You ever hear the phrase, about as successful as a soup sandwich? Well, that's me, I’m the soup sandwich, but instead of a soggy mess, you have a twenty-five-year-old with a Bachelor’s degree in nothing useful who just quit her job at the local home improvement store where there were definitely no tortured billionaires looking to tie anyone up—and that's not a bad thing. I know, it's looking pretty sad right about now, but at least I don't still live with my parents…
So, here I am, embarking on a new journey covering the Funerals and Obituaries section of the local paper, the San Diego Metro News, for the editor—brace yoursel—my uncle, Sal. Unfortunately, while my parents are on vacation, my Granny and her friends are determined to stir up some trouble—but this time, they may have bitten off more than they can chew—especially when some of the residents of the local retirement community are turning up unnaturally dead.
There is nothing that will keep me from protecting the people that I love, no matter how crazy they may be—not even the sexy, I mean stubborn, homicide detective, Trent Foyle, can stop me.
My name is Shelby Whitmore and I'm kind of the newest reporter for the San Diego Metro News, but hey, I'm a hit with the blue hairs.
You ever have an out of body experience? Like one of those moments where you’re standing on a street corner watching yourself do something monumentally stupid? Something you know you shouldn’t do but you just can’t help yourself?
Three weeks ago, Trent and I were deep into the Honeymoon stage of love, I swore I wouldn’t be the first one to rock the boat—Lord knows with our two Irish tempers it would happen soon enough—so when he made me promise to keep my nose and our grandmothers out of his investigation, I did.
It didn’t hurt that his head was buried between my legs at the time either. But then Daisy called me begging for help and what kind of BFF would I be if I shut the door in her face? That’s right, a shitty one. So I packed up our grandmothers and their gogo boots, g-strings, and pasties to get to the bottom of things. Only problem is if Trent catches us I’ll be dead meat, folks.
My name is Shelby Whitmore, Funeral and Obituaries columnist for the San Diego Metro News and most likely to be single again if I survive this sh*t. But hey, I’m still a hit with the blue hairs.
You ever hear the phrase embrace the suck? Trent once told me that it's an old Army saying that means make the best out of a bad situation—which is how I find myself clinking a metal can against jailhouse bars and wondering if Elvis Presley had to put up with scratchy wool blankets when he sang Jailhouse Rock.
I’m accused of killing someone, but that can't be because I was busy nursing my granny back to health.
With the Dangerous Dames scattered far and wide and Trent refusing to answer my calls, what am I to do other than to shout Attica and hope for the best. I need to find the real killer and fast.
My name is Shelby Whitmore and before my inconvenient incarceration I was a reporter for the San Diego Metro News but now it looks like I'm going up the river for murder one.
Too bad I didn't do it . . .