Dutch Courage

<p><strong>Being a rich widow isn't all it's cracked up to be.</strong></p><p> </p><p>I was two days five hours and fourteen minutes away from my first appointment with a divorce lawyer I couldn't afford when my husband not so fondly known as The Jerk plowed into a tree at high speed and made me a widow before I could become a divorcée. His death didn't bother me much but the fact he'd been driving a brand new Porsche I'd known nothing about was a tad upsetting.</p><p> </p><p>And that was before I discovered his various banking and investment accounts stuffed with a whole lot of cash I <em>definitely</em> hadn't known existed. Widowhood it turned out was a whole lot more profitable than I'd ever have imagined.</p><p> </p><p>It wasn't long before I'd ditched the Goodwill hand-me-downs I'd been wearing in favor of Versace and Chanel bought my own brand new Porsche then driven all the way across country to the Chica Perdida Hotel the ultra-luxurious resort on Chica Perdida Key in the Florida Keys which was about as far from California and my old life as I could get and still keep my feet on the ground.</p><p> </p><p>The Chica promised sun sand and every luxury a girl could want. I assumed it was just bad luck that it also included a dead body on the beach. That is I did until the local Chief of Police somehow connected the dead man with my dead husband and promptly started eyeing me for the role of Murder Suspect Numero Uno!</p>