Some Like Murder Hot EBOOK

Chapter One
Frankie: The Honeymoon Begins

The Hotel del Coronado. Home to history, ghosts, and celebrities. The location used in Some Like It Hot, a movie made famous by Marilyn Monroe’s sexy outfits. At least that’s what I’d read.

Yesterday afternoon, Bowers and I stepped off a plane at the San Diego airport and kicked off our honeymoon at the iconic hotel. Finally.

I’d recovered from my sprained ankle before Bowers recuperated from his broken collarbone, a broken tibia, cracked ribs, and lots of bruises. We’re not
into extreme sports. A nefarious killer inflicted these injuries when he pushed us both—at separate times—over the steep edge of a hillside littered with cacti and rocks. Big rocks. Possibly boulders.

At one point, I thought Bowers might not recover, but that was because the police wouldn’t allow me access to him in the hospital. I’d gotten over my fit of
pique once I learned their ruling was for his safety from the guy who pushed him off that hillside. The same guy hadn’t pushed me yet, so I wasn’t aware he
existed. Make sense?

Once we caught Dale Bennett (Pierre the goat knocked him down the same hill, which I thought was fair) we decided life was too short, and we married as soon as possible after getting a dispensation from the local bishop.

It took a while to—you know—consummate our relationship. One flesh, as the Bible puts it, which sounds creepy, like the name of a horror movie. One
Flesh: The Beast from Outer Space.

Anyway, I was terrified I’d re-injure his leg. So, I tiptoed around him, coming to bed after he was asleep, slipping away when he reached for me, until that morning I overslept. Bowers pulled me to him and growled, “I didn’t marry you so we could be pals.” And it turned out fine. More than fine.

And now, I was a Wife. Such a big title. A bit overwhelming when you’ve lived most of your adult life alone. As a confirmed slob. My cat, Emily, didn’t
care if a pile of laundry didn’t make it to the bedroom hamper. Or if it took me two days to wash the dishes. Really, she enjoyed sleeping in the laundry and
licking the dishes. So, I wasn’t a slob but a generous cat parent.

During our recovery, we’d had meals delivered and lounged around, mostly because walking was painful.

But now, I had to throw off the blanket of laziness and hop into my role. I just wasn’t sure what that role included. According to the book my mother had
given me as a wedding present, a good wife kept her husband in a perpetual state of suspense with random surprises. I took the advice seriously and had a whopper of a surprise waiting for Bowers this weekend.

When we arrived at the hotel and I followed my husband, Detective Martin Bowers, through the front doors—or just Martin Bowers, now that we were
married—my breath caught in my throat. The place was enormous. Majestic. Historic. Intimidating. And this was just the lobby.

Rich, warm wood stretched from a patterned floor and up the walls and pillars to the second-floor railings,
where it swept across the high ceiling. I felt as if I’d entered a hotel in a Western.

Except the casts in Westerns had dusty, unwashed men spitting into spittoons and women whom I suspected were just as dirty under their garters and fancy dresses. Except the hero and heroine. They knew where the bathing water was and used it.

As I scanned my fellow guests, I might have preferred the dirty, spitting men and women. This place boasted society’s elite. Designer clothing. Leather luggage. Perfectly coiffed hair, and that included the men. Even the two children with the wholesome-looking family. I imagined their weekly allowances were double what I made in a year.

An enormous chandelier hovered over a round, plush, three-section couch in lime green. A strange place for a chandelier. I mean, it was directly over the chair. As in one good earthquake and the people sitting in the pretty chair would be goners. Nothing could make me sit in that chair. But it looked nice. Too nice for me to sit on in my old jeans.

Stop it, I told myself. Just enjoy the elegant and slightly intimidating surroundings. I’d been to nice places before. Like La Hacienda Chop House, the restaurant of my dreams with their blue-cheese and mushroom smothered filet.

I wondered if the hotel had blue-cheese and mushroom smothered filet on the menu? Though I’d been to La Hacienda twice, I’d never been able to claim my steak for various reasons. Last time, I’d fed it to the dog who’d saved our lives.

I nudged my mind to focus on the point. Our honeymoon.

While my husband—husband!—stood in line, I wandered casually to a table near the entrance. Piles of Some Like It Hot 2023 Convention shirts called to
me. T-shirts mingled with sweatshirts and polo shirts. With the title over the pocket and a large pair of hot pink lips on the back, I couldn’t resist purchasing one for Bowers. He’d balk least over a polo shirt, and it would be a gentle way to tell him I’d bought tickets for the convention. That was my big surprise.

Stuffing his gift into my purse, I hurried back to him as he stepped up to the front desk. “You have a reservation for Mr. And Mrs. Martin Bowers.” He
winked at me, and I grinned.

That was another problem. My name. I’d always called Bowers by his last name. Now I was Frankie Bowers. It was like two first names. Should I now call him Marty like his sisters did? Or Martin? Good grief. The latter sounded so formal. It wasn’t in me to make up a name like Huggabear or Snookums.

My gaze drifted around the room, taking in the other guests. They still reeked of class. And money. I tugged at my denim jacket, wrinkled from the plane ride, ran my fingers through my ponytail of auburn hair, and wished I’d used a brush this morning. A touch of makeup wouldn’t have hurt.

I brushed a hand over my derriere and wondered if any of the women slinking through the lobby wore sizes over a six. You’d think with all that money they could afford some binge eating.

Next to these people, I looked like the scullery maid, whatever a scullery was. Would one of the staff, that harried man who darted around the lobby and chatted up guests like a church greeter, would he spot me and direct me to the servant’s entrance? They probably called it the employee entrance these days.

My eyes back on Bowers, I noticed I wasn’t the only one admiring my husband. A stunning brunette in a silk blouse over tight, black pants, her hair twisted into a French knot, stood unreasonably close to my man. She leaned in front of him, brushing against him like my cat Emily does when she wants a scratch behind her ears. I’d be happy to scratch her if that’s what she wanted. He smiled and stepped out of the way.

I couldn’t blame her. During his recovery, my husband’s hair had grown out and curled around his collar. His daily shave had turned into a weekly trim, and he now had one of those stubbly beards. At six-feet tall, with dark brown hair, dark-blue eyes that crinkled around the edges when he smiled, and the signs of someone who’d been through an ordeal—something that looks good on men, darn them—my husband was a looker.

But he was my husband. I changed my mind. I could blame her. Couldn’t she see his wedding ring?

She was reaching for a pen. Allegedly. One sat on the counter two feet from her right side. I snatched a ballpoint out of the container and handed it to her. “Don’t strain yourself.”

She eyed me as if reevaluating the competition coming from the scullery maid. I took Bowers’ hand in mine and squeezed. “How much longer, darling?”

His eyebrows went up. Darling. I’d overdone it.

He kissed the top of my head and murmured in my ear. “Are you eager to get to our room?”

My face got warm. He laughed, delighted, signed the credit card receipt, and accepted the keys. He did an immediate U-turn and returned to the counter.

“I’m afraid you’ve given me the wrong keys. I booked a room in The Victorian.”

The clerk’s barely controlled grin grew. “You, sir, are in The Cabanas. An upgrade, courtesy of the Wolfe Creek Police Department. And they asked me to give you this note.”

Stunned, Bowers set down our luggage and unfolded the sheet of paper. Every member had signed it, even Juanita Gutierrez, his sometime partner, sometime competition.

The largest signature belonged to Smitty: It has taken so long for you to get here; I hope you haven’t forgotten how ‘it’ works. HA!

Tears made me blink, and for a moment, I thought Bowers might cry, too. This was an incredible start to our honeymoon. A sign from Heaven that our
union had His blessings, and He’d watch over us this weekend.

Just in case He was busy, I vowed nothing would interfere with our first vacation as a married couple. But then, I’ve always been a worrier. What could happen at a beach resort crowded with snooty people and those who celebrated old movies?

“Thank you,” Bowers said sincerely, and we headed in a different direction than planned.

A dazzling woman in a dress as white as her hair impeded our progress. She parted her full, red lips and whispered, “Take a flyer, handsome.”

Bowers let go of my hand long enough to accept her gift. She ran her gaze over him and gave him an extra bright smile.

“That’s funny.”

I leaned in and read the headline. Some Like It Hot Fan Convention. A Sizzling Good Time. “What’s funny?”

He waved the flyer at the bombshell, who had moved her attention to a young couple. “The convention is for Some Like It Hot, but her outfit is from Seven Year Itch.”

I shook my head. “Who says detectives aren’t smart?” While I wondered what recess of his brain he’d pulled that information from, he led us out of The Victorian and to The Views.

“It’s a bit of a hike. Are you up for it?”

I raised one foot and wiggled it. “I’m armed with tennis shoes.” The toe of my shoe had a muddy paw print on it, a hazard of my job working with animals.

“Dang it.” Using the heel of my other shoe, I rubbed at the spot. The mud seemed dry, but I hadn’t counted on the gum stuck to the bottom of my top shoe.

As I lifted it to look at the paw print, strings of gum stretched between my sneakers.

A woman with more folds than a Shar Pei huffed as she passed, showing her opinion of my scuffed, gummy, tennies.

We finally arrived at our room, which was in a separate building past a swimming pool. Bowers set down the luggage, unlocked the door, swept me off my feet, and carried me inside.

“What are you doing?”

“I never had the chance to carry you over the threshold.”

“Your leg,” I shrieked.

He set me down and frowned. “Stop thinking of me as an invalid.”

“I’m a worrier.”

“I love that you care about me, but worrying is a waste of time.”

“Oh, Bowers,” I whispered, and he joined me in examining our room.

A king-sized bed covered most of a blue carpet with an off-white striped pattern. The rest of the floor was white tile. There was a desk, should we get the urge to write someone a note, and a couch, should we decide to have company.

Glass sliding doors opened onto a patio with furniture surrounding a fire pit. Blue-and-white striped cloth formed a canopy that draped down the sides in a privacy curtain to block the wind and prying eyes. Beyond a strip of grass and a small mound, ocean waves lapped against the shore.

“It’s perfect.”

He moved behind me and wrapped his arms around my middle, resting his chin on my head. “I’m glad you like it.”

When I turned and kissed him, he kissed me back. After a few moments, he raised his head.

“I don’t know about you, but I could use a shower after all that travel.”

“Good idea,” I said, crossing the room and flipping on the bathroom light.

Once I stepped inside, I turned. “You could always supervise.”

He grinned and followed me in. “Yes, ma’am.”

And that was the first night of our honeymoon. Not bad. But it was the last peaceful night we would have.

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