It's A Wonderful Midlife Crisis : A Paranormal Women's Fiction Novel: Good To The Last Death Book One

by Robyn Peterman

  He nodded and hissed.

  Breathing in slowly through my nose and blowing it out through my mouth, I closed my eyes and waited for some kind of divine intervention to help me figure out what the heck he wanted me to know.

  What would laughing dude want me to know about him? What would be important to dead person?

  His name. A person was no one without a name… simply a faceless entity.

  “Your name is Ham?” I asked, confused. I suppose it could be a nickname. Unusual, but we were in the South. I’d heard far worse.

  “Ssssssssss,” he hissed slowly, still pointing at the ham.

  He was less frantic now. I was close.

  “S. Ham?” I tried again. I figured the hissing meant S. Maybe.

  Laughing dude shook his head no, but his smile grew so wide part of his jaw dropped off and hit the floor.

  “I’m going to have to invest in some superglue,” I muttered as I picked up his jaw and handed it to him. “Keep this with you and don’t lose it. I’ll get some glue in the morning and fix you back…”

  I stopped and slapped my hand to my forehead. I wasn’t great at games, but I was pretty sure I knew what he was trying to tell me.

  “Sam,” I said. “Your name is Sam?”

  He floated up to the ceiling and then shot across the room like a bullet, making sounds of joy—garbled and weird joy, but definitely joy.

  He was no longer laughing dude who had my back when Stan was talking smack. He was Sam. Sam who just wanted to be known to someone.

  “Sam,” I said as he flitted around the kitchen, floating in and out of furniture and cabinets with excitement. “I see you, Sam. You’re not invisible to me.”

  Sam stopped and floated down in front of me. He had to be in his late eighties when he died. I vaguely remembered attending a funeral in town of someone named Sam about six months ago. He’d died of a heart attack and left behind a heartbroken, cute little-old-lady wife.

  Turning away from Sam, I leaned on the refrigerator and pressed my cheek against the cold stainless steel. Abnormal didn’t even begin to describe what my life had become. I’d be hard-pressed to find a word that fit other than something wildly profane. Had I attended Sam’s funeral? Was that why he’d come to me?

  It couldn’t be. I had at least fifty ghosts in residence as far as I could tell. I had not gone to that many funerals of people I didn’t know… at least I didn’t think I had.

  Stop. I needed to stop. This thinking was all kinds of warped.

  I hadn’t gone to Sam’s funeral. That was utterly ridiculous. I’d finally accepted that the ghosts were here… kind of. I couldn’t start being a dead person detective. I had a job and a life. They both kind of sucked right now, but they were mine. I wasn’t going to let insanity take that from me.

  However, Sam’s sweet joy was the most beautiful thing I’d witnessed in a while. So what if he wasn’t really here? Maybe my subconscious was trying to teach me something.

  What?

  No freaking clue.

  “Sam,” I said, turning around and tilting my head to the side. “We can be friends, but you can’t come to my party. Cool?”

  Sam smiled and tilted his head, mirroring me. Without his jaw, it was seriously startling, but it was the smile that counted, not the fact that it looked like a nightmare come to life.

  I took his smile as a yes.

  “I’m going to shower and get ready,” I explained as I put the ham salad in the fridge and tossed his uneaten sandwich in the trash. “You can come back later tonight—around midnight.”

  Sam faded away and I sighed. Part of me hoped to never see any of them again and another part of me would be devastated if Sam didn’t come back.

  I was definitely coo-coo for Cocoa Puffs.

  “Well, the Botox kicked in. I’m lookin’ foxy botoxy,” Jennifer announced as she put her famous monster-sized bowl of macaroni salad on the kitchen table and plopped down in a chair. “Can’t move my dang face to save my life. I like it—feel about twenty years younger. Just gotta get the fat sucked out of my ass and I’ll be good to go.”

  “Oh my God,” Heather said as she stared at Jennifer in shock. “How much botulism did you have shot into your face?”

  “I always throw dented cans of soup away,” June commented as she put four pecan pies with birthday candles in them on the table. We would not be short on food. “You can die from botulism. Back in the ’70s, hundreds of people died from canned soup. I think it was chicken noodle.”

  “I’m not dead,” Jennifer pointed out. “Can’t move a damned muscle in my head, but my face looks more like a baby’s butt than Einstein’s ass now. And to answer your question, Heather, I asked for a double.”

  “A double what?” I asked, trying not to show my horror or, God forbid, laugh. She looked frozen.

  “Double shot of Botox,” Jennifer replied with a cackle.

  Nothing moved even a fraction of an inch on her face. The only evidence that she was happy was the sound she made. It was going to take some getting used to. Since Jennifer was sarcastic most of the time, no one would know what the hell she was truly thinking.

  “You’re an idiot,” Heather said with a laugh. “How long will it last?”

  “Well,” Jennifer said with what I think was an attempt at a smile. “They say it can last anywhere from three to five months. I figured since I went for twice the amount of poison, I’d keep looking like a toddler’s backside for about a year.”

  “Congrats,” I said, trying not to laugh. I failed.

  “Thanks, Daisy,” Jennifer replied, trying to wink.

  Her eye only shut halfway.

  “You should do it like the French gals,” June said, rearranging everything on the table so it made sense. “Just a little bit here and a little bit there over time.”

  “Nah,” Jennifer said, popping one of Heather’s delicious pot-stickers into her mouth. “Damn these are hot.” Spitting it into her hand whole, she went on as if her lack of couth was normal behavior. Well, for Jennifer, it was. “I don’t have time to pay attention to that kind of shit. My tank was at empty and I filled her up with extra super-duper unleaded Botox.”

  “You sure did,” Heather said with an eye roll. “Where’s Missy?”

  “She’ll be here any minute,” I said, putting the tray of ham salad sandwiches on the table along with plates, napkins and utensils.

  I glanced around my kitchen and smiled. As soon as Missy got here, all the women I adored would be in my home. Well, except Gram. Her doctors didn’t think it was smart to take her out of the nursing home right now. With the flu going around, they were more comfortable with her staying put.

  Gram was slowing down fast—a fact I didn’t want to acknowledge. Losing her was not acceptable. It worried me how much she slept, but when we were together, she was all there. Her body might be failing her but her mind was still sharp. And she still had the hots for Bob Barker.

  The beeping of a horn pulled me from my sad thoughts.

  “Missy’s here,” Jennifer said, grabbing June’s hand and pulling her toward the front of the house. “She’s gonna need help with the present!”

  “I’m coming,” June said with a giggle as Jennifer dragged her along. “And you can scare her with your new face.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” Jennifer shot back with a guffaw.

  Heather sat down at the kitchen table and started to nibble on a ham salad sandwich. For a brief moment, I wondered where Sam and the others had gone. Quickly pushing the thought away, I focused on life… not death.

  “I wasn’t going to bring this up tonight,” Heather said carefully. “And tell me to shut up if you want to discuss it at another time or never.”

  “What?” I asked, sitting down next to her and pilfering a few sugary pecans from the top of the pies.

  “Has the life insurance claim been settled yet?” she asked, leveling me with a concerned stare.

  I should have figured she would ask. The fac
t that I was low on cash to buy coffee and filters was a clue. No one else really knew the sad, sordid details except Heather. She was smarter than hell and I didn’t know who else to go to.

  “The investigation is over,” I said, feeling the need to cry. “They’ve determined it wasn’t suicide, and I should be seeing the life insurance money in the next month or two.”

  “Those bastards should be strung up by their testicles,” Heather grumbled as she took my hand in hers and squeezed. “I’m sorry you had to fight for the money. Insurance companies are true evil.”

  Sighing, I squeezed her hand back. “I couldn’t have done it without you,” I whispered as my eyes filled. “Steve would have never killed himself. Ever.”

  “Agree,” Heather said. “It’s bureaucracy, and he had a large life insurance policy that they didn’t want to have to pay out.”

  I nodded because words wouldn’t come.

  “They tend to do that with car accidents,” Heather said, shaking her head. “I’m just glad it’s over. However, if you don’t see that money next month, you will tell me. I’ll be able to practice law soon and nothing would make me happier than taking that insurance company apart piece by piece.”

  She would do it. Heather was not only my friend. She and Steve had gotten along great and been close. Her gift in helping me deal with the aftermath of the accident and the insurance company debacle was one I could never repay. She was golden to me.

  “I love you,” I whispered.

  “Back at you, birthday girl,” she said with a sad smile. “Now, wipe the tears. Steve would be very happy right now knowing that you beat those bastards.”

  “We,” I corrected her. “We. You and me. We beat those bastards.”

  “We did,” Heather agreed with a grin. “I plan to beat a lot of bastards in the near future.”

  “And you will,” Jennifer announced as she, June and Missy entered the kitchen looking wildly guilty. “Most of the town is terrified of you. God knows I am.”

  Heather laughed and flipped Jennifer off.

  “Dude, once you pass the bar, you’re going to own this sleepy little place,” Missy said with a thumbs up.

  The large bag they held between them began to move.

  Shit. Had Sam gotten stuck in the bag? Had they accidentally captured a ghost? Could they even see the bag was moving or was it just me?

  Feeling panicked, I did nothing. If they didn’t know the bag was moving there was no way I was going to tell them. My crazy was my own secret.

  “SURPRISE!” all my friends yelled as they pulled out the cutest fuzzy red puppy I’d ever seen from the bag.

  My sigh of relief would have been hilarious if I wasn’t about to break.

  “It’s for you!” Jennifer said with no expression on her face to match her excited tone. “It’s a dog!”

  “I can see that,” I said with a raised brow as the little thing wobbled right over and laid its head on my foot.

  “We figured you might be a little lonely out here,” Missy said, sitting down at my feet and petting the puppy.

  The fuzz ball’s tail wagged a mile a minute and my heartbeat increased with joy… and fear.

  Would a puppy notice dead folks? Would it freak him or her out?

  “She’s also for security,” June said, as the little furry thing flopped onto her back for a belly rub. “Well, soon,” she added with a giggle.

  “Do you like her?” Heather asked, squatting down to pet the happy dog. “We can take her back to the shelter if we overstepped.”

  Did I like her? Yes. I was pretty sure I already loved her and I’d barely even held her yet. Could I take care of her? I wasn’t sure. But when Heather said the word shelter, my decision was made. I now owned a dog.

  “Yep,” I said, scooping the wiggly puppy into my arms.

  “Name?” Jennifer asked, grabbing a ham salad sandwich and going to town.

  “Umm… Donna,” I said with a grin. “Donna the Destroyer.”

  “Ohhh,” Missy said with a groan. “With a name like that, she’s going to eat every sofa in your house.”

  Hugging her close, I breathed in her sweet puppy smell. “I don’t care,” I told my friends with a delighted laugh as Donna the Destroyer licked my nose. “I don’t care one single bit.”

  And I didn’t. Donna the Destroyer was real. I was sure of it. Maybe the ghosts would disappear if I wasn’t so needy for companionship.

  And maybe they wouldn’t.

  Chapter Five

  “Napoleon Bonaparte’s penis was auctioned off in 1977,” Jennifer announced, swigging straight from the bottle of chardonnay.

  “Bullshit,” Heather said from her curled-up position on the love seat.

  We were all slightly buzzed, some more than others—meaning Jennifer. It was just right.

  The food had been delicious and consumed in great quantities. My ham sandwiches were the hit of the evening. There were enough leftovers for a small army. Our Southern ancestors would be proud.

  “I shit you not,” Jennifer insisted. “Some dumbass urologist from New Jersey bought it for three thousand dollars and kept it for thirty years.”

  “Why?” Missy asked, wrinkling her nose in disgust as she snuggled with Donna the Destroyer on the couch.

  Donna was adjusting just fine. She’d peed on the rug twice but did her poopy business outside. It was turning out to be a blessing that I was working from home this week, now that I had a new fur-baby. Staying away from the new lawyer was an excellent plan as well. Embarrassing myself more than I already had wasn’t on my agenda of fun things to do.

  “Well now, I don’t know why anyone would buy the chopped-off penis of a dictator,” Jennifer said, trying to wince but getting no result. “Time magazine said it looked like a ‘maltreated strip of buckskin shoelace’. It’s also been compared to a shriveled eel and beef jerky.”

  “Why do you know this stuff?” I asked with a laugh. I would never be able to eat eel sushi again without thinking of Napoleon’s package. “It’s so gross.”

  “No clue,” Jennifer replied, uncorking yet another bottle of wine. “But I can also share that the average speed of ejaculation is twenty-eight miles an hour and the largest penis is thirteen and a half inches long.”

  “That’s why I like vaginas,” Heather commented.

  “I’m really thinking you might be onto something there,” Jennifer said with a loud burp.

  June raised her hand and waited politely.

  “Umm… June, you don’t have to raise your hand,” I said with a grin. “It’s a party, not school.”

  “Well, crap,” June said with a giggle. “You’re right. I have a joke.”

  “Go for it, June,” Missy said.

  “Well, not really a joke,” June clarified. “Just silly stuff.”

  “Any penis facts?” Jennifer inquired.

  “No, absolutely not,” June said, tossing a pillow at Jennifer’s head. “Okay, here goes… Did you know the name of John Lennon’s first girlfriend was Thelma Pickles?”

  “For real?” I asked with a laugh. “That’s awful. Do more.” I settled into the big overstuffed armchair and wrapped the afghan Gram had made around me. It was lovely having people in my home… living people.

  “Well, the average adult spends more time on the toilet than exercising,” June informed us.

  “That’s true,” Jennifer agreed with a nod. “I’m on the crapper all the time.”

  “You should stop talking,” Heather advised Jennifer.

  “Roger that,” Jennifer said, pouring herself a healthy glass of wine.

  “I’ve got one,” Missy said, sitting up and putting a sleepy Donna on a blanket on the floor. “If you’re waiting to be served in a restaurant, shouldn’t you be called the waiter?”

  That one floored us. It was brilliant or we were really toasted.

  Missy soaked in the impressed reactions with delight and kept going. “Why is there an S in the freaking word lisp?” she demanded.
>
  She received applause for that one.

  “And for my last observation of the evening,” Missy said with a wide grin. “I think sweater is a really disgusting name for a piece of clothing. I say we get rid of the damned A and call them sweeters.”

  Heather sat up and gaped at Missy. “How have I never thought of any of this? Your mind is exceptional.”

  “Thank you, dude,” Missy said as she stood up and took a bow. “I try hard to please.”

  I couldn’t help but notice how Heather looked at Missy. They’d had a semi-relationship for a while. Missy wasn’t sure she was comfortable being with a woman and had ended it. Heather would never admit it, but she was heartbroken. Thankfully, they’d stayed friends. I would have never been able to pick one over the other. Missy’s staunchly religious upbringing had done a number on her. As much as I thought they were perfect for each other, it wasn’t my say. Hell, my own private life was far messier than theirs.

  “Time to call it a night,” Heather said, standing up and stretching. “I’m beat.”

  And that’s when Sam and a few others arrived home… so to speak. I wouldn’t have noticed since I was halfway asleep in my chair, but my new addition noticed—and she had something to say about it.

  “What the heck is Donna barking at?” Jennifer asked, getting ready to head out.

  “Maybe it’s a ghost,” June said with a drunken little giggle.

  My head jerked to her to see if she was serious. June didn’t see my violent reaction, but Heather did. She eyed me with concern. Shit. She was going to think I thought Steve was here as a ghost or something ridiculous like that.

  “She’s just practicing her watchdog skills,” I said quickly, scooping Donna into my arms as she whined and barked at my spectral squatters. “And I think she knows it’s bedtime. You guys have to work tomorrow.”

  “Damn it, what time is it?” Missy asked with a yawn.

  “Midnight,” Heather said, still watching me. “I’m not buzzed. I’ll drop everyone off and you can get your cars tomorrow.”

  It was midnight. I had told Sam to come back at midnight. I couldn’t even be mad at the dead posse.