A Most Excellent Midlife Crisis - Robyn Peterman Page 0,6

of my squatters.

“Enough,” I shouted over the melee. “While I appreciate the sentiment, the reality is not so hot—although, you guys get ten points for disgusting creativity.”

Not one of them listened to me. Not even Gram. The action in the hallway was akin to Beetlejuice on crack. As amusing as it was, it did have to stop. Heather was surrounded by unattached feet and Tim looked as pale as the ghosts themselves. Charlie seemed somewhat entertained while my father was seriously put out. Candy was the only one really enjoying the show.

And Gideon? He simply grinned. The gorgeous man had my back for better or worse.

And this moment in time landed in the worse column.

“Listen up, dead people. There will be no reality TV for anyone if you don’t stop right now,” I yelled.

“Game shows too, Daisy girl?” Gram asked, pausing midair to clarify my threat.

“Game shows too,” I confirmed, slapping my hands on my hips and eyeing the dead who had finally slowed down to listen. “I’m serious. If you don’t cut this shit out and pick up your body parts, I’ll put on the news channel twenty-four-seven.”

The shrieks were terrifying to those who weren’t used to the deceased. Even Gideon appeared taken aback. However, the ghosts despised the news. I didn’t blame them.

“And I’d also like to say thank you. That was fairly magnificent in a revolting way,” I told them as they preened with delight at my praise. “Your unappetizing defense of myself and Steve humbles me. However, I’ve got this. If I need you guys, I’ll let you know.”

Quickly and somewhat efficiently, my squatters floated around and tried to find their lost limbs. It was going to take entirely too long. Picking up a leg and an arm, I handed them to Gram, who luckily was still in one piece.

“Take these,” I instructed.

“They’re not mine,” Gram pointed out.

“Yep, I know,” I told her. “Right now, it doesn’t matter. I need all the ghosts to go back downstairs. We can figure out what belongs to who later.”

“Roger that, sweetie pie,” Gram said, herding the specters with a shrill whistle that could have burst an eardrum. “All righty, dead folks. You heard my Daisy girl. All the people missing a noggin, feel your way toward my voice. I saw about fifteen heads roll down the stairs so I’m guessin’ some of y’all can’t see shit from Shinola at the moment. If you need a buddy, raise your hand. If you don’t have one of those, then raise a leg.”

“I can’t believe this is my life,” I said as I watched the ghosts make their way back to the first floor.

Well, all the ghosts except for Birdie.

“Hoooooooookaaah,” she sang.

The crazy old woman tossed her head in the air, did a backflip and caught it as she righted herself. The move was impressive. Candy Vargo applauded.

“Birdie, you and your head need to go downstairs with the rest,” I told her as the Immortals in the hallway watched me with great interest. “If you do as I say, you’ll be first in line to get your head reattached.”

“Hoooooooookaaah,” Birdie yelled, pointing at herself.

Glancing over at my audience, I held up my hand. “Give me a sec here.”

“Take all the time you need,” Candy insisted. “This is the best damn evening I’ve had in centuries.”

“I do concur that it’s fascinating,” Tim added.

“Delighted to be of service,” I said with an eye roll as Heather laughed.

Charlie shook his head and shrugged. “I’ve never seen anything like this in my life.”

“It’s not always this dramatic… or rather, traumatic,” I assured him. “Birdie is special.”

“That was very diplomatic of you,” Heather said with a grin.

“Thank you,” I replied. “It’s my Southern genes talking.”

“Hoooooooookaaah,” Birdie repeated, smacking her bony chest with her head and wanting my attention back on her.

I squinted at her and mentally debated how to proceed. Pissing off Birdie could mean a foot under my pillow or even worse, an eyeball in my oatmeal. With Birdie, one never knew—not that her name was actually Birdie. I’d nicknamed her due to her excessive need to flip me off. She was in rough shape and had a bad temper. Although, she’d grown on me like a nonpoisonous fungus. She was a spicy-hot mess of rude and kept me on my toes. While I’d never admit it aloud, I’d miss her when it was her time to go.

“You were a hooker when you were alive?” I asked, hoping I’d read her clues correctly. Inappropriate laughter or