To Love and to Perish Read online

  To Love and to Perish

  Felicity Philips Investigates

  Book 1

  Steve Higgs

  Text Copyright © 2021 Steven J Higgs

  Publisher: Steve Higgs

  The right of Steve Higgs to be identified as author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved.

  The book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  ‘To Love and to Perish’ is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to Rolf Lawson for suggesting the title. Thank you, Rolf.

  Table of Contents

  Complicated Business

  Pushed

  A Challenge

  The Boutique

  The Cat and the Dog

  Thief in a Searchlight

  Vince to the Rescue

  Chocolate Biscuits

  Dinner Interruption

  Arrested

  Sisterly Love

  Good News and Bad

  Mating

  Bribing the Cat

  Deploying a Spy

  Too Distracted

  Diagnosis

  Missing Cat

  Total Badass

  In the Rear-View

  B & E

  Alternative Lifestyles

  Desperately Outnumbered

  Come and Get Us!

  Add Theft to the List

  Ninja Assistant

  All Figured Out

  List of Crimes

  News that Changes Everything

  Caught

  Theory in Pieces

  The Truth

  Champagne

  Author’s Notes

  What’s next for Felicity Philips?

  A FREE Rex and Albert Story

  More Cozy Mystery by Steve Higgs

  More Books by Steve Higgs

  Free Books and More

  Complicated Business

  I asked, ‘What was that?’ The sound of something breaking upstairs had just stopped our discussion. We were midway through the bride making it clear her bouquet had to be pink gerberas. She’d gone so far as to specify the exact shade of pink, providing a swatch to make sure I would get it right.

  Tamara Bleakwith was not unusual in my experience. Most brides have desires that might seem trivial to anyone else but are of paramount importance to them on their big day. She was really very pretty and the pictures I had seen of her fiancé showed a tall, handsome man – they were going to be a photogenic couple. She was petite, like me, with perfectly straight sandy blonde hair that fell almost to her tiny waist.

  The bride and her mother were both on their feet, looking up at the ceiling. They both had deep frowns on their faces.

  After what sounded like a vase hitting the oak floorboards above us, silence followed. Not for long though. It was interrupted by the sound of loud voices which echoed through the house as two men began arguing. I knew who the men were. One was the bride’s father, Derek Bleakwith, and the other was John Ramsey, Derek’s business partner.

  ‘Please excuse us for a moment,’ begged the bride’s mother, Joanne Bleakwith. She looked embarrassed by the outburst I could hear and rushed from the room, her daughter following close behind.

  Left alone in their house, I took a moment to go back over my notes so far. I travel with a tablet these days, having abandoned my notebooks no more than a couple of years ago. I found the leather and paper smell of the notebook comforting in a way, but the tablet was more practical, and it allowed me to send notes directly from it as a message or an email and that saved time.

  The bride (and of course her mother who was doing a lot of steering) was to be married at Coolbridge Castle, in Lenham in twelve weeks’ time. The venue is a popular location for weddings and thus one with which I am familiar. My familiarity helped, but this was still a rush job - twelve weeks is about the fastest I have ever organised a wedding. The haste was not due to the bride being pregnant as you might have imagined, but because her father was gravely ill.

  My name is Felicity Philips, and I am a wedding planner. Actually, I like to think of myself as THE wedding planner and even use that line in some of my advertising. I have a rival who would argue the point, but by and large, I am the first port of call for those with money or fame.

  At fifty-five I find myself a widow. It is not what I expected from life but tell myself one can only play the hand one is dealt. I am short and petite and have raven black hair from Italian heritage. I managed to luck out on the children front but have my niece as an assistant. She is nineteen, nimble, and has watched The Karate Kid far too many times.

  I share my life and house with a Ragdoll cat called Amber and an English bulldog named Buster. They hate each other with passion. So much so, in fact, that I dare not leave them alone in the house together which is why Buster is currently snoring by my feet.

  The cat and the dog … no I’ll start that again. I was going to say there is something unique about them, but in truth I think the oddity is me. I can hear their thoughts and understand them when they bark or meow. I had the ability from birth, I think. It caused me problems as a child because I didn't know I wasn’t supposed to tell people about it. It’s not all animals I can hear, just those I share my life with. At least, that is what I have come to believe. I got Buster and Amber after I lost my husband and started hearing their ‘voices’ not long after.

  I have to tune them out when anyone else is around which might sound easy but is something I often struggle with.

  My train of thought snapped back to the here and now when I heard Joanne’s voice echo through the ceiling. She asked what was going on.

  ‘You need to talk some sense into him,’ John raged.

  ‘Please lower your tone,’ Joanne requested politely.

  Her calmness only poured petrol on the fire. Raising his voice, John snapped, ‘Derek needs to sign this paperwork and he is refusing.’

  ‘Yes, John,’ replied Derek, his voice quiet and weak to the point that I could only just hear his words. ‘I know how highly you value Tarquin, but I am not ready to entrust the firm to him. Not yet.’

  ‘You are no longer at the helm, Derek. You need to make Tarquin the CEO so that the company can move forward!’ John was shouting again, but the tone of his words made it sound like a desperate plea.

  ‘Why?’ Derek wanted to know. ‘Why such a desperate hurry? What difference does it make to you?’

  John’s voice was an angry roar. ‘Just sign the paperwork!’

  Derek replied in his weak voice. ‘I am not dead yet, John. Regrettably, the current course of treatment is not having any more impact than the last one or the one before that.’ His statement caused a few moments of silence. ‘I will fight on, but the doctor cannot establish what is causing my condition. All he can do is grant me painkillers. However, my brain still works, and I can manage to run the firm from my bed. As principal shareholder, you can appoint Tarquin as my replacement if I die. I will not sign my firm away while I am still breathing, even to a man as talented as m
y future son-in-law.’

  John didn’t shout his response, but it sounded like a threat, nevertheless. ‘This is a mistake, Derek. I cannot wait. I won’t wait.’

  ‘Why?’ Derek wanted to know. ‘What pressure are you suddenly under?’

  If John gave an answer, I didn’t hear it. The sound of heavy footfalls echoed across the ceiling above as someone (presumably John) stomped away.

  I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, I really didn’t, and felt guilty that I could hear every word. The Bleakwiths lived in a wonderful sixteenth century farmhouse. The walls and ceiling were a little wonky, as one often sees with old houses. In the kitchen, I had spotted the familiar bow of a ship’s hull in one of the beams. When broken up, parts of old warships were often repurposed for housebuilding. That was particularly true in this part of the world so close to Chatham Naval Dockyard where so many of the Navy’s ships were built.

  I know both Derek and John from school. You might say we grew up together. However, where Derek and I were friends – I was organising his daughter’s wedding free of charge - John Ramsey and I did not see eye to eye. John was a nasty boy at school and though he might have changed as he aged, I never felt inclined to find out. I hated him back then and avoided him now.

  Derek ran a successful printing business which he built from scratch. It’s where I get all my printing done and I don’t get charged because I am a silent partner in the firm. I invested some seed money thirty years ago when Derek was setting it up. The plan was to pay me back, but Derek suggested I keep a share instead. It has provided a dividend every year since which has repaid the original loan many times over.

  I don’t play a part in the firm, or attend any meetings though Derek always sends me an invite and a copy of the minutes. Had I been active, I might have tried to block John joining the firm a year after Derek started it.

  I knew Derek was sick and had been for some time. It was something to do with his skin and he was suffering crippling joint pain too. I hadn’t seen him for more than a year – busy lives and all that – when the call came from him to ask if I would arrange his daughter’s wedding.

  How could I refuse?

  The heavy footfalls were now on the stairs, and curious (never nosey), I craned my head slightly to look back through the house.

  John Ramsey’s face was a mask of rage, colour filling his cheeks still as if he might be ready to burst like an overripe berry. Yanking his coat from the hook by the door, he tore the lining inside it, and swearing, stuffed his arms into it as he barrelled from the house.

  The solid oak door slammed back into its frame with enough force to shake the house. It caused a fine sifting of dust to fall from the oak beams above my head.

  Upstairs, the conversation continued yet now it was a soft muffled mumbling I could hear, the house doing its job to damp out the volume so the words could not be overheard.

  Buster snorted, twitching in his sleep as he chased something imaginary in his head. I scratched his belly with a free hand, passing time while waiting for Tamara and Joanne to return and my thoughts drifted to the same subject they always did recently – the eagerly expected royal wedding. Twelfth in line to the throne, and soon to be pushed further back down the list as his eldest brother’s wife was expecting yet another baby, Prince Markus was in possession of a twenty-five-thousand-pound diamond engagement ring.

  How do I know that? Because the London jeweller that sold it to the prince’s valet was good enough to let me know. I have a lot of friends and we help each other in a mutually beneficial manner.

  The engagement had not yet been announced but I was manoeuvring myself into position because I wanted to plan that wedding. It would be the pinnacle of my career and an opportunity to do some of the things I had never been able to before. Previous royal weddings had been held at Westminster Abbey with all planning undertaken by the palace. The belief was that this one would be different. Prince Markus had very little to do with the royal family, choosing to live as normal a life as he could manage.

  My daydreaming ended when I heard more footsteps on the stairs. Joanne and Tamara were returning, filled with apology, of course.

  ‘I’m so sorry you had to hear that,’ said Joanne with a sigh. I felt a natural inclination to pretend I hadn’t heard anything, but she added, ‘We all know how sound travels in this house.’ Abruptly, she staggered and had to grab the wall to stay upright.

  Tamara rushed to help. ‘Mum, you know you shouldn’t try to lift things.’ Tamara looked my way and rolled her eyes. ‘Mum helped dad get back into bed.’

  Joanne winced, clearly in pain.

  Tamara explained. ‘Mum has a nasty spinal injury from a car crash in her twenties. It stopped all her sporting aspirations.’

  Joanne groaned and shrugged her left shoulder as if doing so would lessen the discomfort she felt. ‘Some days I can barely move. Tamara is right. I shouldn’t lift things. Using my arms for anything more than some light gardening is too much.’

  ‘How is Derek?’ I asked, thinking it might help to change the subject. We’d been ignoring the topic since I arrived, but now I felt I had to ask.

  Joanne sighed. ‘The treatment isn’t working, and his doctor is running out of things to try. His skin is terrible, and his joint pain keeps him awake. He says he can run the firm but in truth the painkillers he takes render him unable to do anything. He sleeps a lot.’

  A tear fell from Joanne’s left eye as she stared at the carpet.

  Also tearful, Tamara put an arm around her mother, cuddling into her for comfort as they sat side by side on the couch opposite me. In a quiet voice, she revealed, ‘It’s why Tarquin and I want the wedding so soon.’

  I knew that already, of course. ‘Perhaps I ought to return later,’ I suggested. This was a private moment on which I now felt I was intruding. Uncomfortable, what I wanted to do was escape. I had space in my diary most days this week to arrange a fresh appointment.

  ‘No,’ Joanne shook herself, reaching for a tissue to dab at her eyes. ‘No, Felicity, I’m sorry for our emotional outburst. You are here and it would be unfair to make you return another time.’ It really wasn’t a big deal, but before I could say that she defeated me by saying, ‘I believe Tamara and I would feel better knowing the wedding was on track.’

  ‘Very well.’ With a smile, I tapped the screen on my tablet, bringing it to life once more. ‘We got as far as flowers.’

  The meeting at their house continued for almost an hour. During that time, we arranged appointments at two bridal shops, a visit with Chef Dominic for cake tasting, and a meeting with the priest who would perform the ceremony.

  When I left their house, Buster towing me along with powerful strides of his stubby legs, my thoughts were on what I needed to do next. Buster needed a walk after nearly two hours inside the Bleakwiths’ house and was trying to stop to lift his leg on the way to my car.

  ‘No, Buster,’ I insisted, tugging him along.

  ‘But I need to go now,’ he whined.

  ‘I’ll take you to the park.’

  ‘It’s not going to wait that long. I need some long grass if you get what I am saying.’

  I knew only too well, but I wasn’t going to let him utilise the Bleakwiths’ slightly overgrown lawn, that was for certain. He could hold it long enough to get out of their property and along the lane a little, or so I told him as I quickened my pace.

  It was full autumn now, the trees devoid of leaves save for the scant few that clung on to their branches dearly though they were already brown and dead looking. The temperatures were dipping too, though it was warmer today and a lightweight coat was sufficient to keep the chill from my skin.

  Once out of their gate, Buster decided enough was enough, watering the first dead weed he came to.

  A car was coming along the lane toward me. Out here in the countryside, there are no pavements, so I stepped onto the grass verge to give it enough room to pass. As it turned out, the car veered off before it reached me, the
driver steering through the double width vehicle entrance and into the Bleakwiths’ drive.

  Surprised, I recognised John Ramsey behind the wheel. He was back already though perhaps he was here to apologise for his earlier tantrum. Reminding myself that it was none of my business and tugged along by Buster, I headed down the lane, questioning whether I had indeed packed a baggie in my pocket.

  We returned some ten minutes later with the intention of getting on our way. I was due to meet with Justin Cutler, my master of ceremonies, to go over the Hepworth-St George wedding planned for next weekend. We were going to have a late lunch at the Vaults in Rochester High Street.

  When I heard the scream, I wondered if perhaps I might be late.

  Pushed

  I took a faltering step, my feet moving toward the house automatically as a response to the scream before my brain took the reins and asked what I proposed to do. I’m a wedding planner for goodness sake. Was I going to kick down the door and take charge of the situation?

  Last weekend at Loxton Hall I’d found myself fighting a crazed, knife-wielding killer. That I escaped relatively unscathed was a miracle in itself and largely due to the timely arrival of a private investigator/private security man called Vince Slater. That particular wedding went from bad to worse and the ceremony never took place because there were other maniacs ready to commit murder after the first one was taken care of.

  Somehow, though semi-famous local sleuth, Patricia Fisher, solved the case, I was involved from start to finish and was credited with helping. That world was not mine though. I didn’t run toward danger with an accomplished ninja butler at my side, I hustled smartly away from it instead like any normal person.

  Yet as my foot twitched toward my car, another scream lit the air and the front door burst open.

  John Ramsey ran from the house, leaving the door wide open in his flight. I gawped as he dug in his pocket for his keys. There was an obvious conclusion and I willingly leapt to it – he’d just done something to Derek Bleakwith and now he was running from the scene!