Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete First Season (Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete Seasons Book 1) (15 page)

He strides from the holding area very much like he entered it—a full swagger, suit coat swinging. Malcolm tracks him as he leaves, his eyes still narrowed, an odd expression on his face, one I can’t read.

“Go with him,” I say.

“I don’t want to leave you alone.” His gaze flickers to the lump that is Belinda.

“I’m fine. Nothing can hurt me in here, and the only two ghosts are the sprites in the booking area. Besides,” I add, and lower my voice, “Jack can get ... distracted. He’ll end up having drinks with Chief Ramsey and forget all about me.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

When Malcolm leaves, I sag against the bars. I don’t know what to make of Jack’s sudden appearance. I’m not ungrateful. I can get more done if I’m not in jail. Still, I must find a way to speak to Mr. Carlotta. I take a deep breath, and then slowly, I turn toward Belinda.

“Hey.” I keep my voice low, in case she really is asleep.

“Katy, don’t...”

“Okay, I won’t, but I was just thinking—”

“You just promised you wouldn’t. You said it yourself. He’s easily distracted. I take more concentration these days. A lot more. And promise me this as well. You won’t say anything once you’re out, either.”

“What makes you think I’m not spending the night?”

“The two guys out there who’re about ready to fight over you.”

“Don’t be stupid,” I say. “No one’s fighting over me.”

The lump that is Belinda stirs. “Don’t think so?”

“No, I don’t. I’m not that kind of girl.”

“Well, take it from someone who used to be that kind of girl. Watch yourself, Katy. And choose carefully.”

I don’t know what to say to that, and she burrows further into her overcoat, cutting off our conversation. When the officer comes to release me from the cell, Belinda doesn’t move, almost seems content in her pile of ragged clothes.

So I step from the cell and let the officer lock the door on the woman who went to prom with Jack Carlotta.

* * *

I am right about one thing. By the time I meet both Malcolm and Jack in the main office area, Jack is slapping Chief Ramsey on the back. I sense more than hear the suggestion of Finnegan’s Pub.

“Katy, come with us,” Jack says. Deftly, he goes from slapping to urging, his fingers finding the small of my back and pushing me forward.

“Isn’t that a conflict of interest?” I whisper. Isn’t it? My lawyer with the police chief? It must be.

“I was thinking more of mending a few fences.” Jack’s mouth is close to my ear, his lips brushing the sensitive skin. It’s almost like a kiss or a caress, these words in my ear. “Like the ones your grandmother burned down.”

“I think you’re mixing metaphors,” I say, and I am trapped between his lips and his fingers.

“I was always lousy at English.” Jack steps back, pulls his hand away as if he senses my discomfort. “It’s why I’m a lawyer.”

“I can’t go.” I scour my mind, searching for an excuse, any excuse. I never drink. Ghosts are not kind to drunken ghost hunters.

“We need to get back to the office,” Malcolm says. And now his hand is at the small of my back, but this I don’t mind nearly as much. “Ghosts don’t wait, after all,” he adds.

Of course, in our case they do, given our lack of clients. I decide not to contradict him.

“Next time.” Jack leans closer, and it’s almost like the three of us are conspiring, our heads are so close together. “Really, it would be good for your business to have the police chief in your corner.”

Jack leaves me with that bit of advice and a kiss on my cheek.

* * *

Our walk back to the office is silent. Main Street has rolled up for the night, with only the pub casting a beacon into the dark. Even the deli next to our office is closed, and I despair that I must cook dinner for myself.

The samovar that sits in our front window throws a golden glow onto the sidewalk. This feels like home, but Malcolm is quiet, oddly so. I want to say something to him but don’t know where to start. When I cast him a sidelong glance, he turns toward the door, wrinkles his nose. I step back, pluck my shirt, and bring the fabric close to my face. I sniff. The holding cell comes flooding back—all stale, burnt coffee, that earthy aroma, and a hint of whisky.

“I stink, don’t I?” I say.

“Maybe a little.”

“Maybe a lot?”

His laugh is soft. He nods toward the door. “Let’s go inside.”

Once we’re inside, it strikes me. I can’t smell him. Normally, he smells so warm, but when I inhale, all I get is stale air. The smallest bit of dreads worms its way into my stomach. This is so like before, when we confronted that entity, the thing that seemed to suck up all the life—and scents—around itself. I shake my head and try to shake away that idea. I can’t smell Malcolm simply because I reek. Nothing more.

“So,” he says to me now. “You and Jack Carlotta.”

“Me and Jack Carlotta what?”

“You went to high school together?”

“Same graduating class.”

“Who did you end up at prom with, if not him?”

“No one,” I say. “You ... I mean, I told you that I’ve never dated anyone.”

Before we managed to put an end to Mistress Armand, she had coaxed that bit of shame from me. Even now, it stings. Even now, I know how odd it sounds, how odd I sound, how odd I am.

“No one wants to date the local ghost catcher, okay?” I shrug. “Maybe it’s different in the city, at college, but here? They just don’t.”

“It’s just that he—” Malcolm begins, his voice thick with something I can’t name.

So instead, I don’t. I refuse to name it, and I don’t let him finish either. “Why are we even talking about this?”

Malcolm rubs his jaw. “I realized tonight that I don’t know a whole lot about you or your life in Springside.”

“I don’t know a lot about you, either.”

He takes up a perch on the desk, making certain to adjust the leg of his trousers first. “Maybe we should do something about that sometime.”

His meaning is lost on me. I’m not certain what he wants. We’re already business partners. I’d like to think we’re friends. I’m not sure what comes after that.

“Maybe we could play truth or dare,” I say.

He throws his head back and laughs. The sound of it is so rich, so real, and that earlier dread loosens its grip. Tension melts from my shoulders.

“What do you think?” he says, once his laughter has subsided. “Should we call it a day?”

“I need a bath,” I say.

“You kind of do.” He softens this with a grin. “I can give you a ride home.”

“I’m fine,” I say. “Really. But you can walk me to my truck.”

He does, and even helps me inside it. Malcolm’s brand of chivalry is solid and sturdy. It never feels like a trap.

I’m a block away, ready to make the turn off of Main, when I check the rearview mirror. In it, I see Malcolm, standing on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, gaze on my truck.

Then I turn the wheel, the signal clicking, and he vanishes from my sight.

* * *

The ringtone on my cell phone jolts me awake at three in the morning. This isn’t too unusual. Even the gentlest sprite can morph into something fearsome after midnight—at least in the imagination. Some people simply can’t—or won’t—wait until morning. Of course, when we inform them that all eradications between the hours of midnight and six a.m. are at double our normal rate, most find a way to embrace the supernatural—at least until the sun comes up.

But the number on the screen is for Springside Long-term Care. My heart thuds, the beat strange and worried, as if no matter how fast it goes, it can’t push enough blood through my veins.

I answer, more dread filling my stomach.

“Katy-Girl,” the caller says, voice low and hushed. “Is that you?”

Only one person, other than my grandmother, has ever called me that. “Mr. Carlotta?”

“Sorry to call you so late. I’ve been waiting for the night manager to take his long weekend. The substitute they get always falls asleep. I had to wait until no one was around.”

“Why not shut the door and call from your room?” Every resident has a phone, after all. This seems like the most logical solution.

“They monitor outgoing calls,” he says.

This I doubt, but I suppose it’s possible. “They won’t they know you called out tonight?”

“Just that someone did from the front desk. They won’t know it’s me.”

Honestly? I think Mr. Carlotta is just having a bit of fun, maybe at my expense. Of course, if not for the fact that Springside Long-term Care is no longer a client, I might say this was a joke.

“Katy-Girl,” he’s saying now, “I’m sorry for what everyone did to you. There was nothing Annabelle and I could say to change their minds. It was our two votes against everyone else.”

“But what did I do?” There’s something awful about knowing that a large number of people simply don’t want you around, that you’re that repulsive or unpleasant or whatever it is Mr. Carlotta is about to tell me.

“It’s not what you did, it’s what you heard, when Mistress Armand was here.”

“What I heard?”

The echoes of that day rattle around in my head—confessions and shame, sorrow and regrets. The things that tear at your heart decades later, big and small, the things you can’t shrug off, pretend never happened, the things you keep locked away.

“You’re like a granddaughter to us, Katy-Girl. For some of the residents here, the ones without actual grandchildren, you are the closest thing to it.”

“Then—”

“No one wants their granddaughter learning those sorts of secrets, the indiscretions, the infidelity...” Mr. Carlotta breaks off, his voice rough as if it’s coated with its own layer of shame.

Springside Township is small enough that no one can grow up here and remain ... ignorant to all the goings-on. Still, gossip is different than confession, and truth trumps rumor.

“So they didn’t want us to come back?”

“They were too ashamed. Don’t hate them, Katy-Girl.”

“I don’t. And maybe you could tell them I can’t even sort out what I heard. It’s all a jumble, and I don’t know who did what to whom.”

Mr. Carlotta snorts. “You’re better off not knowing. Trust me.”

In this case, he’s right. I would very much like to remain the ignorant granddaughter. I would also like our account back as well, even if it’s a gratis one. If I am the surrogate granddaughter, then these people are my grandparents.

“But here’s the thing,” he says. “We have worse trouble now.”

“Is it the ghosts?”

“Someone new came around, claiming they could exorcise the ghosts from haunted objects.”

“That’s convenient,” I say. I scoot up in bed and plump the pillow. I have the feeling I won’t be falling back asleep after this conversation.

Mr. Carlotta snorts again. “It did work.”

My heart sinks. This is just how it was when Malcolm first came to town and stole all my clients with his flashy golden samovar and tea. (Ghosts prefer coffee. At least, most ghosts do. A few odd ones go for the tea.) Someone new. Someone doing something different. It’s the shiny factor.

“But there’s a problem,” he adds.

“And that is?”

“Not all of our items came back.”

For a moment, I can’t speak. I feel as if the breath has been knocked from me. Grand larceny. Seven counts. I kick off the covers, my feet bicycling furiously.

I think I’ve been framed.

I don’t voice my suspicion to Mr. Carlotta—not yet, anyway. I want to hear the whole story, or at least, his version of it.

“There were three of them,” he says. “But I think only one of them, the woman, could sense ghosts. The other two looked like hired muscle.”

“But she didn’t try to catch them?”

“No.”

Sensing ghosts—where they are, their size, what they’re up to—is an inborn trait. Actually catching them takes skill, finesse, hours of practice, and in my case, plenty of scalding with cups of coffee.

“Could you tell if all the items they took were haunted?”

“I’m sure they weren’t. They took Annabelle’s jewelry box. According to her, it’s never been haunted.”

Annabelle Greeley is another resident at the care facility. Whether it’s because she’s blind or extraordinarily sensitive, she has a feel for ghosts—my grandmother’s in particular. She’d know if she owned a haunted jewelry box.

“Here’s the thing, Katy-Girl. They brought that back.”

“As a ruse?” I suggest. The jewelry box is something her grandchildren bought her, probably at a dollar store. I doubt you could pawn it or fence it or do whatever it is thieves do. Its only value is sentimental.

“My thoughts exactly!” His voice is charged with excitement.

“And I was in Mrs. Greeley’s room not too long ago,” I add. “But I wasn’t there for the jewelry box.” My grandmother likes to visit Mrs. Greeley and often swirls inside a cobalt blue vase on the nightstand—or the Kona blend I might happen to have in a thermos.