Thursday, October 16, 2014


“Secrets of the Lake” is far more than a historical romance between an Irish schoolteacher and the daughter of a Pittsburgh steel baron. It is an indictment of American industry—the greed and callous irresponsibility of the leaders of the railroad, steel and banking industry in the latter part of the Nineteenth Century. And as the author I fully intend it to be a wake up call regarding what is happening in America today. I simply had to get this message off my chest. It’s my fifth novel and it’s coming sooner than you think on Amazon.

Wednesday, October 1, 2014

SECRETS OF THE LAKE. Sneak Preview III. Caleb and Annabelle find themselves alone at the lake.

She began removing the combs from her hair and glancing at him sideways. When she gave her head a shake, the tresses tumbled down in a cascade of shimmering gold, reaching all the way to the comforters.

He had only seen her once before without a bonnet or headpiece of some kind. Something stirred inside him—as if seeing her for the first time.

He had yet to realize what she had in mind—her lips were unsmiling and her expression resolute with the stubborn determination he had come to know so well. Slowly she removed her tunic, folding it and placing it beside her. Next she began unbuttoning the blouse.

“Help me, Caleb,” she said.

My God, what was she doing? She was supposed to be out of sorts, he thought. Timidly, he reached over and held the blouse, watching her soft, willowy arms slip from the sleeves.

She was wearing several petticoats with wide straps brocaded with flowers. She raised her arms, and in one motion he removed them also.

Now only a corset remained on her upper body—like a band of white steel beneath the softness of her arms and shoulders. Slowly she turned her back to him until he was looking at a long row of laces, white and cottony, tied in a neat little bow knot ending in a tassel.

“Untie me, please.”

Wednesday, September 17, 2014

SECRETS OF THE LAKE. Sneak Preview 2. Caleb has fallen overboard but discovers the weakness in the dam.

They held hands and said goodbye in front of Josh’s cottage. Caleb was dressed in Angus’s clothing—shirt and tie, trousers and jacket, plus a pair of shoes that were already too tight.

Annabelle told him the shirt and jacket, billowing around the middle, made him look like a clown. Then she raised her lips for a kiss. He hesitated, finally giving her a peck on each cheek that drew a smile.

“Don’t worry about the dam,” she said. “Father heads the committee. He would never allow anything dangerous to happen.”

“I hope you are right,” he said, brightening. “And thank you for giving me my first sailing lesson. It’s one I shall never forget.”

She ran a finger over the bump on his forehead. It was already turning purple. “My poor, wounded baby,” she said, leaning forward and bestowing a gentle kiss upon it.

Feeling her body pressing against his was more than Caleb could stand. He threw his arms around Annabelle and pulled her into him. Quickly his lips found hers.

He felt their hardness at first, but quickly they softened against his, as they surprised each other with their warmth and feeling—and the realization they were in no hurry for their lips to part.

They were without concern as to whether they would be seen. They were without fear that the future could possibly hold anything but happiness. They knew exactly what they were doing.

+ + +

When the brougham was halfway across the roadway spanning the crest of the dam, Caleb leaned out the window and yelled for Axel to stop.

Caleb got out and limped along the berm, Angus’s shoes cutting into his ankles like a tourniquet. He came to a wide spot where he could step out and look down the side of the dam.

It was an earthen dam, built with soil, rocks, and decaying tree trunks, and Caleb walked as close as he could to the edge. Looking down the side and into the valley, he tried to estimate the height by picking up a rock and hurling it as far as he could.

It landed about half way down.

Caleb figured finally that the dam was at least seven stories high and that the distance across was easily the length of two rugby fields.

He heard a twig snap. Turning, he realized that Axel had come up and was standing beside him. Together they stared down the wooded slopes and into the valley. And then, to Caleb’s astonishment, Axel removed his hat, sank to his knees, and crossed himself.

They remained there for a long moment—until Axel slowly rose. Without saying a word Caleb followed him back to the brougham.

Friday, September 5, 2014

Sneak preview--1 From SECRETS OF THE LAKE. A love story about the Johnstown Flood

As Caleb prepared to wade back into the water, he glanced down the bridle path. A figure ambled toward him from the east—her ankle-length white skirt seeming to flow along the bank. Golden braids bounced from under the stylishly wide brim of her summery straw hat with pink, red, and blue roses tucked in the band.

She was a tall woman with lithe movements. In the elegant way she carried her umbrella, keeping it folded and tucked under the arm, she could have been a tennis player carrying a racquet.

Smiling, she seemed to be waving at something or someone, and Caleb thought how nice and friendly it was if she were waving at him. As she drew closer he was surprised to hear her toss him a little shout while pointing the umbrella with the grace of a danseuse in the direction behind him.

At the same moment he heard hoof beats.

Caleb spun around just in time. The man on the horse was cantering toward him from the other end of the path. He wore army jodhpurs and had a badge over the breast of his grey military coat, all of which was well and good except that what the man carried on his hip gave Caleb pause.

It was a shotgun and it was pointed directly at Caleb.

“Identify yourself,” the rider shouted as he pulled up and dismounted. His tone was anything but polite.

Caleb turned and walked toward him slowly, sheepishly, feeling like he had been caught red-handed stealing the jewels of Queen Victoria. Slowly Caleb raised his hands.

“Did you mean me, sir?” Caleb asked, forcing a smile.

“Who do you think I am speaking to—you half-naked intruder?” He waved the barrel in little circles, but still it was pointed rather uncomfortably at Caleb’s exposed chest. “I doubt if you are a guest of a member, so you are therefore trespassing and only the good Lord knows what else. Disappear immediately or I shall lock you up.”

“I am sorry, but I did not know of your rules,” Caleb said, fully aware that he was lying through his teeth.

“The sign—you had to see it. The last I looked it said members only. And I am further of the belief there were also the words trespassing absolutely forbidden.”

The woman in the straw hat stepped forward.

“He is our guest, Mr. Grimsby,” she said.

She moved between the man and Caleb, jabbing the point of the umbrella into the ground as if preparing to make a royal pronouncement.

Reluctantly Grimsby took his eyes from Caleb. He turned to the woman with the look of a man who had just had his favorite horse stolen.

“I’m sorry, Miss Prescott. I didn’t know you and the gentleman were acquainted.” To Caleb’s immense relief the man lowered the shotgun and nodded to the woman.

“But the gentleman will have to return whatever he has procured in those specimen bottles. Those are the rules, Ma’am.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Grimsby. I shall take care of the matter,” the woman said, painting a look of abject trust across her wicked, little smile.

Grimsby holstered his shotgun, climbed onto his horse, and cantered off. Several times he turned and glanced back.

Caleb and the woman stared at each other for a moment, grinning like a pair of thieves.

“Thank you, Miss Prescott,” Caleb said finally.

“Annabelle,” she said. “And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

“My name is McBride,” he said. “Caleb McBride. I’m collecting Rachophorus Malabaricus—more commonly known by my sixth graders as tadpoles.”

She seemed to like what he said. He noticed the dimple in the middle of her chin.

“Shall I throw them back?” Caleb asked, trying to appear cooperative but having no intention of surrendering his hard-won specimens that had just risen considerably in value.

“I think we can spare a tadpole or two,” she said. “Do you come here often, Mr. McBride?”

“My first and probably my last visit,” he said, pulling on his shirt and vest. He tossed the haversack over his shoulder and grabbed the net.

He paused. It began dawning on Caleb McBride that he was talking to the most beautiful woman in the world. Slowly, a look of panic crossed his face. He couldn’t think of a single thing to say. His tongue was tied in a thick knot.

“Well, I suppose I should leave,” he said, finally.

“Perhaps we shall meet again, Mr. McBride,” she said.

“Caleb,” he said.

“Goodbye,” she said, pausing. Then in a voice that was filled with music he heard her say his name again.

“Goodbye, Caleb.”

Saturday, June 14, 2014


Two weeks ago I attended my grandson’s high school graduation in Denver, a gloriously beautiful ceremony held in the Red Rocks amphitheater—an incredible piece of work that God chiseled out of a mountain-side and a venue more accustomed to holding loud and unruly rock concerts for 60,000 fans rather than the 3,000 proud and sober parents and relatives attending the ceremony for the senior class at Green Mountain High School.

First of all, I was surprised—and deeply impressed—that the ceremony could be so awesome and inspirational. (Of course, how could it not have been with Elgar’s “Pomp and Circumstance” blossoming from the school’s 60-piece orchestra.) But at least six of the top students gave speeches that were anything but dull. The comeraderie was real and enjoyable. And the weather was perfect for the thousands of cameras in the audience ranging from those taking cell phone snapshots to $10,000 Nikons seeking masterpieces.

But I don’t think I am alone in admitting that graduation is a time for allowing for some selfish pride as we remember our own graduations, compare them, and, perhaps for the more fortunate among us, lean back and revel in them.

During the Red Rocks ceremony my mind wandered back to high school and my own graduation. World War II had just ended. Half the senior class was Jewish and a couple were going to the new state of Israel to work in Kibbutzes.  Most of us had been together since elementary school, including Mavis Nathan who had been sent to us from England to avoid the blitz. As president of the senior class I had to give a speech, the opening sentence of which I remember to this day but not one other thought or word. Just as well—I’m sure it set a new standard for triteness.

Some jokers in the class started singing what they called our class song, which (I am not kidding here.) was Maresy Doates. (“Maresy Doates and Does Eat Oates and Little Lambs Eat Ivy. A kid will eat Ivy, too”) Please do not question me about this runaway pop hit and its lyrics—their ridiculousness bothered us just as much back then. This ‘song’ soon gave way to the more sentimental “On the Sunny Side of the Street”—far more appropriate to our futures. 

When it came to relationships we were saying goodbye to friends and opening ourselves to future considerations. My girlfriend and I kissed goodbye and although we were going to colleges in neighboring states we agreed to stay close. (We didn’t.)

The only thing I remember about my Midwestern college graduation was driving afterwards to South Dakota to meet the parents of the beauty queen who was to become my wife in a marriage that would last forever. (It didn’t.) 

Later I received my masters in journalism from Columbia but missed the graduation ceremony entirely.  All the guys were being drafted into the Korean War and we were urged to grab a job and get some experience before reporting for duty.

Comparing my own graduations to ceremonies happening today, the thing I miss most was the spirit of the times. In the late 1940s and early 1950s there was a feeling of relief in the air plus a genuine appreciation of freedom and government and everything that our flag stood for. Our nation had emerged victorious in the most horrible war in the history of mankind.  Maybe we didn’t appreciate it fully as we marched down the aisle but it was there—believe me. And all of our futures looked even brighter than the words pouring from the mouths of the guest speakers.

I wish I could say that about the ceremony I attended two weeks ago. I’m sure that more than one person in the audience shared my feeling of loss and dismay regarding the nature of times we live in. As for the rest of all of you happy young graduates who are perhaps better off for not realizing what you are missing—and to my own grandson—dig in and best of luck. 

Saturday, April 5, 2014


NOTE:  I’m seeking your reaction to a series of chapters I excised from THE MOUNTING STORM, to make it one in  the Kate Conway series instead of a stand-alone novel about a Nazi who has infiltrated the U.S. publishing industry.

Rolling Hills West, 1945

Stirling didn’t sleep at all. Several hours before daybreak he rose and walked the grounds, hoping the cold spring air and a wild moon would clear the fog in his mind, but returned after having been nearly mauled by a brace of Dobermans, their trainer Luther behind them, waving a pistol before apologizing.
            He took a hot shower, put on a dressing gown, and was having coffee on the south veranda, a gray twilight beginning to show over the hill to his left. The bird chatter that had been so peaceful was now an obnoxious frenzy, and his head swam in a sublime, bleary-eyed ache as the events of the last month swirled around him. To be truthful, he was almost glad the book was closing on one of the most incredibly sad chapters in the whole history of Mankind.
Today was Gotterdammerung! Today the noose pulled tight around the necks of his comrades in arms, the boys he had gone to school and to camp with, what remained of his family in Munich, the nation he had grown up belonging to and so proudly believing in. For days even his own newspapers had been blaring the ominous headlines and showing unbelievable photos of the grim destruction, the grisly corpses.
Hitler and Eva Braun dead, both suicides in Berlin: He by a revolver in the mouth, she by cyanide, both bodies dumped into a shell hole outside their bunker, along with their dog, doused with petrol, and burned to a crisp like strips of bacon. Goebbels, always the wiser and more methodical, simply poisoned himself, his wife, and their six children.
The list of prisoners or soon-to-be prisoners included Goering, Ludtke, Himmler, Strudel, von Ribbentrop, Funk, Speer, Streicher, Raeder, and the cowardly deserter Hess. He had a brief thought as to the fate of his father, the retired general, who had chosen to disown him for his beliefs and whom Margaret had been told was dead. 
Doenitz was to sign the armistice today.
Through his sources in the Pentagon, Stirling knew the Americans had the bomb that Goebbels had described in such vivid detail, the one the Germans were supposed to have had first. It turned out that Hitler had scrapped the project; Goebbels either didn’t know or was hanging onto a false hope.
The Americans had been smart bringing in all those Jew scientists from pre-war Germany, brains like Teller and Oppenheimer, to work on their version of the bomb. Even smarter was the way they got the super-Jew Einstein to talk Roosevelt into making it in the first place. They will probably be too timid to use it on the Japanese. They lacked the desire and the will it took to follow through to the end.
He had heard that while most of Wernher von Braun’s production team was captured by the Russians, the famous scientist managed to steal a train so he could surrender to the Americans.  If the story was true, the Americans would win the battle for missile superiority.
He would now be willing to make a giant admission—that he has had second thoughts these last few years about the ability of der Feuhrer. So many mistakes.  So weak on strategy.  So heavy-handed in regard to the Jews. So clumsy in his treatment of all those under him, especially of Goebbels, who must have hated the man more than he ever professed. Perhaps—perhaps after all the bloodshed, the killing, the hatred, the upheaval of civilization, perhaps it could now be said that der Feuhrer was not the person after all to lead them in their mission. He used to feel stabs of guilt for thinking such thoughts.
And fear—he looked up at the sky and smiled at the realization he hadn’t been struck by lightning.
But what did it really matter? Germany lay in ruins, everyone dead or a prisoner. He felt the ugly emptiness in his gut, the pain in his head. He should have insisted on returning with Goebbels on the U-boat. He could have killed at least a dozen or so Russians. No poison for him, he would have kept shooting right down to the instant they rammed the bayonet through his spleen. He should have been with them in the Hell of Berlin, damn it. He should be dead!
Margaret appeared on the veranda, looking strangely out of place at this early hour. She poured a cup of coffee and sat beside him, putting a hand on his shoulder. Her robe opened just enough for him to see the left breast hanging loose in her nightgown, round like an apple, the nipple looking lonely, neglected, anxious to be useful in the manner that God intended.
She stared at him. His look was drawn, his eyes like coals that have burned out and are beyond re-igniting. She leaned forward and gave him a kiss.  “It’s terrible what has happened to our friends in Germany, my darling. But you must not give up.”
He rose and walked to the wall of the veranda, staring out at the meadow, its blurry edges just beginning to take form in the early twilight.  Somewhere a new day was dawning, but not here. And not now, with all this grief.
Margaret came up from behind and, holding the coffee cup in one hand, reached her other arm around him, pulling him into her soft breasts, her warm flank. Her hand tugged at the belt around his robe, loosening it until it finally fell open. “How can I make things better for you?” she said. “Please tell me, Stirling dear. I can’t stand to see you suffering this way.”
He turned around and—seeing the sorrow and hopefulness in her eyes, the soft, welcoming flesh—arrived in a flash at the realization of what he wanted. He must have an heir. It would represent perfection—a perfect blend of Anglo-Saxon beauty and intelligence with Aryan strength and will. But Stirling Winship will not be the father of this specimen Margaret will bear. No, the father will be Helmut von Ramstedt.  “Give me a child,” he said, pulling her into him, rubbing his erection against the white of her belly. “For God’s sake, give me a child, Margaret.”
A grin crossed her face. She put the cup of coffee down. Taking his hand, she led him upstairs to the bedroom.
+    +    +
            He left her exhausted on the bed. The pounding he had given her was an act of rage at losing the war. It had nothing to do with love and tenderness, the feelings associated with wanting to conceive a child.  Rising in a half trance and without even casting a glance at Margaret’s splayed body, he threw on his hiking clothes and boots. He walked in firm, measured steps to the garage and took the keys to the Bentley from a reluctant Kurt. The man knew Stirling’s limitations as a driver.
            He gunned the engine and released the clutch. The car lurched forward, wobbling, and tore down the drive. Circling the pond, the tires skidded off the wet bricks and dug long trenches into the berm. He braked too late as he swerved to the right to get on the road, the rear fender on his side scraping against the wall of the gatehouse and waking the sleeping guard.
            His mind was clearing now. His grip on the steering wheel was steady and confident as he ripped along the country roads, deserted at this hour with the sun still hiding behind the hills in the cold, gray mist of morning.
            When he arrived at the Parkway, he veered south and accelerated the engine up to sixty, seventy, eighty, the thrumming of the powerful pistons like a transfusion, pumping new life through his veins. He could feel the tension lessening, the pain and grief dissolving. His mind was seizing control.
            He felt himself soaring upward like a bird, a beautiful bird, white and glowing. He was riding a winged stallion, flying silently above the world as if in an astral dream. He glided through a cloudbank lined with bodies staring at him with pleading eyes, their screams and wails all the more agonizing in the rush of air. He recognized many of his friends, Goebbels and his wife and children, Doenitz, Rommel, Speer, even der Fuerher with two women on their knees, clinging to his trousers and sobbing. He wished he could linger, deposit flowers, utter a condolence . . . “so sorry to hear of your loss . . . please accept my deepest sympathy.”  But it was no longer necessary.
The first rays of sun burst from between the hills, and now he could see everything quite clearly. The world suddenly belonged to him alone.  He was Siegfried, all-powerful, all-knowing Siegfried, the man of destiny.  Armed with a message—and the power to change the way people behave according to his ideas, his way of thinking. 
He possessed a network of newspapers; he was adding more radio stations.  He lived in a nation that was all-powerful, along with Russia, but a nation, unlike Russia, that had escaped destruction and where he was free to do what he pleased.
The heroic strains of Richard Wagner pounded through his body, confirming what he now knew to be true. He was the legend, the survivor, the source. He was free at last to do things his way.
He was Siegfried. And he was unchained.
+    +    +
The mist dissolved, and he realized he was driving like a madman down an open highway at a speed of ninety-seven miles per hour. Ahead of him a huge truck was lying on its side and straddling all four lanes, its guts like the underbelly of a giant caterpillar. 
He slammed on the brakes, but he couldn’t stop. The Bentley swerved around the truck and crashed through a guardrail. It sailed across a ditch and landed on all four wheels, plowing through the embankment and climbing an upgrade until it smashed through a web of green, wooden slats. Seconds after the Bentley ground to a stop, the structure for an advertising board came crashing down, entangling car and driver in a red, white and blue painting of Uncle Sam. His hands were outstretched, pleading with the public to help end the war by buying U. S. Defense Bonds.
+    +    +
Margaret received the call from the state police an hour later; she ran and got Kurt to drive her to the hospital. When they arrived, Stirling forced a little smile. He wore a neck brace and had a bandage on his forehead, where it had struck the windshield. Other than that he appeared quite healthy. In fact, he seemed a different person.

Tuesday, January 28, 2014


Lunch had been with the insanely handsome studio executive from Hollywood. To his dismay, Kate refused a second martini, hoping to speed the arrival of the Arugula Walnut Delight so she could get back to the office.

Arrive it did, healthy and overpriced except for the accident with the dressing. It wasn’t their fault, she reminded herself. The dressing came on the side in a white, porcelain bowl.

She had just started to pour a delicate, little soupcon onto the leaves when her suave companion complimented her on her writing and said he would like a shot at shopping her last story to his brass—the one where she finagled her way into the Chinese Mafia and almost got herself a permanent trip to the bottom of Gowanus Bay.

It was when he looked up from his poached salmon and said he could probably get her in the “high three hundreds” for the story, a figure she quickly understood wasn’t Monopoly money as she added the final three zeroes—that was the precise moment her fingers slipped and the entire contents of the bowl of dressing, including the bowl itself, sank into the salad.

“Fuck,” she said, as politely as she could.

“I’ll get you another,” he said, signaling a waiter.

“Don’t bother,” she said, removing the bowl. Smiling at him, she stabbed her fork into a soaking red leaf. “The dressings here are absolutely obscene.”

They went on to talk about their private lives. With the scent of money in the air, she felt compelled to open the book on herself.

She told him about her scholarship to Hunter College after Catholic schools in Brooklyn, her two-bedroom floor-through in the Village, even down to her black cat with the four white feet she had cleverly named ‘Spats.’

She was a card-carrying member of ACLU and NOW, she told him, and wished she had the time to march and wave the flag.

When she entered St. Barnabas High, her social life consisted of spending every single minute of her Saturdays at the Queens Plaza Shopping Mall passing out leaflets for losing independent candidates when not urging voters to adopt stray animals from the SPCA shelter.

The exec kept looking at her eyes. That was when she knew it wasn’t her words turning him on—they were probably boring him to death.

It wasn’t even her figure, which she thought had looked ten degrees above ‘sexy-hot’ when she wiggled into her black pantsuit this morning.

It was her blasted eyes—those glittery emeralds that operated independent of her will, grinning through the good and the bad. She would scream at a man, her blood boiling, and the eyes would smile her deep-down secret longing for the bastard.

When he asked about her availability she wasn’t sure if he was referring to story conferences in Hollywood or going to bed with him tonight.

“You know what I mean,” he said, throwing in a wink for good measure. “Your place or Room 231 at the Royalton—if you want to be trite about it.” He put a smarmy little spin on each syllable of the room number before adding, “And bring those incredible eyes.”

Kate stole a look at the third finger of his left hand. It was distinguished from the others by a fleshy, pink circle. She told him she was busy tonight—with a smile, of course—and consigned him to the ‘snake’ category.

She didn’t care for philanderers, especially when they practiced extortion on the side. Since ‘the incident,’ she had become brutally tough about the kind of guy she went out with, let alone extended bedroom privileges to. When it came to the desire for sex, she was hungry but not desperate.

From THE MOUNTING STORM, first of the Kate Conway thrillers.