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A Royal Wedding. Pomp, pageantry, and a healthy portion of psychotic killers ...
For Felicity Philips, wedding planner to the rich and famous, this is her dream job, but convinced someone is out to wreck the whole thing, her attention is on keeping everyone alive.
There is security in place, hundreds of cops and bodyguards assigned to the royal family, but do any of them know the threat is coming from multiple angles?
A party of anti-royalists have been plotting for years, one of Felicity's rivals wants nothing more than to see her competitor fail in her greatest moment, and a member of the British royal family has their eyes set firmly on the throne. All they must do is remove everyone in their path to get there. What better time to take them out than when they are all together?
Mercifully for Felicity, she is not alone. Certain of her need for help she has enlisted super sleuth Patricia Fisher, but her old friend is not the only detective at the event. Albert Smith is an honoured guest of the King. He's there with his trusted canine sidekick and they encountered the anti-royalists months ago. Finally, Tempest Michaels and the Blue Moon team have followed their own trail of clues to the wedding. They think they might know the identity of the murderous royal, but proving it, accusing a member of the royal household, is not a task one approaches without absolute certainty.
In the climactic conclusion to Felicity Philips' series, all the players will come together, their stories intertwining as the righteous battle the greedy, the corrupt, and the morally insane.
What does a wedding planner know about organising the greatest wedding ever witnessed?
Everything.
Absolutely everything.
When Steve Higgs wrote his debut novel, Paranormal Nonsense, he was a Captain in the British Army. He would love to pretend that he had one of those careers that has to be redacted and in general denied by the government and that he has had to change his name and continually move about because he is still on the watch list in several countries. In truth though, he started out as a mechanic. Not like Jason Statham in the film by that name, sneaking about as a contract killer, more like one of those greasy gits that charge you a fortune and keep your car for a week when all you went in for was a squeaky door hinge.
At school, he was mostly disinterested in every subject except creative writing, for which, at age ten, he won his first award. However, calling it his first award suggests that there have been more, which there have not. Accolades may come but, in the meantime, he is having a ball writing mystery stories, urban fantasies, and crime thrillers and claims to have more than a hundred books forming an unruly queue in his head as they clamor to get out.
Now retired from the military, he lives in the south-east corner of England with a trio of lazy sausage dogs. Surrounded by rolling hills, brooding castles and vineyards, he doubts he will ever leave, the beer is just too good.
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