Author: Jennifer Rebecca
Series: Funerals & Obituaries Mysteries #1
Release Date: July 17, 2017
Genre: Contemporary Romance, Romantic Comedy, Romantic Suspense
More Info: Goodreads
Purchase: Amazon US
Purchase: Barnes & Noble
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 yourself--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.
Title: Dead & Buried
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Cover Model: BT Urruela
Photography: Kruse Images & Photography
Cover Design: Uplifting Designs
Author: Rebecca Jennifer
Release Date: July 17, 2017
Do you ever feel like you’re stuck in an R. Kelly song? Because I’m definitely feeling like I’m living one. You could almost say I’m trapped in one. But not the toot toot, beep beep fun of “Ignition” or the motivational “I Believe I Can Fly”– I’m talking “Trapped in the Closet.” All seventy-five parts. Because, you know, I am actually trapped in a closet. A utility closet to be specific.
I have no idea what happened. One minute, I’m walking up the stairs of the building my granny lives in, Peaceful Sunset Retirement Village, singing, ironically, “Ignition.” I had just gotten to the good part, you know, the “hot and fresh out the kitchen” part—it’s the part where I like to mime driving a car, the part after the toots when I pull down my arm like I’m honking the horn on a big rig. I’m right in the middle of my song and dance repertoire—when all of a sudden, I hear one of the doors to the stairwell open and close, which is normal since the nurses and caregivers use these halls to get around faster and not clog up the elevators that the seniors use. The next thing I know, something hits me over the head, and it’s lights out. I never even saw the guy. Or gal. Who am I to discriminate?
Anyhoo, fast forward, however long that might be, and I find myself awake, with a killer headache. A headache a lot like the one I got when I fell out of my friend’s parents’ camper in the second grade. My friend who was also named Shelby. Weird, right? Anyway, we were playing after school at her house, and her mom found nothing wrong with our playing in one of those VW vans that were small campers with the part that pops up out of the roof for you to sleep in.
So there we were, playing with our Super Spy Barbies in the pop-up part, when she jumped down to get a clothing change for her doll. Shelby B., as our teachers in school called her to distinguish between us, was a lot bigger than me. I was the runt of the litter back then. When she went to pull herself back up, dress included, she grabbed the board I was sitting on, and I wasn’t big enough to hold the board down, so Other Shelby pulled me and the board down on top of her. We landed in order: board, then me, then the dolls and their accoutrements. After that, I bounced off of her and out the open sliding door onto the sidewalk, face first.
Next thing I knew, I was coming to, and her mom was running down the driveway with the phone to her ear. A couple of minutes later, my mom and dad pulled up in my mom’s old Jeep Cherokee, followed by a fire truck and an ambulance.
As it turned out, I had one hell of a concussion, which we found out while my dad was hanging out with all of the firemen and paramedics that he knew because they all played basketball together at the gym. I spent the night in the emergency room and the next week with the mother of all headaches, which is how I feel right now as I struggle to open my eyes and make them focus.
I look around and everything is blurry. I blink my eyes a couple of times to clear my vision. It helps a little. I take stock of what’s around me—there are mops and brooms, shelves of lightbulbs and other various paraphernalia, cleaning supplies—when it dawns on me where I am, which is how I find myself trapped in a utility closet, à la R. Kelly.
I’m sitting on the floor on my butt with my back against some more shelves. My legs are straight out in front of me, and my ankles are tied together with a zip tie. Yippee! I groan out loud when I realize my hands are bound the same way behind my back.
I could lie down and wait for a psycho to come back and finish me off, but that’s not how my daddy raised me. And if I did die because I was being a big baby, Granny would bring me back to life just to whoop my butt and kill me again. I wiggle around, trying to find anything I can break these zip ties on. I notice the door has hinges that look like little hooks, and I scoot over to try to hook the tie on my ankles to it. I wiggle and kick my legs and wiggle some more, all pretty thankful I keep my biweekly yoga date with my grandmother and her friends.
I hook the zip tie on the bottom door hinge and kick my feet by bending and straightening my knees. “Come on, come on,” I chant under my breath as I rub the plastic against the sharp side of the door hinge. “Yes!” I shout as the tie breaks. I swing to my knees and push up to my feet. My legs shake. Impressive considering there’s a polka band playing in my head and I kind of want to puke.
I lean my right shoulder against the shelves and squeeze my eyes tight, hoping to stop the room from spinning before I can find something to undo the tie at my wrists. My eyes pop open at the sudden quiet rattle of the door. I have to squint against the intrusion of the bright light that is immediately switched on. When I open them again, I am face-to-face with the vibrant jade eyes of one sexy Detective Trenton Foyle, San Diego PD.
“Jesus, Shelby, you scared the shit out of me!” he booms. I just roll my eyes, which I instantly regret, slamming them shut again.
“What?” I ask innocently.
“You just can’t help yourself, can you?” he asks.
“I don’t understand what you’re talking about,” I say coyly.
“You just have to stir up trouble, don’t you?” he asks, shaking his head.
I don’t care to answer, so I don’t. It’s not like I find myself trapped in a closet every day. Who am I kidding? I may not find trouble, but trouble always has a way of finding me. I’d like to say this is the last time, but why lie? My name is Shelby Whitmore, and I’m sort of a reporter for the San Diego Metro News and most definitely trapped in a closet.