to announce, “I beg your pardon, Mr. Stanton, but Mr.

Hawkins said it is important he talk to you immediately. Are you available?”

In my stupor, without fully understanding what she had asked, I said, “Of course, Mrs. Twombly. Who’s calling and what’s it about?”

“Mr. Stanton, I said it was Mr. Hawkins, and he said it is extremely important. He did stress the point that he wanted to talk to you

alone.”

“OK, Mrs. Twombly, put him through. Oh, and if you are insistent on listening in, you better take notes. And please close off the voice

box end of your phone, just in case you should sneeze during our conversation.”

“Mr. Stanton, you certainly spoil all my fun. Keep it up and I’ll tell your partner, Ms. Hawkins, that you are involved in an earthshaking

case and she is not involved. Then you’ll have hell to pay! So you better allow me to listen in and avoid an international disaster here

in our office.”

Little did I realize at the time that Bob’s afternoon phone call would become the background for a weird investigation case that would

drop me into an ocean of perplexing fear of the unknown. A case now marked “Satan’s Bones” in our office files, and I must honestly

admit it leaves me somewhat hesitant to tell you how it scared the hell out of me.

Like a good friend, never questioning the where, the what for, or the ultimate why the hell here, I met Bob at 8:30 p.m. at the

restaurant. The name on the decrepit neon marquee sign read, “Ye Picca-Deli.” Neither the name of the deli nor the fact that I finally

had some of the best lamb chops I’ve ever had in London is relevant to this scary story. But, what is relevant is the tenseness Bob

displayed throughout our dinner as he cautiously tried to avoid the real purpose of his invitation.

While relishing the magnificence of my surprising culinary masterpiece, and making use of the free toothpicks, I knew it was time to

confront my host with the ultimate question. “Bob, I know you didn’t invite me here to this out-of-the-way place just to taste English

cooking, so why are you hesitating? Tell me what’s on your mind. Am I to assume you have a case for me to look into, or are you

looking to place another fictitious name on your expense account? Come on, buddy, what’s next on the menu this evening?”

“Damn it, Stan, you’re getting to know me better than your partner, Sandra. That daughter of mine can smell an investigative case

from under a grimy rock or on top of a star-burst. You guys are a fantastic pair when it comes to sensing out a situation. At times I

swear that somewhere in your background you’re both related to Dr. Sherlock Holmes.”

Our dinner talk, and the aftermath, led Bob to tell me that he had something more important to follow through with than the sweet taste

of wine and the tender dinner we’d had.

“Stan, I have a problem with a case that has been really bothering me for the last month, and I need your help to decipher the scrawl.

Besides, I have been asked personally by Sir William Ashford to see if we can come up with any reason why a personal friend from

college would die in a most unusual way in an unbelievable place.”

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