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.
I had one goal.
Win an Olympic Medal.
Winning the Ladies Figure Skating Olympic Gold Medal should be my only focus, but my life has other plans for me. My father, the U. S. Senator, and my Stepmonster like to remind me that my role in our family comes with great expectations — and even greater responsibility.
Translation: Marry a man that will make them even more prestigious and powerful.
But that’s not my plan.
I have one last chance to prove myself.
And now, on top of everything else, I have to aid the sexy as sin Detective Kane F**king Green in finding the person who killed my friend.
My name is Sophia Eleonore Dubois, and holy mother of Dorothy Hamill, my life just got complicated . . .
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.
Not too long ago, I had one goal: Win an Olympic Gold Medal but an injury took me out of the running for the Ladies Figure Skating competition at the last Olympic Games. Nancy Kerrigan was grandfathered in. I was not.
Translation: I was disqualified. DQ’d. I was out in the cold on my keister.
But when an offer to fill a spot on a pairs team lands in my lap, I take it. It seems like an answered prayer—that is until a competitor is found brutally murdered in her room at the competitor’s village and my partner is the number one suspect.
I’m going to have to take matters into my own hands. Again. Sweet Kristi Yamaguchi, save me from overly cocky men.
My name is Sophia Eleonore Dubois and holy mother of Dorothy Hamill my life is still complicated . . .
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 . . .
Play stupid games, win stupid prizes. It’s just like my Pop Pop always said but I am not about to let something as trivial as a dead body ruin my wedding day. So pop the champagne because I am finally making an honest man out of Detective Trent Foyle.
The flowers have been delivered and the cake has been baked. The historic Grand Coronado Hotel is all decked out for the wedding of the year—ahem, mine. Too bad my groom’s most wicked of exs bought it just like the legend of the Beautiful Stranger. It figures that deranged ho would do her best to sabotage my big day even from the grave.
When time runs out I'll be going to the chapel . . . let's just hope it's for our wedding and not my funeral. My name is Shelby Whitmore and I am still a hot mess but hey, the blue hairs love me!
Staff Sergeant and Mrs Whitmore of San Diego, CA are pleased to invite you to celebrate with them the marriage of their daughter,
Trenton Eric Foyle.
U.S. Army Retired
Welcome to the shit show.