Death of a Sculptor in Hue, Shape and Color
by M.C.V. Egan
Genre: Suburban Women's Fiction
Color coded love stories and revealing female anatomies lead to the murder of world renowned sculptor, Bruce Jones.
In life, the artist loved women, almost as much as women loved him. Adored for his art and colorful personality, Bruce is mourned by the world at large. The tale is launched with the multifaceted perspectives of four ex-wives, the current wife, and his new love interest and their children.
Mary , Bruce’s wealthy first love, is always in perfect pink; the color of love. Mother of Clair the famous actress and Aaron the corporate lawyer.
Leslie The Second’s color is yellow for her sunny nature as much as for her fears and insecurities. Her only son Bobby is vulnerable and lost. Mourning his father’s death, he finds himself.
Petra The Third, is outstanding in orange, representing not only her native Holland but also her love of the fruit. Cherished her freedom and had no children of her own.
Toni The Fourth is a vibrant passionate Italian red and part of the eventual glue that creates and solidifies this dysfunctional Jones family. Her teenage daughters Tina and Isa are as different as night and day.
Brooke The Fifth a gold-digger. Green, her color, reflects the color of money and envy. Her young son’s Kyle and Caleb are too young to understand why their world has been turned upside-down.
Mara, as blue as the ocean was the last woman to steal Bruce’s heart. Mother to newborn Baby Peter is the unexpected gift and surprise.
Bruce Jones’ eight children speak out, too. They are as distinctive as the women he loved, their mothers.
Loose ends are tied up by the insights of Sylvia, Aaron’s wife and a trusted keeper of secrets; Scott, the private investigator and family friend; Nona, the quintessential grandmother everyone loves but to whom few are truly related; and Detective Jim Miller who will not rest until he discovers Bruce Jones’ murderer.
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Mary:
Wife No. 1
©
M.C.V. Egan 2016
Thunder,
lightning, and rain─that was what we had at our wedding. However,
on the day of his funeral, the Florida heat and humidity made my face
shiny with perspiration. My hair looked like a dark Brillo pad. My
children requested I attend the funeral of my first husband, Bruce
Jones, the world-renowned sculptor.
The
parking lot was already packed with an unexpected variety of cars. I
then realized that it was not peak season. The South Florida
snowbirds are attached to their cars and they migrate with them back
and forth each year.
I
noticed a police car and a uniformed man by the entrance. Even for
Bruce a bit much; however, since 9/11, security has been tight
everywhere.
The
valet attendant opened my rental car door. “Welcome ma’am. Your
daughter is waiting for you.”
“Thank
you. Please make sure you keep the car in the shade. August Florida
heat and sun are not my friends.” I pulled a five-dollar bill from
my purse to tip him, but he shook his head and mumbled, “No, thank
you.” After all It was Palm Beach. I probably should have pulled
out a twenty.
I
was surprised that the building looked like an actual church, at
least from the outside. The church had a long name. It was Universal
something or other─apparently, a place of worship with neither
affiliation nor strictures. Bruce’s life had, after all, been too
outré to pretend he followed any conventional religious norm.
“Thanks
for coming, Mom.” Clair’s voice shouldn’t have surprised me,
but I stood still, focused on carefully dabbing my shiny nose. I
clicked the compact shut, smiled, and answered, “Anything for you
and Aaron, sweetheart.” She nodded as she guided me where to sit.
It was toward the back of the church─the ex-wives’ pew.
“Please
Mom, don’t look at me that way. This funeral is a time for
forgiveness and closure.”
Clair
always found a way to get me to do whatever she wanted. The last
thing I wanted was to be in the company of the women sitting there. I
touched my frizzy hair, regretting my rejection of the keratin
treatment.
Wife
number two, Leslie, was the first to say hello. “Mary, you look
lovely. It’s been years.”
“It
has, thankfully,” I replied. The other two simply nodded, and I
nodded back. Leslie, the one Bruce left me for, handed me a packet of
tissues and winked. Forcing a smile, I took them. The idea that she
assumed I planned to cry had not crossed my mind. I pulled the
compact out of my purse again to check my makeup; it looked fine.
Through the mirror I saw the reflection of the fifth and last Mrs.
Bruce Jones, the widow. She was standing waiting for the ushers. I
shook my head in disbelief. There next to Brooke was the coffin. The
ushers waited with the coffin for the minister’s signal. It had
images of Bruce’s artwork. Digital photography makes it possible to
decorate anything in living color. Some of the images were blocked
from my view by the ushers, but not mine. There I was paraded as a
nude sketch. Each one of Bruce’s loves had a color and mine was
pink. It was kitsch…even worse, it was downright tasteless.
Bruce
had a type. We all had brown hair and pretty faces with full lips and
straight noses. The eye color varied as did our size and build. His
type was limited to our physiognomy. I clicked the compact shut,
and the other ex-wives faced me, startled by the sound. I shrugged
with a coy apologetic smile. Look at the five of us; he had a type.
Bruce’s
love also had a shelf life. He took the seven-year-itch need to
scratch very literally. Some marriages were shorter because sometimes
the divorces got complicated and his new loves always overlapped with
the old. Public or private, his relationships always lasted seven
years.
I
was nineteen when I first walked into his classroom. He was tall and
muscular. I felt a tingle at the base of my neck when I saw his back,
as if somehow I already knew. When he turned to face me, I was gone
and completely in love. I fell in love with Bruce and the sculpture
next to him all at once. I soon learned he made love in a way no
other man did (not that I was very experienced then);Bruce traced
every inch of my body with every part of his. At twenty-four, he
already made a good living from his sculptures, but teaching remained
his passion. As he grew older and wealthier, he taught short
workshops in different parts of the world. His last one had been just
a few months before his untimely death. He was after all, only
sixty-two.
It
was clear by the careful shape of his sculptures that he knew the
shape of my legs, ankles, feet, and every other part of my body. His
sculpture venues varied; his talent knew no boundaries. Bruce loved
and sculpted as instinctively as the rest of us breathe. Whoever
inherited the rights to his art would be wise to market his sketches
as limited edition lithographs. Bruce liked to keep those private,
but he always added color to the sketches in a way that made them
works of art unto themselves. Bruce was as gifted with hue and color
as he was with shapes. Those were the sketches that someone had the
poor taste to use for the coffin. As the ushers moved around, I heard
the reactions of the other ex-wives, a blend of gasps and giggles. We
recognized all the shapes and colors.
Focused
on raising our children, I had not noticed when the sculptures
started to change. That was when Leslie entered the picture. Bruce
may not have planned to divorce me, or at least for years I tried to
believe that, but then Leslie got pregnant.
Our
marriage, his first as well, was the longest marriage: it lasted ten
years. Three of those, Bruce had spent loving Leslie, but playing
house with me. His marriage to Leslie was far shorter. I could tell
by the sculptures he had loved her for seven years. We all met him
through his art in one way or another. Wife number three, Petra,
worked in an art gallery. Although not an artist she was very
involved with his work. I derived great pleasure from the public
scandal when he hurt Leslie that way, leaving her for a mere
merchant. By then Bruce had a name, an art, and a face that was
recognized everywhere. Leslie had ended my marriage, so curiosity as
to who had ended hers interrupted my life for a time. Hers was the
only one of Bruce’s love stories I followed carefully, aside from
my own.
Aside
from relishing in Leslie’s pain, his personal life did not pique my
interest. I knew my children were always respected and old enough to
voice concern if anyone mistreated them. I could not remember if it
was the third or fourth wife who was the only one of us who did not
have children with Bruce.
Chopin’s
somber Marche Funèbre snapped me back to the moment. The elaborate
coffin encasing Bruce’s body had been placed on a movable
catafalque. The catafalque with squeaky wheels carried Bruce’s body
in a guided procession down the aisle. He was always a large man and
had managed to become larger as he aged. His appetite for food and
drink superseded all his other appetites.
Leslie
whispered in my ear, “She doesn’t look sad.”
Glancing
over at the person in question, I nodded in agreement. The widow
could not be described as grieving. Grief is, of course, different in
all of us. The body language of grief, though, is universal: the
defeated, slumped shoulders, head bowed, tears flowing. Leslie was
right. The widow was crying, but they almost looked like tears of
relief.
A
montage of Bruce’s works on a screen at the side of the altar
shaped in a semicircle created the focal point. The aisle inclined
and my pew toward the back provided a good vantage point. The incline
was slight but pronounced enough to give those of us in the back a
full view. The ushers seemed to be holding back the coffin so it
would not speed down the aisle. The wheels continued to squeak. Bruce
would have hated this. The minister or priestess─I am not sure what
title this universal church gave her─had a very unpleasant voice
and thus was difficult to listen to. No voice, even a pleasant one,
could compete with Bruce’s art. For all the rotten things I would
be happy to tell you about Bruce Jones, his art was not something
anyone could criticize. Even the most prestigious critics raved about
his talent and his work.
The
slides were in chronological order. The memory and pain from the
sting of betrayal flooded me as it had twenty-eight years earlier. I
could see Leslie through the corner of my eye and the blush that
betrayed her shame.
As
wife number two, she had been party to betrayal because she too had
been betrayed. I know Leslie grew to love my children very much. I
guess she saw me as an extension of that love in some ways. I felt
terrible. I had been so curt.
My
hand reached to her shoulder in a gesture of solidarity and
forgiveness when the images on the screen segued to show the shape of
ex-wife number three. My heart ached for Leslie because we had
similar builds, and many would not have been able to distinguish when
Bruce transitioned from sculpting my body to sculpting hers.
Ex-wife
number three, Petra─a very tall woman with long slender limbs─had
a body that blatantly displayed the transition from Leslie to her
replacement. The unquestionable change in shape left no doubt Bruce’s
affections had shifted again. Leslie, pregnant with her second child
at the time, lost the baby to grief, a loss I also knew well.
At
that point, I did need the tissues Leslie had given me, but I was
shedding tears for her, not for Bruce. I miscarried a child with my
second husband. I understood her pain and sense of loss. Mine, too,
was the last child, the child I never had.
Bruce
never sculpted pregnant women. Consequently, wife number three, the
one who had never been pregnant had seven years that boasted more
sculptures than the rest of us. At the seven-year mark, Bruce
transitioned into a new love story, a new model. Petra’s telltale
sobs showed her grasp of Bruce’s tell. After all, loving Bruce was
a gamble. The change of model in the sculpture showed his change of
heart. Petra was from a foreign country; I never paid much attention
where. My kids interacted with her, and she welcomed them with
kindness. In tandem, Leslie and I passed her the tissues.
Petra
took both tissues we offered and her lips moved in a quiet whisper;
the words were obviously meant for Leslie, though I could discern
they were, “I am sorry.”
My
daughter, Clair, had always lived up to the dual meanings of her
name: clear and famous. Clair could see things with great clarity,
and she could convey them as such. I could only assume that she knew
the ex-wives belonged together, ‘for closure and forgiveness’ as
she had said.
Clair’s
modeling career had started in her teens at her insistence; she was
not pushed nor did anyone suggest she should model. She knew she was
very attractive, and she knew she could convey her beauty and charm
to an audience, a photographer, a camera.
Her
modeling spun into acting. She was as natural on a screen as on a
stage. It came to her with ease, though she was happy to take classes
and learn. My Aaron is also successful, but he is a behind-the-scenes
sort of person. I took great pride in knowing that I had always been
a good mother. I had known how to allow my children to forge their
own paths.
Not
everything in my life succeeded, but I was a success at being a
mother. I recognized Bruce’s love shelf life because I had one of
my own, with a trail of the remains of ended marriages or
relationships. Mine perhaps more impressive than Bruce’s.
I
guess Bruce might have been the love of my life. But now in my
mid-fifties, I questioned whether a spouse or companion had any
viable use? I loved art, my passion, and although my work is not as
popular or renowned as Bruce’s, I have achieved a certain level of
success.
Defined By Others
Defining Ways Series Book 1
by M.C.V. Egan
Genre: Suburban Women's Fiction
A word, a single word defines a moment for Anne. She needs to find a new one when her spouse, Frank, leaves her at the age of forty-seven, coming out of the closet literally in a closet.
She finds herself back in her hometown of Skvallerby, Connecticut among her high school friends which she had left in her past.
An inheritance from a frenemy leaves her with the means to meddle and spy on the lives of mutual acquaintances.
In an attempt to run from her reality Anne becomes engrossed in a game of fun and flirtation with her friend and fellow sufferer Connie.
Their fun games turn into a deadly reality. It is no longer a game. Life, death and not even a defining word can stop the reality of manipulation.
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DEFINED
by OTHERS © M.C.V. Egan
Chapter
One
THUNK!
My head was pounding. But this sound was at the front door.
Disconcerted by the
thud,
I stood, and placed my hand on the wall. I had spent days drinking.
Alone. For the first
time
in my life. At forty-seven my perfectly organized life was suddenly
disrupted, destroyed.
Mother
redecorated every few years. She made a change a few months ago; the
languid blue
color
paint she chose for the walls in the living room was meant to relax
Dad. Regrettably, it did
not.
With one hand holding my back, I stepped slowly toward the door. My
mind was searching
for
the ideal word to define the moment. There was only one, despondent.
I
placed my hand on the brass door handle. The door would not budge. I
turned the lock and tried
the
door handle again. This time it worked. A sobering cold gust of wind
accompanied by dry
leaves
swirled around me. I took a deep breath and held it, as if to dive
into water, then bent to
pick
up the newspapers. There were several, some large and some small. The
thunk that startled
me
was from The New York Times—the local paper, the Skvallerby
Courier, was too small.
Two
clean newspapers were in plastic bags. After grabbing all of them, I
dumped the pile at the
entrance
wooden floor but kept that day’s local paper. I closed the door and
headed for the
kitchen,
where I began to make my coffee, French press, always. As it brewed,
I removed the
paper
from the plastic bag and looked at the front page of the Skvallerby
Courier.
There
at bottom right corner of the front page was my high school best
friend’s face with the
caption:
Service and funeral for Ms. Amanda Orm today.
Ms.
Orm fought a brave battle but finally succumbed to cancer, see
obituaries for more
information.
Amanda’s photograph was of a healthy, beautiful woman. In high
school
Amanda,
Alison, and I were known as the triple A’s. As much for our names
as we were for our
grades.
We each excelled in different ways, I was and still am the lover of
words and languages.
Amanda
was clever with numbers, and Alison the top debater in our school.
As
I took a sip of my coffee, I looked at the time on the microwave—the
funeral was in four
hours.
After finishing my coffee, I stood and headed upstairs. Once I
finally got in the shower, I
let
the warm water and steam wash away my misery. Her death made me
realize I was alive.
I
put on make-up and fixed my hair. I wanted to go into my mother’s
closet to choose a dress, but
I
could not. Instead, I chose from my clothes.
Luckily,
on my way out the door, I found a good coat in the downstairs closet.
Getting in my
father’s
Jaguar, I headed to the Skvallerby cemetery. I pulled up to the
parking lot and saw the
groups
of people elegantly and somberly dressed to pay their respects to
Amanda. I recognized
many
of my contemporaries. I had left Skvallerby as soon as I graduated
from high school. I
visited
my parents from time to time, but they owned a second home in Florida
and that was
where
we usually met. Skvallerby—the name in Swedish means gossip town
and it was that
inclination
to nasty chatter that had driven me to move away.
As
I sat in the car, I wondered if my newfound courage had been
misplaced and my hands began
to
shake. I got out of the car and clicked it shut, then headed to join
the group gathered around
the
coffin and the hole in the ground. I heard voices:
“Is
that Anne Geyer?”
Another
asked, “What’s she doing here? I thought she and Amanda were
enemies.”
Then
a voice I recognized stated, “Enemies always attend the funeral of
the fallen. It’s a way to
show
they’ve won.” Alison spoke louder than the others.
I
turned, facing the group of women, and directed my words to Alison.
“I didn’t plan to attend. I
came
to town to sort out my parents’ home.”
“I
didn’t mean you, Anne. Just people in general. How’s your dad?”
Alison
shifted uncomfortably, and her tone was insincere.
“Not
well, Alison. I can’t imagine anyone feeling a winner at a funeral.
I saw in the Skvallerby
Courier
that Amanda had no family and thought that for the memory of our
youth, I would
attend.”
“Poor
Amanda. She really was left alone in the world. With a lot of money,
but all alone.” I
didn’t
recognize the woman who said that. Her comment ignited multiple
negative responses
and
I walked away, as far away as I could get, while remaining near the
open grave.
A
handsome man approached me and as he extended his hand he said,
“Hello Anne. It is Anne
Geyer,
isn’t it? I am Peter Corrigan, Amanda’s lawyer.”
He
took out his business card and added, “Amanda named you in her
will.
Can
we meet at your earliest convenience? Would tomorrow be good for
you?”
“In
he-her b… w-will,” I stammered. “Are you sure? We had not seen
each other in almost two
decades.
We were not friends.”
“Don’t
be fooled by the turn out. Amanda did not have friends.”
“That’s
Skvallerby for you.” Smiling, I shook his hand and added,
“Tomorrow
will be fine.”
“Good.
I’ll be in my office all day, just swing by when you feel up to
it.”
The
ceremony began with the music of a bagpipe. I noticed Alison at a
distance staring at a large,
ornate
wreath. Someone must have cared for Amanda—it was a beautiful
arrangement, the kind
selected
with much thought and care.
Book Trailer
Anne a 47 year-old woman’s husband has just left her for a man.
After learning that a long lost friend of hers from her hometown in
Florida has died and left her an inheritance Anne takes off to
Florida to receive her inheritance and you know just go home for a
little while, while she deals with a divorce.
Anne’s inheritance is not quite what she was expecting. No the
inheritance was just a laptop and a video explaining about the
inheritance. Anne’s friend Amanda has invited her to continue
playing her little online game messing with other people’s lives.
The way I saw it was that after learning about Anne’s husband
leaving her for a man played a big role in Amanda’s decision to
invite Anne to play her game. I think that Amanda thought that
playing this little online game would be sort of like a coping
mechanism or some sort of therapy for Anne. Not that I agree with it
but I do get the why behind it well sort of.
Anne reunites with another of her friends from high school, Connie
who is herself dealing with divorce. Anne invites Connie to stay with
her in her mother’s home. Anne invites Connie to play the game with
her. Connie accepts.
I did make one connection with Anne and that is her connection with a
word. I don’t have the same connection with a word as Anne does but
I do love words. I love to read so therefore I love words. I remember
telling a friend once that if I see a word I will read it. (There is
a longer version of this story but I won’t bore you will the
details now.)
What drew me to read Defined by Others was the author M.C.V. Egan and
her writing. I am always up for reading one of her books actually I
believe I have read all of her books now well with the exception of
the revised edition of The Bridge of Deaths. I would recommend all of
her books even if you don’t read that genre. So if you have not
read one of M.C.V. Egan’s books what are you waiting for? Head on
over to your favorite place to purchase books and start clicking.
A Love Story and Mystery
by M.C.V. Egan
Genre: Historical Mystery
On August 15th, 1939, an English passenger plane from British Airways Ltd. crashed in Danish waters between the towns of Nykøbing Falster and Vordingborg. There were five casualties reported and one survivor. Just two weeks before, Hitler invaded Poland. With the world at the brink of war, the manner in which this incident was investigated left much open to doubt. The jurisdiction battle between the two towns and the newly formed Danish secret police created an atmosphere of intrigue and distrust. The Bridge of Deaths is a love story and a mystery. Fictional characters travel through the world of past life regressions and information acquired from psychics as well as archives and historical sources to solve "one of those mysteries that never get solved." Based on true events and real people, The Bridge of Deaths is the culmination of 18 years of sifting through conventional and unconventional sources in Denmark, England, Mexico and the United States. The story finds a way to help the reader feel that s/he is also sifting through data and forming their own conclusions. Cross The Bridge of Deaths into 1939, and dive into cold Danish waters to uncover the secrets of the G-AESY.
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THE
BRIDGE OF DEATHS by M.C.V. EGAN
CHAPTER
ONE- BILL
He
perceived himself to be a sensible man. He surrounded himself with
facts and numbers. Those who worked and interacted with him saw him
as a levelheaded, reasonable, and credible individual. He was a man
of logic and common sense. And aside from a handful of therapists, no
one knew him, not wholly.
At
this point in time, he had exhausted all practical, reasonable,
credible, traditional, levelheaded, common sense, and rational
options to try to solve his problem. He now found himself open to the
possibility of the unreasonable, incredible, irrational, implausible,
and illogical. It could even be said that he was now open to the
possibility of the absurd and the ridiculous.
He
functioned and lived well enough. To be sure, he functioned and lived
better than most. And until now, this had been acceptable, a
reasonable way of living. But now this was no longer the case, and at
least in part, this was due to his age. He was now past the age of
thirty, and he began to have a strong desire for a family of his own.
The stress of such desires could also be a contributing factor that
was aggravating his problem.
His
logical mind made him fully aware of one thing, and that was the type
of woman he wanted to share his life with: the type of woman he
pictured himself riding off into the happily-ever-after proverbial
sunset with was not going to settle for “enough.” It is also
probably important to note here that although he did not realize it,
he was by all accounts a hopeless romantic.
Now
that he was an accomplished success in his chosen field and in a
financially stable situation, he felt a need to fulfill other aspects
of his life. As was mentioned before, like so many men past the age
of thirty, he sought to find a perfect woman, a woman to share his
life with. It was not a particular physical type he imagined, for he
found (as most men do) all pretty women attractive. The list of
requirements for the perfect woman was more along the lines of an
educational and socioeconomic nature. And, of course, he required
that she have mental stability.
His
problems seemed, like so many things in life, not to be fair.
Fortunately, he was not one to wallow in self-pity. He knew that
enough effort and resources had been spent on various traditional
medicines and therapies to try to solve his problem. He had also
indulged in the untraditional recreational drug and alcohol escapism
cure, as some do in youth. None of the aforementioned had worked, not
in the long term.
He
had originally sought hypnosis to learn relaxation and control
techniques. The first hypnosis session taught him how to apply
relaxation techniques. In that session, he learned that while under
hypnosis, he was always ultimately in control. He quickly learned
that he could choose to stop the session at any time. He could do
this by simply opening his eyes.
The
second session was quite a different story; it brought back his worst
nightmare with such clarity that he had a strong physical reaction.
He started moving his arms and legs in such a way that he
unfortunately somehow hit the psychologist and gave the poor man a
rather nasty black eye. The session was interrupted before he tasted
the salty water of the sea, cold salty water, and saw the bridge
(that part was always in his nightmare).
With
an icepack held to his face, the therapist warned him that a certain
door to his subconscious had been opened and that he might start
having the dream more vividly than he had in the past. He could not
imagine his dream to feel any more real than it already did. The
therapist also stated that a problem having lasted seventeen years
could hardly be solved overnight.
Inasmuch
as he accepted that the therapy might work, he had begun to develop a
level of distrust of his doctor. Frankly, he had developed a strong
dislike for the therapist and felt that the man-made him feel
inferior. The doctor was pushing, trying to take him to places in his
mind that he was not ready to visit. And with regard to what he saw
in his dreams, the therapist had discussed certain … beliefs he
might consider as a possibility for his problems. These beliefs were
such that most in a world of facts and numbers would find hard to
digest.
He
did realize that his first trip to Europe as a teenager with his
school had been the beginning of his unpleasant dreams. The therapist
called that, the trigger. The problem began with nightmares, but
those had grown into other problems. Aside from the trigger, the
doctor also spoke of layers of trauma acquired after the trigger.
These problems had created certain obstacles in his life.
At
first, the transfer to London had been a feather in his cap, a
desired jump in the ladder to reach his career goals. As the weeks
passed and he began to feel more and more uncomfortable, he began to
pinpoint that it had not been puberty, but rather the eighth grade
trip to Europe (the trigger) when it all began. Here in London, he
felt this “problem” was interrupting the way he liked to function
in his life and in his work.
This
trigger, according to the therapist—the therapist he did not
like—bridged who he had been (in a past life) with who he now was.
This principle of past lives was not a tangible idea that he could
relate to. If he needed to believe in reincarnation at all, he needed
facts that made it seem plausible.
The
dreams continued to haunt him. They started out in different ways but
always ended the same; the same lettering on the wings and on the
side of the aircraft; the taste of salty, cold water in his mouth;
the anxious feeling of loneliness and apprehension; and, these days,
the inevitability of awakening to a wet bed and the frustrating and
unpleasant feeling that he had no control over this.
It
was his dislike for the therapist that had introduced him to
past-life regression, coupled with the embarrassment about the black
eye he had given said man. That made him seek elsewhere for answers
on his own. He had to tackle the problem, as he had a fear of losing
all that he had accomplished: the steady climb up a corporate
ladder—although in his case, it was more of a fancy marble
staircase. This had been accomplished through hard work and an
extensive and expensive Ivy League education.
Seeking
to understand past lives was the very reason he found himself in one
of London’s finest (if not the finest) bookstores that had survived
the bad economy and competition from Amazon and other online sources.
It was there at the bookstore, Foyles, that he was holding a book
from an impressive source, which explained why such an unlikely and
illogical type of therapy might actually work.
©
MCV EGAN 2011
Book Trailer
A Love Story and Mystery
by M.C.V. Egan
Genre: Historical Mystery
On August 15th, 1939, an English passenger plane from British Airways Ltd. crashed in Danish waters between the towns of Nykøbing Falster and Vordingborg. There were five casualties reported and one survivor. Just two weeks before, Hitler invaded Poland. With the world at the brink of war, the manner in which this incident was investigated left much open to doubt. The jurisdiction battle between the two towns and the newly formed Danish secret police created an atmosphere of intrigue and distrust. The Bridge of Deaths is a love story and a mystery. Fictional characters travel through the world of past life regressions and information acquired from psychics as well as archives and historical sources to solve "one of those mysteries that never get solved." Based on true events and real people, The Bridge of Deaths is the culmination of 18 years of sifting through conventional and unconventional sources in Denmark, England, Mexico and the United States. The story finds a way to help the reader feel that s/he is also sifting through data and forming their own conclusions. Cross The Bridge of Deaths into 1939, and dive into cold Danish waters to uncover the secrets of the G-AESY.
Book Trailer
M.C.V. Egan is the pen name chosen by Maria Catalina Vergara Egan. Catalina is originally from Mexico City, Mexico. Catalina has lived in various countries and is fluent in four languages; Spanish, English, French and Swedish.
Her first book The Bridge of Deaths revolves around her maternal grandfather's death in 1939. A true-life pre-WWII event. It has over 200 footnotes with the resources of her extensive search through Archival materials as well as the use of psychometry and past life regressions. It is more fact than fiction.
The revised edition of The Bridge of Deaths; A love Story and a Mystery focuses on the story-line as opposed to fact, but all footnotes and facts are available through the website for any curious minds. http://www.thebridgeofdeaths.com
Defined by Others taps into the dark quirky side found even in the best of people. With the 2012 American elections as a backdrop and the fearless reassurance that the world might end on December 12, 2012, as predicted by the Mayan Calendar.
Death of a Sculptor; in Hue, Shape, and Color is a novella written in sixteen different voices. It is a murder mystery. She is currently working on a sequel; Bruce (title subject to change).
M.C.V. Egan lives and works in South Florida. She loves cooking and crafting. She is married and has a son. Aside from writing Astrology is one of her passions and careers she pursues.
You can find M.C.V. Egan everywhere online
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1 comments:
Thank you. I love your review of Defined by Others and what a HUGE wonderful post. I feel so honored. THANK YOU!!!!
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