Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete First Season (Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete Seasons Book 1) (23 page)

I climb into the driver’s side, put the key into the ignition, but don’t turn it. I wait until Malcolm’s seatbelt clicks.

“Are we still partners?” I stare straight ahead, as if I’m speaking to the windshield.

“Of course we are.”

I shift slightly in my seat. He does the same.

“Then can you tell me the truth, from the start? Because I don’t think I can be your partner if I don’t know that.”

So maybe I do want the messy, emotional chat. I’m certain I won’t like what I hear. I also know I can’t physically turn the key and drive to investigate Ghost B Gone with all these doubts in my head.

“I owe you that.” His voice is quiet, contemplative. “I owe you a lot of things. And it’s not so much that I lied. Well, not exactly. I just didn’t tell you the whole truth.”

“And what is the whole truth?”

“First? You saved me. I really did lose my job. Part of it was Nigel, but no one minded that, not when I was the top broker quarter after quarter. They threw bonuses at me, trips to Cancun. As long as Selena—”

“Wait. Is Selena your ghost?”

He nods.

Of course. Malcolm’s ghostly girlfriend would have a glamorous name. I shake my head and try to shake off the irrational jealousy.

“As long as she was around,” he continues, “things were fine. But when Nigel swallowed her, there went my streak.” He shrugs, palms skyward. “I was still a good broker, but I wasn’t spectacular—and people noticed. And they noticed enough that when things got tight and Nigel got out of hand, they fired me.”

I’m torn between telling him I’m sorry and berating him for cheating at investing in the first place. But then, is it insider trading if your source isn’t alive?

“I didn’t come to Springside with a plan, but I did come here on purpose.”

This gets my attention. I scoot against the slippery vinyl seat as if moving a few inches closer guarantees I won’t miss a word.

“Your grandmother has—had—a reputation beyond Springside. I knew she didn’t practice necromancy, but she was powerful. She could’ve been one of the best.” He sighs. “I was hoping for some advice.”

“But you found me instead.”

The grin he gives me is a slow, seductive thing. “I’m not disappointed by that.”

For three full seconds, my head buzzes. I blow out a breath and steel myself.

“I was at a crossroads. Catching ghosts with you was more fun than working at the brokerage, even if it didn’t pay nearly as well. And you...” He breaks off, rubs the palm of one hand with the thumb of the other. “I’d never met a necromancer as strong as you are.”

“I’m not a necromancer,” I say.

“But you could be. Don’t you see it, Katy? Part of the reason Springside is so haunted is you. Ghosts like you. You have an affinity for them. My grandfather would’ve called you a natural—”

“Or maybe a supernatural?”

Malcolm pauses, then throws his head back and laughs. Part of me melts, just a little. Part of me is thrilled I can still make him laugh like that.

“Yes,” he says, still chuckling. “That. I’ve never seen anything like you, and I can’t understand why you’ve never even heard of necromancy before now.”

Well, I’ve heard of it, but that’s not what Malcolm means. But ever since he zoomed into town in his cherry red convertible, I’ve discovered there are many things about ghosts and ghost hunting I never knew.

“I don’t understand why your grandmother never told you, at least.”

The sad thing is, I don’t either.

“Wait.” He sits up straight and strains against the seatbelt. “What about your parents?”

“They died not long after I was born. I don’t remember them.”

“How did they die?”

I bite my lip. “Car accident.”

“Huh. That’s a leading cause of death for necromancers.”

“It is?” I shake my head because this? This is starting to get weird.

“When there’s an imbalance, or when things go wrong—like with Nigel’s addiction—accidents happen. If we hadn’t intervened, at some point the ghosts would have decided to free themselves. Or sometimes, if a necromancer takes on a ghost that’s too strong …” He trails off. “Car accidents are good for that.”

“So the ... host.” Is that what you call it? I’m not sure, but since Malcolm doesn’t contradict me, I continue. “Has to die in those cases?”

“I’m afraid so.” His expression turns tender. He reaches out to touch my cheek—the right one. “One more reason I’m grateful to you.”

I shiver, although the air inside the cab is warm. Our conversation has fogged the glass. If anyone walks by, they’ll think we’re doing something other than talking in here. For a moment, I ponder the possibility of my parents being necromancers. I don’t remember them at all. Photographs of them evoke no memories, not even manufactured ones. My few questions always made my grandmother so sad that I eventually stopped asking.

“What about Friday, at the club?” I say now. This notion has been eating at me for the past two days. Did we walk into a trap or did Malcolm lead me there?

“I didn’t know that thing, that entity, whatever it is, would be there. It was a coincidence.”

“It’s an awfully big coincidence.”

“Maybe, but you know, ghosts gossip just as much as people do. Plus, I took you to a haunted dance club, a spot where a lot of necromancers hang out. If anything, it happened because I’m really predictable.”

“You are?” If anything, Malcolm leaves me off balance.

“Sure. A trip to my alma mater? I was showing you around. Frat house, favorite restaurant, favorite club. That’s Psych 101.”

“Then why did that thing thank you for playing a part?”

“Because the part I was playing was simply a guy trying to impress a girl.”

This should not please me as much as it does. Malcolm has lied. For all I know, Malcolm may still be lying. I will be cautious. I will clamp my lips together so no hint of a smile shows.

“If I’d been thinking—really thinking—I would’ve seen the theft of Mr. Carlotta’s Purple Heart for what it was: bait for a trap.” He sighs again, adding to the fog on the windshield. “Do you really care about anyone’s flat screen TV?”

“I don’t even own a TV.”

“There you go. But you care about Mr. Carlotta. So this entity manipulates a couple of weak-minded individuals to steal a few things, including the Purple Heart, and I unwittingly do the rest. And I’m sorry, Katy, really, really sorry.” He rubs his jaw as if it aches. “And I’m scared of what this means.” He points to the spot on my left cheek.

“You said it meant that thing can find me.”

“It does.”

“Does it...” I begin, then pause. I’m so tired of calling it
thing
or
entity
. “Does it even have a name?”

“I’m sure it does. I was trying to find out more yesterday. Called in a few favors, talked to a few old friends, that sort of thing. Made me wish my grandfather were still alive. He would know what to do.”

“So you don’t know its name.”

“You don’t
want
to know its name. To speak the name out loud is to invoke the entity.”

“You mean, poof? There it is in front of you?”

“That’s exactly what I mean, and only a well-prepared necromancer would ever do that.”

“So even if someone knows what it’s called, they won’t tell you.”

“Exactly.”

“Could you write it down?” I venture.

Malcolm laughs, not a full-throated one, but the sound of it fills the cab with warmth.

“You never give up, do you?” he says.

I shake my head.

“Katy, I don’t want you trying anything. I’m worried what this might mean for you. Remember at the mausoleum, when I kept getting that vendetta vibe?”

I nod.

“I think it means you.”

“But ... I haven’t done anything to this entity.”

“What about your grandmother?”

A week ago, I would’ve declared
of course not
. Now? Now I have to consider that I may have never fully known the woman who raised me and taught me all about ghosts.

“This thing is ancient,” Malcolm says. “Time means little to it. So, if it feels like it, it might take its revenge on you. Or wait and take it on your granddaughter. But I think it finds you ... intriguing.”

“So you’re thinking sooner rather than later, but sooner for it could be when I’m sixty. Or it could be tomorrow.”

He raises a hand and lets it drop onto his lap, defeated.

“Well, then,” I say, and turn the key in the ignition. “We’d better get going and investigate Ghost B Gone while we still have time.”

* * *

The doors to the green and white Victorian are flung wide open. A tech crew is tramping up and down the porch stairs, lugging in all sorts of electronic equipment. Two people are wrestling a generator toward the side of the house. Out front, a card table holds sodas and sandwiches. Static buzzes in the air, and the tiny hairs on the back of my neck prick up, but it’s not from fear or even the sensation of someone watching us.

No, just the cool kiss of a sprite before it veers off through the open doorway.

“See?” Malcolm whispers. “You brought them another ghost. They should put you on the payroll.”

“Hardly. This?” I gesture toward all the activity. “Is like setting a cake in front of toddlers and asking them not to touch it. I’m sure the sprites are overjoyed. All this attention? On Halloween? The most they usually get is a few screeching kids.”

Together, we take a few steps up the walk. When no one stops us, we take a few more. At last we cross the threshold without anyone noticing. Inside, we pick our way through cables and electrical cords. The buzz of static is more insistent here. Someone is feeding lines from the generator through an open window, and the breeze that sneaks in makes the space feel more abandoned, despite the crowd.

“Welcome!” someone booms out. “Welcome, friends!”

A man approaches, hand extended. His face, behind round lens glasses, beams. At sixty, he’ll make a jolly mall Santa Claus. Now, at about thirty, he’s wiry and bearded and quite possibly the true source of all this buzzing static.

He pumps Malcolm’s hand and then mine. “Good to meet you! Good to meet you! I’m Gregory B. Gone, and this is my show.”

“I’m Katy Lindstrom—”

“The ghost catcher! Of course.” He turns toward Malcolm. “And you must be Malcolm Armand. So good to have the local talent on hand.”

Local talent?

“Really lends an air of authenticity to the show. My viewers love that. Did you hear? I just broke one million.”

I glance at Malcolm. Because really? I have no idea how to respond to such a statement.

“Any luck with sponsors yet?” Malcolm asks.

Gregory lights up. Yes, leave it to Malcolm to know what to say.

“Not yet, but I have a line on a couple. But then, you know how tough that is.”

Gregory tugs Malcolm away in a move so slick I barely notice. That’s fine with me. I head off on my own to peer beneath tables, thump on walls, and trace cables. I can’t quite tell if this is nothing more than elaborate stagecraft or if Gregory B. Gone truly believes in all of this.

At my side, the thermoses of coffee I made this morning slosh in the canvas bag we use as a field kit. I push open a swinging door and land in the kitchen. The space is empty. No chairs. No table. I ease onto the island, a bare and icy marble slab, the rack above it like a black skeleton. It’s just a little bit creepy sitting beneath it, like the metal arms will reach out and grab me.

I decide I need company, so I open a thermos, pour a small cup, and then hold it out like an offering.

“Yeah, I know it came from a thermos,” I say to the air, “but I just brewed it this morning and it’s some of my best.”

The metal cup warms my fingers. The aroma flows throughout the kitchen as if this space has been longing for the scent of food. I study the steam rising from the coffee’s surface. Within a minute, a glimmer appears. That didn’t take long.

“Thirsty?” I ask.

The steam wavers, and the sprite basks in the heat and flavor, clearly enjoying itself.

“I’m not sure I know you.”

Some ghosts feel familiar. My neighbor Sadie’s sprites are like playful children or puppies. Mr. Carlotta’s ghost is heavy and sad, and of all the ghosts I’ve encountered in Springside, it must be the oldest. My grandmother, whom I now realize I haven’t sensed in the past two days, is vibrant, feisty, and very much like she was in her life.

This one, here in the steam? I think it’s new. Or maybe we simply haven’t crossed paths before.

I’ve just topped off the cup when the swinging door flies open. Gregory B. Gone fills the space with his booming words.

“So here’s where you’re hiding.”

“I’m not hiding.” I hold the cup so the steam—along with the ghost—is in his line of sight.

He eyes the coffee. “Doing a little reconnaissance? I think it’s going to take more than that to draw these entities from their hiding places, and I’m not sure you should attempt it on your own. They have an evil reputation. But then, living here, you would know that.”