Page 32 of Someone Save My Midlife Tonight

I hoped I’d just made the correct call.

Only time would tell.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The transportto the safehouse of Candy’s kids, along with Amelia and Missy and the Immortals, had gone smoothly. Gideon had sent them to France. His property there was magically warded and hidden well. Before they departed, Tim did a quick spell to erase the grotesque and frightening battle the children had witnessed. Amelia, June, Jennifer and Missy were well aware of the Immortal world that lived right under the unsuspecting noses of humankind. But the kids? Not so much, and it needed to stay that way.

Lura Belle, Dimple and Jolly Sue had opted to go as well. Even though the kids couldn’t see the ghosts, they believed their presence was necessary. I wasn’t as sure, but it meant there were three less people to worry about. I had no idea how long the trio could stay on this plane. If it were up to me, they’d stay as long as they wanted. It wasn’t up to me. We’d thought their souls had been obliterated when they’d been killed defending me. It has been glorious when they’d reappeared at my and Gideon’s wedding. However, they’d beensent to deliver a message from the Higher Power. With the Higher Power after Alana Catherine, it felt right not to have the gals anywhere near the vicious entity.

It was time to interrogate Shitty Ritchie. Did I think it would go well? No. Was it necessary? Yes.

“Shitty Ritchie,” I said, glancing up at the gathering storm clouds. “We need to chat.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he huffed rudely.

“Itty Ritty,” Alana Catherine grumbled at him. “Beee good!”

The tiny menace had the wherewithal to look embarrassed. My baby had some serious sway.

“You heard that baby girl,” Jennifer admonished him. “Can’t believe she can talk at her age. That’s some crazy sauce, but you best listen, little man. I don’t know what it is about you, but you make me wanna take you over my knee and spank that bottom raw. All these people here have been nothing but nice to you, and you’re backtalking like a little bitch. Not a good look. I divorced husband number two for far less offenses than that.”

“I like getting spanked,” Shitty Ritchie announced, pointing to his itty-bitty bahookey.

That admission dropped a huge and uncomfortable pause into the conversation. Jennifer just laughed and opened a fresh bottle of wine. As she always said, it was five o’clock somewhere. It was morning here, but I was tempted to join her.

Candy Vargo noticed the darkening clouds and went to flip them off. She stopped herself. That was outstanding. I wasn’t sure how much more self-flagellation she could take. It wasn’t fun to watch. “Hang on a ball wankin’ sec,” she commanded. “Everybody, stand back.” Her order was followed quickly and without argument.

She walked over the one-story tract house and demolished it with a flick of her pinky finger. Before I could yell at her, she clapped her hands and restored the house to its original glory. The sound of grinding stone and cracking wood was strange, but the results were welcome. I was tempted to ask her why she hadn’t done that yesterday, but didn’t. It didn’t matter. I was fast beginning to realize that stuff was just stuff. Material things would come and go. It was lives that were precious and irreplaceable.

As if on cue, the sky opened up and the rain came pouring down in sheets. Everyone hightailed it into the house, including my dogs, who had apparently spent the night in Gram’s trailer.

Gideon grabbed towels for everyone to dry off and set a roaring fire in the stone fireplace. While the house had been restored, the furniture was vintage Candy Vargo—slightly ratty but comfortable. Again, stuff was just stuff. We were dry and ready to get down to business. Tim had scurried to the kitchen to whip up some breakfast. That was terrifying but sweet. His cooking skills were worse than Candy Vargo’s taste in décor, but a good deed was a good deed. Granted, we’d be punished for eating a casserole consisting of hot dogs, cottage cheese and whatever else Tim could drum up in the kitchen, but it was the least of our worries.

“Threeeeeeeeeee,” Jimmy George Carrots squealed as he, Gram and Mr. Jackson hovered by the fire. “Threeeeeeeeee! Sooooah exciiiiitingg.”

There it was. Again. The number three. It was time to dive in.

“Jimmy George Carrots,” I said with a warm smile. “Can you tell me more about the numberthree, please.”

His words came fast and furious, but what left his mouth next was so garbled, I couldn’t make sense of it. I looked to Gram to see if she’d understood.

“Slow down there, boy!” Gram said, patting the one-armed and legless ghost on the head. “You got all of us as confused as farts in a fan factory.”

Jimmy George Carrots laughed and turned a few flips. I wished I knew where his appendages had landed. It would be an honor to put the silly man back together. Maybe, he’d lost them during the night. I’d have to check his trailer later.

“Jimmy George Carrots,” I said, gently pulling him out of the air and placing him on the couch. “Can you try that again?”

“Yesssssssah,” he told me.

The second time was as convoluted as the first. The third attempt wasn’t the charm. Although, Alana Catherine giggled and chattered right back at the ghost. Did she understand him? Sadly, that would remain a mystery. I knew that if I did a mind dive, I could talk to him, but that would take time I wasn’t sure we had. Time ran differently when I was in the minds of the dead. What felt like five minutes could be a week on the earthly plane.

Tim had come back into the great room with a steaming hot casserole that smelled like the inside of my track shoes from high school. I covertly gagged when I recognized sardines and peanut butter as two of the ingredients. Candy Vargo and Shitty Ritchie were the only ones who dug in and enjoyed it. The rest of us politely refused.

“Not to worry, dear Mr. Carrots,” Tim told the ghost when he looked upset that we couldn’t understand him. “I do believe that I have some information about the number three in my handy dandy notebook.”

Candy Vargo groaned. She’d been listening to Tim’s factsfor thousands of years. Jennifer plopped herself down next to Tim and was ready to go. They were a nutty team that seemed to have been separated at birth. That wasn’t possible. Jennifer was sixty-five and Tim was… I didn’t even know how old Tim was. It had to be in the millions.

“Let me see,” Tim said, flipping through the pages. “Here’s a joke! What happened when the three blind mice went to see a play?”

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