Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete First Season (Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete Seasons Book 1) (8 page)

I lean forward for a glimpse of Mistress Armand’s website.

Let Mistress Armand whisper the ghosts from your life. Guaranteed. Effective. Heal yourself and watch the ghosts flee.

I roll my eyes.

“Not impressed?” Nigel asks.

“Not really. She knew all about Sadie’s marriage, and how Harold cheated on her, and probably how he died, too.”

“How did he die?”

“In bed, with another woman.”

Nigel cringes. “Really? Poor Sadie.”

“Do you think she researches a town,” I say, “then uses that as a starting point for cold readings?”

Really, it wouldn’t be that hard to scan the newspapers for tidbits and then ask a few questions around town. Harold Lancaster’s obituary was coy, but if you knew what to look for, you could read between the lines.

And although I haven’t met her, Mistress Armand strikes me as the sort of person who knows how to read between the lines.

“Probably,” Nigel says. “You can find out almost anything on the Internet these days.”

“But why use your last name?”

“To get our attention?”

A new voice joins the conversation. Malcolm stands in the doorway to the conference room, which also doubles as Nigel’s work area.

“What’s your take on all this?” Nigel asks.

Malcolm gives a half laugh and shakes his head.

“Is she …?” Nigel points to Mistress Armand’s portrait. “In person?”

“Oh, yeah, and then some.”

“What?” I demand. “She’s what?” I glance from one brother to the other, but neither one will meet my gaze.

Nigel clears his throat. “Anyway, here’s the thing about having a domain name. Even though her registration is private, we can take a trip in the Internet Wayback Machine to see if she’s always been Mistress Armand.”

He clacks the keyboard some more. Then, in triumph, he pushes back from his desk, fists raised in the air. “Lady and gentleman, meet Mistress Ramone.”

Malcolm leans over one shoulder. I take the other. The website is unchanged except for the last name in the center of the screen.

Nigel peers up at his brother. “We should get on the ghost forums, see if anyone is chatting about her.”

I almost never bother with the ghost forums since anything there is either completely wrong, or so filled with hyperbole it might as well be. But in this case, maybe it’s just what we need.

Nigel pulls his chair closer to the desk and leans forward like he’s about to run a race. “I’m on it.”

* * *

What does one wear to a séance? Certainly not a skater skirt paired with over-the-knee, plaid socks. Unless you’re me. Because that’s exactly what I’m wearing. The only other dressy item in my closet is the suit I wore to my grandmother’s funeral. I can’t bring myself to pull it on; I doubt I ever will. I can’t bring myself to donate it, either, so there it hangs, haunting my closet.

Outside the Springside Community Center, a crowd is gathering. Residents from the long-term care facility make their unsteady way down the steps of the shuttle bus while others wait for the wheelchair ramp. I wave at Mr. Carlotta, who has just landed on the sidewalk.

“Katy-Girl, do you believe this bunk?” He takes my hand, like he always does. We proceed inside as if I’m his date for the evening, one of the attendants pushing his wheelchair.

“Bunk, I tell you,” he says again. “You don’t believe it, do you?”

“Of course not.”

“Then what are you going to do about it?”

People swarm the lobby. A sticky, sweet smell rises in the air. Some enterprising soul from the school board has set up a cotton candy machine. Someone else—just as clever—is selling bottled water. Sweat trickles down my spine, and despite the two-dollar markup, I buy a bottle.

“I don’t know what we’re going to do,” I say to Mr. Carlotta. “I’m meeting Malcolm here and—”

He snorts, a response that encompasses his entire opinion of Malcolm. Then a cloud passes over Mr. Carlotta’s eyes. I see it, feel it, and kneel next to his chair.

“God, Katy-Girl, but I miss her.” He clutches my hand harder, as if that could bring my grandmother back.

“I miss her too.”

He was so in love with her. That he mourns—still—makes me just a little bit angry with her. She never encouraged him; it was true.

“It wouldn’t be right,” is what she always told me. “And it’s not something I can do.”

Before she died, I agreed. Mr. Carlotta’s gnarled fingers pass across the top of my head, tangling in a few wayward strands of hair. Now I wonder if it really would have hurt that much. I disengage, slowly, standing first, then giving his hand a squeeze.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” I say. “How’s Jack?”

At the sound of his grandson’s name, Mr. Carlotta’s spine straightens. The clouds clear from his eyes.

“Just passed the bar exam and got a job offer from one of those fancy law firms in downtown Minneapolis.”

“Very impressive,” I say.

“He’s a good catch for a girl, steady job and all. Hard to make ends meet as a ghost hunter.”

I swallow back the sigh. “Last I heard, Jack was engaged.”

“Flighty thing. I knew it wouldn’t work out.”

I went to school with Jack Carlotta. We were in the same graduating class, and he once set my hair on fire with the Bunsen burner in science class, although not on purpose. I adore Mr. Carlotta too much to tell him that it’s actually his grandson who’s the flighty one.

“I need to find Malcolm,” I say instead.

Predictably, I’m treated to another snort. “You tell him, for me, that I’ve got my eye on him. He mistreats you, Katy-Girl? Well, I’ll have something to say about it.”

“We’re business partners.”

“Yes. Of course.” He gives me a sly look. “How silly of me.”

Only after I turn toward the gymnasium do I roll my eyes.

At the far end of the gym, a platform sits beneath the basketball hoop. Except for an overstuffed chair in midnight blue, the platform is empty. From where I stand, the material looks like velvet and it matches the ruffle that surrounds the platform itself. The fabric—on the chair, around the platform—is so conveniently draped, it makes me wish I were five so I could lift it up, crawl beneath, and discover all the secrets that are no doubt hidden there.

But I’m not five, so instead I walk up the center aisle, gaze searching for Malcolm. I catch sight of his ebony hair first. He’s in the front row, chatting with a reporter from the weekly newspaper. I don’t want to sit in the front row. Indeed, nothing about the front row entices me, as a person or as a ghost eradication specialist. The back is the better option, the place where you might see the sleight of hand of the technical crew.

In the back, you can slip out and no one notices. In the back, you can see who is truly engaged from their posture. But Malcolm is in the front, so I continue my trek and take the chair two seats away from his.

When the reporter leaves, Malcolm eyes the space I’ve left between us, then skewers me with a look.

“What?” He raises an eyebrow. “Do I smell?”

Normally, yes, like Ivory soap and nutmeg. It’s one of the best things about working closely with him. But when he scoots over, I end up with a nose full of musk. I scrunch up my face.

“Yeah, you do smell. Are you wearing cologne?”

He pushes a strand of hair from his forehead. “A little.”

A lot
. His white dress shirt bristles with starch. His loafers gleam. So does his hair. Extra product, I think.

“Are you going on a date later?” I ask at last.

He casts a glance at my stockings. “Are you?”

I look away.

Several banks of lights shut off, leaving the rows of chairs in the dark. A collective intake of breath echoes through the gymnasium. A hazy glow illuminates the chair in the center of the platform, the midnight blue like the night sky, sparkling with hundreds of tiny stars. It’s low budget stagecraft, to be sure, but it’s effective. I can feel people in the rows behind us leaning forward. The soft plinking of some new age tune fills the air. I turn toward Malcolm. He gives me a shrug.

Mistress Armand ascends the platform from the back, using stairs none of us can see. Her caftan flutters and glimmers a ghostly white. The image reminds me of a child’s idea of a ghost. It also reminds me of something I saw very recently, something I can’t explain, and something that tried to kill me. I lurch backward. My chair tips. The legs wobble, then Malcolm’s arm steadies me. As an encore, the chair legs thud against the wood floor. The jolt travels from the base of my spine to my jaw.

“You okay?” he whispers.

I place a hand against my neck. That thing—the entity that attacked me—is not here. Nothing is choking me. I can still breathe. I nod.

Perhaps it’s the light, but Mistress Armand is somehow lovelier than her own retouched image. Another murmur cascades through the crowd. Certainly Malcolm sits up straighter, as if she’s captured his full attention. His arm slips from the back of my chair.

I pretend not to notice.

“Welcome!” Mistress Armand calls out. “Welcome friends of all kinds, human and otherworldly. We are here today to dispel myths about our friends on the other side. We are here today to communicate with them, to learn from their knowledge. We are here to heal past hurts.”

I can’t tell if she means all of us or is speaking in the royal third person. I’m not sure it matters, since most everyone is here to speak to ghosts.

If only the ghosts could talk back.

I listen, trying not to judge or roll my eyes. I fail on both accounts. I squirm in my seat, the metal folding chair making my hips ache. A chill rolls through me despite the body heat warming the air. Up on stage, Mistress Armand wants us to confront our ghosts, which is something I do every day.

“They are merely a manifestation of our inner turmoil,” she says. “Rid yourself of that, and you rid yourself of ghosts completely. You will heal your body, soul, and spirit.”

I raise my hand.

For a second, Mistress Armand’s face contorts. “Let’s save questions for the end, shall we?”

“But I have one now,” I counter, and before she can cut me off, continue with, “Didn’t you say earlier, in fact, earlier today, that ghosts are real and that our policy of catch and release was cruel? How can they be both things? Real and merely a manifestation of our inner turmoil?”

“You simply don’t understand, my child. They are both. Don’t you see? Catch and release is like denial. You’re not facing your problems, simply pushing them aside. They return, stronger than ever.”

“But—”

“Who would like to be healed of their ghosts?” Mistress Armand’s caftan flutters with her movements. It billows as if to embrace us all.

Around me, hands shoot into the air until I’m surrounded by a forest of arms.

“You there, in the gray sweater and blue skirt. Yes, you.”

I crane my neck to see who she’s selected. To my horror, Sadie Lancaster makes her way down the aisle, hands clutched under her chin in excitement and pride at being picked.

“Ah, there you go, my dear.” Mistress Armand extends a hand and helps Sadie climb the stairs to the platform. “You are plagued by ghosts, then?”

Sadie nods. “Normally I call Katy or Malcolm, but the ghosts always come back.”

“Perhaps theirs is not the most effective business model.”

Muted laughter ripples through the audience. I’m leaning forward, ready to raise my hand or possibly storm the stage, when Malcolm grips my wrist.

“Not worth it, Katy,” he says under his breath.

“But—”

“Not. Worth. It.”

I sit back, defeated—for now. Mistress Armand leads Sadie to the chair and rests fingers with long red nails against Sadie’s temples.

“Ah, yes. I see your ghosts, my dear. The philandering husband. Am I right?”

“We have to stop this,” I say to Malcolm.

“It’s common knowledge. Everyone in town knows.” He’s still gripping my wrist as if he’s worried I’ll charge up on stage. He should worry, because I’m
this close
to doing so.

On stage, Sadie gulps a plaintive, “Yes.”

“I count one, two … oh, my,
five
affairs.”

I spear Malcolm with a look. So Mistress Armand wants to talk cruel?
This
is cruel. Sadie’s lower lip quivers. She shuts her eyes only to have Mistress Armand snap her fingers in front of her face.

“No, my dear, you must face your inner demons, stare at them straight on. For this business, we keep our eyes open.
Always
.”

Mistress Armand goes on, although the details hardly matter. Malcolm is right. Everyone in town already knows. Everyone in town, except perhaps my grandmother, was party to the deception. When Mistress Armand is done, Sadie is in tatters, her mascara carving two dark rivers down her cheeks. Bits of tissue dot her skirt.