The Continuing Adventures of Laurel Palmer, page 1
The
Continuing
Adventures
of
by
Pamela McCord
FROM THE TINY ACORN . . .
GROWS THE MIGHTY OAK
www.acornpublishingllc.com
For information, address:
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Irvine, CA 92602
The Continuing Adventures of Laurel Palmer
Copyright © 2022 Pamela McCord
Cover design by Damonza.com
Interior design and formatting by Debra Cranfield Kennedy
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Printed in the United States of America
ISBN-13: 979-8-88528-023-5 (hardcover)
ISBN-13: 979-8-88528-022-8 (paperback)
Chapter 1
k
When I woke up, I was dead. It took a minute for that to sink in.
When it did, I sat up, immediately shooting toward the ceiling twenty-feet above the first-floor landing. Confused, I looked down and saw myself, or what used to be myself, sprawled at the foot of the stairs. I waved my arms, wondering if that’s how I would need to propel myself in my current insubstantial form.
Actually, it only took thinking to be able to float down, where I hovered a few feet above the empty shell that used to be me, Laurel Palmer, dead at thirty-two. That was all I’d ever be. I examined the still figure critically. I had been beautiful, hadn’t I?
My body was lying there picturesquely, almost gracefully, face up, large brown eyes wide in shock, long sable hair spread around my head like a dark halo. Or I could have pulled that off if my arms and legs weren’t bent at strange angles, and a crimson liquid wasn’t pooling on the hardwood floor, with strands of that sable hair soaking in it, and my normal olive complexion wasn’t unusually pasty, with maybe a little gray creeping in.
I noticed that the filmy silk dress I’d been wearing was halfway up my thigh, fortunately not exposing anything I . . . she . . . might be embarrassed to have on display when the appropriate authorities arrived on the scene. I reached to pull the dress lower, hoping to cover more of her exposed legs, but my hand passed through the fabric.
Floating, both physically and emotionally, I smothered a sob as I scrutinized the body on the floor, fighting to control my skyrocketing anxiety. I had no lingering connection to said body after all, so I should’ve been able to view it dispassionately. As if. Hand over my mouth, I waited to see if it did anything. Like breathe. I gave a soft, choking laugh. Not likely, since I was here, and I would have been there if any life remained in the corpse.
I settled onto a step a few up from the body previously known as Laurel Palmer, rested my elbows on my knees, and pondered the meaning of life. Being dead and still here, I mean.
A flash of color caught my eye. Glancing down, I noticed a broken fingernail resting on the step beside me, the ragged edge a shredded mess. Torn off, perhaps, as I grabbed for the railing while plummeting down the stairs? I’d spent a lot of money on those mani-pedis, recently changing the color on my nails to a light sky blue, a color that perfectly complemented the blue hues in my filmy organza dress. Fearfully, I held up my hand to inspect the damage, and felt a brief joy at seeing that all my manicured fingernails were attached.
I was still wearing the clothes I’d died in. No wispy, billowing white nightgown like you might see on an angel in a movie, thank God. I’d chosen my outfit well, not knowing I would be wearing it for eternity. My designer dress and shoes brought a fleeting smile to my face.
Something nagged at my brain, but for the life of me, or make that the death of me, I couldn’t remember what it might be. I was suddenly so witty. Unfortunately, there wasn’t anyone around to appreciate it.
A worried thought hit me. Where was my husband? Why wasn’t he here sobbing over my body and calling 911?
I tapped a finger on my lips. It wasn’t like me to be clumsy. I’d never missed a step or stumbled on the stairs, despite hundreds of trips up and down. Never once. Before I could contemplate that further, I heard rustling and thumping noises coming from the second floor. Curious, I floated up the steps and followed the sounds to my open bedroom door, where I spotted my husband, Ethan, searching through my underwear drawer, flinging Natori and La Perla over his shoulder and muttering to himself, “Where the hell did she put it?”
What had he done to our beautiful bedroom? The dresser drawers and armoire doors stood open, contents strewn all over the floor or tossed onto my carefully made king-size bed. A passing thought crossed my mind that he never knew how to find anything in the house, unless it was the TV remote or the expensive bottles of Scotch reverently stored in the liquor cabinet in the butler’s pantry.
Narrowing my eyes, I had two thoughts. What was he looking for and, more importantly, why didn’t he care that his wife was sprawled dead at the bottom of the stairs?
Unless . . .
Yes, it was possible Ethan had pushed me.
That bastard. Why would he push me?
I clenched my hands and swung wildly at him, screaming in frustration as my fists sailed through him without landing a single blow.
A clueless Ethan ran a hand through his short salt-and-pepper hair and pulled his cell phone out of his back pocket, glanced at the screen, and accepted the call.
“April?” he answered, straightening up and sitting on the bed.
I stopped my ranting. April was my assistant. Was she looking for me? If so, she was out of luck.
Maybe I was jumping to conclusions. Ethan loved me. I had been sure of it. There could be a logical explanation for why he was ignoring the body at the foot of the stairs. Surely, he’d called 911 and they were on the way. Maybe he was trying to find my insurance card before they arrived?
I really hoped that was it.
But that scenario didn’t feel right. Ethan knew my insurance card was in my handbag which was sitting on the breakfast bar. I watched him smile and chuckle a little at whatever April was saying. He didn’t even mention his dead wife lying at the foot of the stairs.
There was no logical explanation. My friggin’ SOB of a husband had pushed me down those stairs. I knew it in my ghost bones.
Blinking back tears of rage and grief, I thought myself right out of the house by way of the roof, closing my eyes at the exhilaration of suddenly feeling so light and free. I flung out my arms and twirled in the air . . . and merged.
Merged?
I opened my eyes and whipped my head around to see why I was suddenly so weighed down and sluggish, like I’d run into a wall of Jell-O. Probably the green kind.
Hey! a voice assaulted me.
With a jerk, I separated myself from a guy. That’s right. A guy. Who was looking at me with the same expression I’m sure was on my face.
Watch where you’re going, he growled.
My mouth was hanging open, and I used one hand to shove it closed.
He was irritated? He should have been watching where he was going. I shuddered at the thought of that ooey-gooey merge thing and fixed my fiercest glare on him.
And noticed something. Hmm. Nice looking guy. My expression softened and I decided to be gracious.
Hi. I’m Laurel Palmer. And you are?
He backed up and crossed his arms as he regarded me. Silently.
I said . . . who are you? He was making me angry.
A slight grin might have flitted across his face as his eyes swept up and down my . . . self.
Wipe that smug look off your face. I could growl, too.
He cleared his throat. I’m sure this was all just an unfortunate accident. But you should really keep your eyes open when you’re soaring through the air.
I tilted my head, giving myself a moment to consider a reply. I bit back a snarky retort and toned down my irritation.
Sorry. I don’t know all the rules yet. I just died. Like five minutes ago. So, you could give me a break, you know.
I’m sorry, too, he replied, dropping his arms and extending a hand. I’m Teddy Rule.
Teddy’s a child’s name, I snarked, then caught myself. Apparently, I wasn’t quite over being irritated. I’m sorry again. That wasn’t very nice of me. My unexpected death kind of ticked me off. Teddy’s a nice name.
For a child, you mean? He snorted. As you can see, I’m well past childhood. His hand still hung in the air between us.
My gaze moved from his face to his hand. Should I touch him? He was a ghost. Would he be all sticky? As he looked at me expectantly, I gritted my teeth and grabbed his hand, intending to immediately drop it. I was surprised when it felt . . . good. I looked at our clasped hands and back up to his face. And found a glint of humor in his eyes. He squeezed my hand gently and let it go. I felt the loss of his touch immediately.
See you around, he said, and was gone.
I looked right, left, up, down. How did he disappear so fast?
And why was he all Jell-O-y when I collided w
Chapter 2
k
Growing bored, I needed someone to talk to, to commiserate with, and thought myself to my best friend Kiki’s house. She always knew what to do in sticky situations, and this situation was as sticky as it got.
Kiki was lounging by her infinity pool, a tall refreshing glass of iced tea in one hand and a steamy romance novel in the other.
I made a two-point landing on the pool deck beside her chaise, immediately kicking off my Louboutins and dipping my feet into the water. Odd that I couldn’t feel anything. Or maybe not, since I was dead. And Kiki hadn’t noticed my arrival.
Kiki, you’ll never guess what happened to me.
No response.
I jumped to my feet and waved my hands in front of her face. Nothing.
KIKI! I yelled at the top of my apparently nonaudible voice.
I reached for her paperback, but my hand went right through it.
KIKI, I yelled again, then sat down on the edge of the pool, dejected. And concerned. This death thing was going to get old fast.
Kiki used to have great pool parties. I kicked my feet back and forth in the water, which didn’t move one iota, as if I weren’t even there. How many afternoons had I spent here laughing and drinking with our super-fun friends? Other than my parents, Kiki was the one constant in my life. My very, very best friend for life. She’d always been there for me, and me for her. And now I needed her, and she didn’t even know it. I was scared, to be honest. I didn’t know why I was stuck here in limbo instead of going through that door, or light, or tunnel. Whatever was supposed to move me on to the Great Beyond. Why didn’t I get one of those? Was it a bad thing that I was still here?
Funny how quickly thinking about Kiki’s pool parties morphed into deeper existential subjects.
I did a quick life review hoping to discover what might have caused the guy upstairs to flag my file, but, other than a few cringe-worthy episodes, I thought I’d been a good person. Okay, I was rich, but that didn’t automatically consign me to the Great Below, did it? I mean, I gave to charities! Sure, charities hosted fabulous galas where I could wear gorgeous designer outfits and get kudos for my generosity. But wasn’t the important takeaway the fact that I was contributing to the cause? And you’d think the time I spent reading to sick kids in the pediatric ward at the hospital would count for something. Because it was real. My heart had wrenched for those kids. I had lost one of my childhood friends to cancer when I was ten and been allowed to visit her in the hospital while she fought for her life. I saw those other sick kids in her ward, with their sunken eyes and pale or jaundiced faces. And I never forgot them, so when I grew up, I often read to kids in the cancer ward and brought them books and toys. I hoped that would go in the plus column.
Of course, I wasn’t always rich. Not like I am now . . . or was. My family had a comfortable California life, but we didn’t live in Beverly Hills or anyplace like that. I grew up in the suburbs of Los Angeles. That’s where I met high school Kiki. We were both on the cheerleading squad and just hit it off. So, that was like, what? Almost mumble mumble mumble years ago? We’re getting old, Kiki, I said out loud, and sighed. Well, you are, I added. I guess I’ll be thirty-two forever since I won’t be getting any older.
I’m ashamed to admit that we both went to college to meet guys we assumed would have bright futures. And surprise! It worked.
I frowned. Being shallow like that might fall into the minus column.
It turned out that neither of us married our college boyfriends. Kiki married Arnold Butterworth, heir to some port-a-potty thingy. She’d fallen hard for him. It was love at first sight, she said. She met him at an art gallery opening where free wine and hors d’oeuvres were served. We single twentysomethings weren’t rolling in money, so we often managed to find our way into free events.
Arnold was an older gentleman, I mean really older, like by forty years, and unfortunately didn’t live long after they were married. And when he was gone, Kiki was fabulously wealthy all by herself. And heartbroken. He might not have been Prince Charming, but Arnie was good and kind and completely devoted to my best friend, and she adored him. Despite his age, Arnie was handsome, with a full head of dark brown hair, graying at the temples. Very distinguished. Still turning heads. He was in his sixties but could easily pass for fifty, or maybe even younger. Totally in the acceptable range.
He was trim and athletic, running every morning and swimming every evening, so it was a surprise when he dropped dead of a heart attack. It hit Kiki hard, and I moved in with her for a while to help her deal with her grief until she was ready to reenter the world.
Given her updated social status . . . from marrying Arnie . . . we got into exclusive Hollywood clubs and great restaurants. It was in one of those clubs that I met Ethan. He was gorgeous, self-assured, rich. And I fell hard. It seemed he did too, and we were engaged after our third date and married in a glitzy affair at the Huntington Library nine months later.
And then he pushed me down the stairs.
That snapped me out of my reverie.
I love your bathing suit, I gushed as I got to my feet and eyed Kiki appraisingly. Wish I’d seen it first. I’d be jealous if I could still wear one. I had to admit the turquoise one-piece looked fabulous on my gorgeous friend, with her blonde hair, golden tan, and long shapely legs. And diamond bracelet dangling off one wrist. She always accessorizes.
Kiki’s cell rang and she picked it up. “I forgot the time,” she said to whoever was on the other end of the phone. “Just enjoying the pool. It’s a gorgeous day. I’m coming back out here when I get home.” She listened for a moment.” Okay, I’ll hurry.” She gathered up her towel and her drink, stuffing the paperback under her arm, and headed up to the house. I drifted silently behind as she climbed the stairs to her bedroom. She rummaged in her closet for something to wear out and I lounged on her bed, watching. When she’d moved into the bathroom and started the shower, I lay on my back and stared at the ceiling. I smiled grimly as I thought of something I once read, “When I was a child, I was afraid of ghosts. When I grew up, I realized people are scarier.”
In case you couldn’t tell, Ethan, I’m talking about you, I said to the empty room, flipping my middle finger at the air.
I popped up and wandered around the room as I waited for Kiki to finish her shower. Stuck in her mirror was a business card from someone she and I met with a few weeks back. I wondered why she’d kept it.
I told Kiki what happened to me while she dressed for her date or wherever she was going. She didn’t listen, of course, not even when I got emotional and sobbed into her pillow. When the doorbell rang, she skipped down the stairs and closed the door behind her.
And I was all by myself.
Where was that damn light? What if no one could see me? It was too soon to decide that I was all alone for eternity, but I was at a loss. What does a ghost do? Is this all there is? I floated aimlessly for a time, wondering who else I could . . . haunt?
Chapter 3
k
I’m just a ghost of the person I used to be. I was so funny with my gallows-adjacent humor.
Out of desperation, I thought myself to my office, my extremely nice office, at Randall Publishing. I was . . . had been . . . Senior Editor, involved in planning and assigning stories to the writers, overseeing a proofreading team, and managing the different imprints we published.
All the busy bees were hunched over their computer screens or on their phones or chatting in the breakroom. The breakroom is where I decided to land. I floated among Beatrice, JJ and Ella, my fellow editors, trying my best to catch their attention. April wasn’t around. Maybe she was in the ladies’ room. I sighed when no one even glanced in my direction. I sank onto one of the cushioned metal chairs, dejected that I was so invisible. And, to make matters worse, Ella picked my chair to sit on. I shoved at her with my hands, which, of course, went right through her. I thought to slide out from under her, but realized I didn’t need to go that route, so I just stood and moved away from her.
