It's A Wonderful Midlife Crisis (Good To The Last Death #1) - Robyn Peterman Page 0,49

“Your dog is at the pound?”

His smile was macabre, but his relief was so apparent I ignored the fact that he looked like he was hungry and wanted to take a bite out of my face.

“Great,” I said, and then I really thought about it. Was I going to have to take John to the dog pound with me to find his dog? The thought of another dog was a little overwhelming, but I wasn’t against it. I’d always wanted to have pets. However, taking John to the pound was iffy. I certainly didn’t want to break in at night. A daytime visit could be dangerous… for me. I knew I wasn’t crazy. But if I accidentally conversed with John, my small town would talk. I’d already been the talk of the town for a while after Steve’s death. I didn’t want to go there again. I had to live here.

“How about this?” I said, trying to figure out if I was being stupid. “If I hug you, you can show me your dog in your mind. I’d also appreciate you letting me know the dog’s name so I don’t screw it up more than I already will.”

John stared at me in confusion.

“Oh right,” I said with a laugh. He had no clue what I was talking about. “I’ll go to the pound and adopt your dog. Will that make you happy?”

“Yausssss,” he grunted, looking as grateful as a dead and decomposing individual could. “Mooooorah.”

“You have more than one dog at the pound?” I asked, wrinkling my nose in thought. I could handle a few. I had a lot of property and with the insurance money coming in soon, vet bills and dog food were doable. I did wonder why all his dogs were at the pound though. Were they violent?

“Naawwwooo. Mooooorah.”

“To your story? More to what you need from me?” I asked.

Donna barked and wagged her tail. I’d gotten it right. Part of me was a little sad John didn’t have more than one dog. If I went to the pound on my own and adopted a pack, that would be bad and embarrassing. If I did it for a dead person it would be fine. My logic was mind-boggling even to myself. Whatever. I didn’t have time to dissect my crazy.

“Let’s go over what we’ve got so far,” I said, grabbing a piece of paper and a pen. The chance that I would forget a detail was high. I had way too much going on. “You did not commit suicide. You have a dog at the pound. I’m going to adopt the dog, but there’s more to the story. Right?”

“Yausssss.”

“Hang on,” I said, grabbing my phone and pulling up the local obituaries. While my laptop internet took forever, my phone was quick. I just didn’t want to use up too much data.

Scrolling for a hot second, I found it. His name was John Dunn. He was survived by his wife, Sarina Dunn—no kids or other relatives. Sad. However, the obit was strange. It mentioned the cause of death was suicide. No one put that in an obituary even if it was true. Who in the heck wrote this?

“Your name is John Dunn,” I said.

He nodded and slouched in his chair.

“And your wife is Sarina?”

John grew agitated and angry. His head shook as if he had a violent tic and gibberish flew from his papery lips.

“John,” I said firmly and loudly. “Stop. Now. You’re freaking me out. I want to help you, but you have to calm down.”

Gripping the edge of the kitchen table with his semi-transparent hands, John relaxed his dead body and got hold of himself. I could tell the hold was tenuous, but it was better than the Exorcist thing that just went down.

“Maauuury,” he grumbled.

“Mary? Your wife’s name is Mary?” Maybe he wasn’t the banker, but everything else matched up. Was he confused? Did he have another wife tucked away somewhere? Ewww, I really didn’t want to get involved in junk like that.

“Naawwwooo, maauuury.”

“Murry?”

Donna growled. I was incorrect. Again. It was looking like we were getting closer to hug time. I knew it wasn’t smart, but getting to the bottom of this could take a week at the rate we were going. Gram’s warnings clanged in my head, but she wasn’t here. She didn’t see John’s pain. Something was very wrong here.

I didn’t have time to sleep for sixteen hours again. Maybe it got easier with each dead man mind-dive. I should get a t-shirt