Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete First Season (Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete Seasons Book 1) (14 page)

A lawyer! My gaze meets Malcolm’s and his eyes brighten.

“I’ll run down to the law offices,” he says. “Don’t say anything until I get there with a lawyer, okay?”

I nod. But really, what is there to say? I don’t know what Deborah is talking about. Then again, maybe that makes this even more dangerous.

When I’m cuffed and Deborah has finished speaking, she leads me from the office. A town the size of Springside doesn’t have much of a rush hour. But today, I’m on display for the one it does have. Malcolm locks the door and charges down the sidewalk.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he calls over his shoulder.

Then he sprints, loafers clacking the concrete, his destination the law firm at the corner of Main and Fifth, where we’re on retainer. Ghosts with a grudge like to pester attorneys, divorce lawyers in particular.

I glance around as if the people gathered can rescue me from this fate. Someone will step forward and confess or provide evidence of my innocence. But the only thing that happens is that people glance away. No one meets my eyes. Except for my neighbor, Sadie Lancaster, who drops her shopping bag on the ground, her mouth round with shock.

My cheeks flame and I duck my head. But a whisper, my name on the breeze, has me jerking it back up again. In the doorway of the deli, Malcolm’s brother is hiding. Nigel steps toward me, but I shake my head. He can’t help me, not now. Then my attention goes to Sadie. He follows my gaze and nods to show he understands. When Deborah places a hand on my head and eases me into a patrol car, Nigel slips from the shadows.

As we drive away, I crane my neck to peer from the back window, the hard, unforgiving seat digging into my hips. There, on the sidewalk, Nigel has his hands on Sadie’s shoulders. The gesture is so like Malcolm only a few minutes earlier, my heart lurches. Then she’s in his arms and he’s holding her close. He picks up her shopping bag and seems to be talking to both the items inside and to her, comforting words, judging by the expression on Sadie’s face.

And then we turn a corner and there’s nothing left to see.

* * *

“Oh, goodness, Katy, I’m so sorry. Can we do this again?”

The metal bench I’m sitting on is secured to the wall. My spine is flush against that same wall. I stare at the blue dot next to the camera’s lens. I don’t smile.

“Of course,” I say.

“Sometimes this thing goes haywire. You haven’t moved, so I don’t know why each picture is so blurry.” Penny Wilson blows air through her bangs. She is the booking officer, the police chief’s administrative assistant, and quite unaware of the two sprites darting around the camera.

They dip and dive. While you can’t capture ghosts on film, they can certainly do plenty to mess up your glamour shot. Or, in my case, a mug shot.

“Cut it out,” I whisper.

“What, dear?” Penny raises her head so her eyes peek above the camera.

“I said, maybe the power cut out?”

“Maybe that’s it!” She ducks beneath the desk.

“You and you.” I mouth the words and point at each of them. “Let her do this.” Not that they’ll listen to me. I don’t recognize these two sprites in particular. But then, sprites have such a slight presence that that doesn’t mean much. It’s a sure thing, however, that I’ve caught them before—sometime in the past—and have spoiled their fun.

I don’t suppose I can really offer my services now. Not that Penny would accept. She has an unusually high tolerance for sprites. The fact she hasn’t noticed these two is proof of that. Also, Police Chief Ramsey has never been a fan of ghost eradication.

“It’s not science!” he always told my grandmother.

He’s right. It’s not. Really, that’s the point.

Besides, the charred swill wafting from the break area wouldn’t tempt these two in the least. I’m surprised it hasn’t repelled them, not to mention all the humans in this place. The scent alone makes the back of my throat ache. Then again, maybe that’s something else, something like waiting for my mug shot to be taken.

Penny pops back up, her curls swinging in triumph. She slaps a hand on the camera, catching the sprites off guard. “There!” she cries out. “Perfect.”

Oh, but there’s still the fingerprinting to endure. This, too, is digital.

“Springside PD has gone high tech,” I say.

And because this is Penny, and she’s known me all my life, she brightens at my conversation starter, despite the circumstances. “We have! They even sent me to training.”

Unfortunately, this training didn’t include how to take a print when two sprites are covering your subject’s skin. I blow at them—discreetly. Or rather I try, but I don’t think there’s a discreet way to blow.

“Although sometimes,” Penny concedes, “the old-fashioned way is better.”

By the time she’s through, my hands are covered in black ink. There’s a smear across Penny’s cheek and several in her hair. The sprites zip around us, far too pleased with themselves.

“Wait,” I whisper on the way to the holding cell. “Just you two wait.”

Then Penny locks me in, and it’s official. I’m a criminal.

A figure is huddled on the plank bed connected to the wall. I grip one of the metal bars, smearing it with black residue, and sigh.

“Katy?”

A voice creaks behind me. I whirl, heart thumping. A woman emerges from that huddled mass, her hair a blonde tangle that still catches the light despite its current state. Her blue eyes water, but I remember what they look like when they shine. Last time I saw Belinda Barnes, she was in rehab. The center called me since dealing with an alcohol addiction and a particularly nasty ghost is more than anyone can handle.

“Oh, Belinda.” It’s all I can think to say. The alcohol is stealing everything from her—her beauty, which is phenomenal, her brain, which is equally so, and her life. She could be anything, go anywhere. But she drinks and the ghosts find her. So she drinks some more. It’s been that way since high school.

This must show on my face, for she gives me a rueful smile. “I know. I know. I already got the lecture from your grandmother.”

I suck in a breath. True, my grandmother’s ghost haunts me. Malcolm recognizes her presence, and Mrs. Greeley at the long-term care facility senses her as well. But this? This is new. I move to the bench and sit next to Belinda. This is not a conversation that needs to be overheard.

“Sorry.” Belinda tucks the flaps of her overcoat beneath her thighs and then plucks at her shirt. “I refused the shower. I like to make them suffer.”

An earthy smell rolls off of her, one laced with dead leaves and whisky. In some ways, it’s a relief from the charred coffee stench in the booking area.

“You can talk to my grandmother?”

“She caught me drinking.” She raises her palms skyward as if to say
obviously
. “She read me the riot act. At least that’s the feeling I got. I know she cares. She’s not like some of the ... others.” She pulls her coat closer.

“Have they been bothering you?”

She shakes her head. “Clearly, I’m dry at the moment, right?”

“If they do, come find me. I mean that. No charge.”

“Katy, you don’t—”

“I do, and I don’t mind. It would make me feel better. Okay?”

She nods, and it almost looks sincere. Nasty ghosts have a tendency to attract even nastier ones. Sprites are annoying and sometimes take their pranks too far. But the nasty ones linger. They clutch and cling, and those who carry that burden really are haunted.

“So, you know, I hate to ask,” Belinda says. “But what on earth are you doing here?”

“Grand larceny, seven counts, only I can’t tell you what I’ve stolen.”

She snorts. “Idiots. They spend all their time rounding up drunks and arresting the wrong people.”

“Are there right people to arrest?”

“Of course. Whoever’s been stealing everybody’s stuff. You haven’t heard about the break-ins?”

Not at all. This worries me, as does the fact I haven’t heard from my grandmother for a few days. Usually she’s a ghostly presence, an icy kiss against my cheek when I go out on a call. But we haven’t been out on any calls. Sometimes, when things get slow, she’ll kick up a ruckus somewhere so we’ll get a little business.

That hasn’t happened either. This worries me even more. I shift on the hard bench, pulling my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around my shins.

“Oh, no,” Belinda says.

I turn my head so my cheek rests against my knees.

“You don’t suppose that they”—she points through the bars, toward the front of the station—“think you’re the one stealing, do you?”

“Grand larceny,” I say. “Seven counts.”

For a moment, we stare at each other. Belinda’s eyes are clear now, like the September sky. Then she huddles into her overcoat, drawing the collar up around her jaw as if she’s chilled. I turn to face the bars and the long night ahead of me.

* * *

“Katrina Lindstrom, you have a visitor.”

Really, I don’t think my full name is necessary. The holding cell is hardly teeming with violent offenders. Belinda stirs and shifts. I hope whoever called my name hasn’t woken her. Sleep without alcohol or ghosts would do her good.

“Katy?”

This voice is different—low, masculine, familiar. But not Malcolm. I can’t place it, not until its owner comes into view. Jack Carlotta bursts through the door. By the time he reaches the cell, I’m gripping the bars with both hands and peering out at him.

“Jack? How—?”

“My grandfather called me. He said you were in jail and that I needed to rescue you. His words, not mine. So I called down, and yes, you are in jail. So here I am.” He holds out his arms. “Here to rescue you.”

“But ... how did he know?”

Jack shakes his head, gives a little shrug. He’s all suited up, very much the lawyer. Crisp pleats in each leg of his trousers, a tie with a red stripe. This is good. I need a lawyer, especially since Malcolm hasn’t returned with one.

“You drove all the way down here?” I ask. “From Minneapolis?”

“It’s not that far, and I’ve been meaning to visit anyway. Look, I’ve already made some preliminary calls—”

“On your drive down?”

“I multi-task. Anyway, they can’t hold you. The evidence is way too thin. If it went to a hearing, the judge would throw it out.”

“Then why arrest me in the first place?”

“Well, there was some pressure to do something about this rash of robberies, or so I’m told. There’s the fact Chief Ramsey and your grandmother often had ... words.”

“Neither of which have anything to do with me.”

“The pattern of thefts does. Three to five days after you stopped in on a call, something goes missing.”

All those nuisance calls. The thought of them makes me vaguely uncomfortable, like I should’ve noticed something about them. “And they told you all this?”

“They have to.” He gives me that winning grin I remember from high school. “I’m your lawyer.”

“Can you get me out of here, too?”

“Working on it.”

“More multi-tasking?”

“Of course. I’m a pro at it.”

The door bursts open again. This time, Malcolm rushes in. He lurches forward as if there’s nothing more he wants to do than plant his hands on his thighs and suck in lungfuls of air. The sight of Jack in front of the jail cell halts him, but only for a moment. He starts at a run again and grips one of the bars next to my hand.

“Katy, I’m sorry. They closed the law offices for the day, and I wasted an hour calling around, trying to get someone at home. In the morning—”

“Katy has a lawyer,” Jack says.

When Malcolm simply stares, Jack adds, “Me. Jack Carlotta.”

He takes Malcolm’s hand and it’s all handshaking and elbow gripping. I think they must be passing secret messages to each other, since Malcolm’s eyes narrow and Jack’s lips curl into a grimace. Malcolm looks rumpled next to Jack, as if he’s been tearing up and down Main Street, which, I concede, he probably has been.

I cough, hoping to get their attention. I am the one in jail, after all. “Jack,” I say, “this is my business partner, Malcolm Armand. Malcolm, this is Jack Carlotta, Mr. Carlotta’s grandson. We went to high school together.”

“I even asked Katy to prom, but she turned me down.” Jack winks.

I’m not sure if this is aimed at Malcolm or me. But, yes, it’s true. In the week Jack was in off-again status with his on-again/off-again girlfriend, he did ask me. And I did turn him down. He ended up at prom with his girlfriend, as I’d known he would. I don’t mention this detail.

Instead, I say, “Jack just passed the bar exam. Mr. Carlotta called him. He’ll be my lawyer.”

Malcolm’s eyes light with the same question turning in my mind. “How did he...?” He trails off, casting a look at Jack.

I give my head the slightest of shakes and mouth, “I don’t know.” Later. We’ll sort all this out later.

“Listen,” Jack says, “no friend of mine is spending the night in jail. I’m getting you out. In the morning, I’ll get all the charges dropped. This won’t even go to a hearing. It’s ridiculous. Give me ten minutes and you’ll be on your way home.”