It's A Wonderful Midlife Crisis (Good To The Last Death #1) - Robyn Peterman Page 0,16

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