About The Book
Bake Off Wars is back! Get your aprons on and let the sleuthing begin!
The hugely popular television show is being filmed on site at Francis Court and everyone is buzzing. Everyone, that is, except amateur royal sleuth Lady Beatrice who is more interested in overseeing the refurbishment of her home, The Dower House. Bea’s brother Lord Fred on the other hand seems to be very interested in the filming, and in particular one of the show’s presenters, Summer York. So when much-loved pastry chef and Bake Off Wars judge Vera Bolt is found dead on set, and Summer is the top suspect, Fred begs Bea to investigate. Along with the help of her best friend Perry, his husband Simon, and her cute little terrier, Daisy, can Bea catch the killer without stepping on Detective Chief Inspector Richard Fitzwilliam’s toes and ruin their burgeoning friendship? Or will they fall back into bad habits and stop any hope of them growing closer dead in its tracks?
Excerpt
DCI Richard Fitzwilliam lowered himself into the armchair, his phone in one hand as he searched for a number from his contact list. He tapped on the name. Leaning back in the chair, he smiled when he felt the warm patch left from where Daisy had been curled up earlier. A pit opened up in his stomach as the phone rang at the other end. Please pick up!
“Richard,” Superintendent Nigel Blake greeted him. The word reverberated in his boss’ deep voice. “What can I do for you?” As usual, there was no small talk from the senior police officer from PaIRS.
“Er, sir. I understand there’s been a suspicious death here at Francis Court,” Rich said, rubbing his free hand along the top of the arm of his chair. Blake said nothing.
“Er, so I thought that as I’m here already, I could—”
“No, Richard.” Blake’s response was clear and firm.
Rich stifled a sigh. I haven’t even finished. “But, sir. I know the area. I know the site. I know the local police, the staff…” He trailed off.
An uneasy silence hung in the air. Then Blake spoke, “No, Richard.” His voice was low and calm. He sighed. “I’m sorry,” he added.
What can I say to convince him?
“But, sir. The Astley family won’t want someone they don’t know—” “Richard!” The superintendent raised his voice.
Rats!
“You are not available for active duty. For all sorts of health and safety reasons and insurance conditions, I cannot assign you to this job. Do you understand?”
“But if I had Spicer to do all the running around, and I just did the interviews…it would be light duties. I’m sure I can get the medical board to sign me back—”
“DCI Fitzwilliam!” Blake barked.
Rich’s throat tightened. Oh no, I’m in trouble now…
A deep sigh came from the other end of the phone. “Look, Richard, I understand you want to get back to work. I know you must be frustrated. But there’s a good reason they stipulate a period of time for rest and recovery. You were seriously injured during a traumatic event.”
What’s he saying? That I’m not up to coming back to work mentally? Rich swallowed. He hadn’t told anyone about the occasional nightmares. I’m dealing with it. He’d be fine as soon as he had something to think about other than the moment he’d stared down the barrel of a gun, knowing he was going to die. His hands were clammy. He shifted the phone to his other ear and wiped his now free hand down the side of his jeans. I just need to get back to normal…
“How did your intensive physio go?” Blake asked.
Hasn’t he seen the report? “It was fine. They said I’m doing well.” “Physically, Richard, yes. But you refused to see the trauma counsellor?” So he has seen the report. “I don’t need to, sir. I’m fine.” He shifted in his seat.
“You know you need to be signed off by both the physio and the psychologist before you can return, don’t you?”
Good grief! How hard can they make it to get back to work? “Yes, sir. And I’m ready.”
“Not until they say so, Richard.”
Doesn’t Blake want me back? Do they think I’m not up to it anymore? He swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
“And about this business up at Francis Court. I’ve already sent someone to head up the investigation.”
“Can I ask who, sir?”
Blake told him, then with a sharp, “I’ll see you in two weeks’ time and not before,” his boss cut the call.
Fitzwilliam stared at his phone screen. Really? He dropped the mobile on the table and wiggled his stiff fingers. Of all the people! His chest felt heavy. Bea won’t like this…
About The Author
Hello. I’m Helen Golden. I write British contemporary cozy whodunnits with a hint of humour. I live in small village in Lincolnshire in the UK with my husband, my step-daughter, her two cats, our two dogs, sometimes my step-son, and our tortoise.
I used to work in senior management, but after my recent job came to a natural end I had the opportunity to follow my dreams and start writing. It’s very early in my life as an author, but so far I’m loving it. It’s crazy busy at our house, so when I’m writing I retreat to our caravan (an impulsive lockdown purchase) which is mostly parked on our drive. When I really need total peace and quiet, I take it to a lovely site about 15 minutes away and hide there until my family runs out of food or clean clothes.
