Based on the true story of a patriot/hero wrongly accused of being a communist. This man born of immigrant working-class parents achieved high scholarly stature and was an associate professor at the University of Chicago before World War II. Despite his loyalty and sacrifice, he was labeled a traitor and deprived of everything including his country.
You can now buy Death in the Saddle (Not a Western!) in a variety of ebook formats at smash words!
The chauffeur, walking behind Bruxton and Bonnie, carried a lap top computer and a clothes bag into the hotel lobby. A bellhop hurried to relieve him.
Bruxton looked at his watch. “6:15. Jim, be ready to pick us up at 8:00. I’ll phone you when we’re ready. Park the car and grab a bite in the coffee shop.” Bruxton, escorting Bonnie through the spacious lobby, was openly possessive. With his arm around her waist, he strutted for all to see. She was his trophy—a youthful beauty, arrayed in a couturier’s black silk skirt and white ruffled silk blouse made more striking by the contrasting tone of her café-au-lait skin. Continue reading “Death in the Saddle, Ch 15”
Mary Bruxton held a cell phone to her ear and stopped in front of the dressing room mirror. She released the tie to her sheer robe, studied her partially nude form, and pouted. “It’s seven o’clock. Are you still on the movie set? Yes, Darling, he’s been served and he’s out of the house except for a few remaining items that his chauffeur collects and brings to him. Oh sure, there’ll be a court battle—you can count on that. The attorneys’ fees will be staggering—can’t be helped—he’s as stubborn as he is conniving. My attorneys will plead incompatibility, spousal abuse, and rape—that’s right, rape. More than once he’s forced himself on me when I was ill and emotionally non-receptive—that and a lot of other charges I can’t even begin to recall. The lawyers are convinced my case is gold-bonded. Continue reading “Death in the Saddle, Ch 14”
Bruxton tilted back in his chair, propped his feet on top of an open desk drawer and grunted into the intercom, “Ms. Ouvray, come in here.”
Entering tentatively, with a steno pad held like a shield of armor, Bonnie Ouvray, hesitated at the door. “Don’t stand over there. Come in.” Bruxton pointed to a chair on the other side of his desk. “After we finish here, I’d like you to accompany me to another meeting at the Springs Hotel this afternoon.” Continue reading “Death in the Saddle, Ch 13”
At a booth next to a window, a waitress approached Frank. “Mornin’, Mr. Parma. Black coffee and cinnamon toast? Gotcha. Comin’ right up.” The waitress at John’s Place, a popular restaurant in the Yucca Valley Town Center, shouted the order to the cook behind the counter. Continue reading “Death in the Saddle, Ch 12”
In a clinging black silk dress that enhanced every sensuous curve in her body, Lucy Kurtz, stood before the full length bedroom mirror, preening and thinking she resembled the late Audrey Hepburn—or was it Jackie Kennedy? She placed her hands on her hips, turned to look at her left side, then turned to look at her right side. Hell, she looked better than either one of them. They were dead and she was quite alive, thank you. She reached into her jewelry chest for a double strand of pearls and placed them around her neck but had difficulty fastening the clasp. “ Larry, can you help me here?” Continue reading “Death in the Saddle, Ch 11”
At 1:45 p.m. Bruxton and Bonnie emerged from the Springs Hotel wearing clothes sent from the boutique shop; Bruxton in a Hawaiian shirt emblazoned with wild tropical flowers that hung over knee-length shorts of shocking pink. By contrast, Bonnie wore a flattering simple strapless black and white sun dress. Continue reading “Death in the Saddle, Ch 10”
Oblivious to the other students around them, Deena Bruxton and Johnny Brasilowicz swung their arms slowly as they strolled hand in hand along the tree-lined campus walkway. Continue reading “Death in the Saddle, Ch 9”
Lucy Kurtz emerged from the pool climbing the vertical stairs and pulling on the chrome rails. She rubbed her eyes, then wrung the excess water from her hair. As she reached for a beach towel on the chaise lounge, she stopped. “Larry is that you? I’m at the pool side.” At forty-two, Lucy Kurtz retained her youthful figure—the result of total and constant self-absorption and reverence to holistic medical programming: dietary restrictions and almost endless physical-fitness. Continue reading “Death in the Saddle, Ch 8”