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 . . .