Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete First Season (Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete Seasons Book 1) (9 page)

Mistress Armand clutches hands to her chest and turns her gaze toward the ceiling. “Wasn’t that cathartic?”

“Actually it was horrid,” I say, not caring who hears me.

Mistress Armand’s jaw twitches.

“Now, my dear,” Mistress Armand continues, “you will see the benefits and a distinct lack of ghosts. Mark my words on that.”

Sadie makes her shaky way down the stairs. The assistant manager from the Coffee Depot helps her down the final steps and she gives him a wan smile. When she passes my chair, however, Sadie refuses to even glance at me.

“Who’s next?” Mistress Armand calls out. “Who else wants the benefit of ridding their lives of ghosts?”

This time around, the forest of arms is not quite as thick. Still, plenty volunteer. To my surprise, Malcolm releases my wrist.

Then he raises his hand.

“How about a gentleman this time. You there, sir, are you haunted?” She points a red-lacquered nail at Malcolm.

“Constantly,” he says.

She gestures toward the stairs. “Then Mistress Armand awaits you.”

Oh, I bet she does. I cross my arms over my chest, then cross one leg over the other. Without Malcolm at my side—on my side—things feel wrong in a way I can’t pinpoint. Mistress Armand doesn’t lead him to the chair. Instead, she has him stand center stage, then circles him as if he’s something she might like to buy.

“Oh, dear,” she says. “Such a sad tale, such a heavy heart. Do you want to tell Mistress Armand all about the girl you left behind?”

“Yes.” And Malcolm breathes this word more than says it. It’s as if someone has hit him in the stomach. “The girl I left behind.”

The
what
? I come undone, or at least, unfolded. My mouth? Hanging open. Yes, Malcolm’s past is murky. I’ve only just learned of—and met—his brother. Still. Have I been too focused on my own mourning and the business of ghost catching to notice he was suffering from a broken heart?

I don’t think so. But ever since Mistress Armand first uttered her breezy proclamations—just this afternoon, no less—I’ve started to doubt a great many things.

“Oh, you poor thing,” she murmurs, her voice like velvet. She cups his face, fingers caressing his jaw. Malcolm stares at her, mouth agape, expression rapt.

I push from my chair and head, not toward the stage, but down the aisle. I can’t take anymore. In fact, I may have taken too much already. I doubt I can scrub the image of her hand caressing Malcolm from my mind. At least, not any time soon.

I push through the gymnasium doors. Before they shut completely, Mistress Armand’s lilting voice follows me.

“There are always unbelievers.”

* * *

Police Chief Ramsey is standing in the lobby outside the gymnasium, arms folded over his chest, his serious-police-business scowl firmly in place. For a moment, my mood lifts. Yes! Mistress Armand is a fraud and Chief Ramsey is here to arrest her—or at least to shut down the séance.

The hope must show on my face, since an almost-grin appears on his.

“Sorry, Katy, you’ll have to deal with the competition on your own. I’m just here for traffic control when the séance lets out.”

Mistress Armand was right about one thing: there are always unbelievers. Chief Ramsey? He’s one of the biggest in town. When my grandmother was alive, every few months, she’d offer to help clear some of the unsolved cases clogging the files of the Springside Township Police Department. Half the vandalism in town is really the result of energetic sprites.

Chief always refused. Some people can’t detect ghost activity. They chalk up odd occurrences to Mercury in retrograde or bad luck or superstition.

I glance back at the closed gymnasium doors. “Does she have—?”

“A permit? Why, yes, she does. You’ll also notice she isn’t charging anyone anything.”

“Yet,” I add. “She isn’t charging them yet. The first hit is always free.”

“Isn’t that how you operate? Funny how the ghosts”—he draws little air quotes around the word
ghosts
—“always come back.”

Yes. Like mice. Or insects. I don’t say this. Instead, I say, “K&M Ghost Eradication Specialists is registered with City Hall. We’re a limited liability corporation, and our business license is up to date.”

Most of that is thanks to Malcolm. At the thought of him, my gaze once again goes to the closed gymnasium doors.

“Lose something?” Chief asks.

I choose to ignore this. “Let me know when you want me to capture the ghost in your garden shed.”

Without waiting for a reply, I walk from the lobby area and head into the night.

The air cools my heated cheeks. Part of me insists I charge back into the gymnasium and put a stop to the séance. Part of me wants to argue with Chief Ramsey, but I can’t force someone to believe in ghosts. I can’t force anyone to believe anything at all.

I take a final look at the community center doors and wonder if that applies to me.

There are always unbelievers.

Maybe I’m one of them.

* * *

On the sidewalk, I find Mr. Carlotta. He glowers at the entrance of the community center. For a moment, I fear that glower is for me.

“Bunk!” he shouts. “Pure bunk! If only your grandmother were here, Katy-Girl.”

Yes. If only.

“She’d know what to do. Oh, she’d take that charlatan down a notch.” He wags a finger at me. “That young man of yours—”

“He’s not my young man, Mr. Carlotta. He’s my business partner.”

“He’s a disgrace, picking her over you.”

“I don’t think he’s picked anyone.” Although why, at the moment, I’m defending Malcolm, I can’t say. Maybe I simply can’t believe it. So instead, I say, “Can I wheel you home?”

“I know you
can
, Katy-Girl.”

I sigh. “May I wheel you home, Mr. Carlotta?”

“No, but you may wheel me back to the care facility.”

I sigh again.

The facility is lightly staffed. The few employees on shift seem resentful and disgruntled, as if we’ve kept them from all the fun at the séance. From what I saw, it was less of a séance and more of an exercise in public humiliation. They should probably thank us.

“Bunk!” Mr. Carlotta tells them, not that it helps. But he’s right. It was that, too.

The wheels on Mr. Carlotta’s chair whisper against the carpet. His room is near the end of the wing, and I wave at the residents still here and still awake. When we reach his room, a glimmer and flash of cold greet us.

“Oh, Mr. Carlotta, why didn’t you tell Malcolm your ghost was back?”

He makes a noise, something that sounds like
harrumph
.

“He can catch ghosts just as well as I can.”

“No, Katy-Girl, that’s where you’re wrong. Besides, I don’t want just anyone catching this particular ghost.”

It’s a strong one, that’s for certain, its vibe more sad than malevolent. For something ethereal, it weights the air as if it carries many burdens. It feels, if not ancient, then very old.

“Had it since Guadalcanal,” Mr. Carlotta told me once.

I don’t know if that’s true, or if one ghost has been swapped for another. In the past few years, I’ve sensed it’s the same one. Why it chooses to haunt Mr. Carlotta, I can’t say, although I’m certain Mistress Armand would be willing to take a guess.

But that’s all it would be. My theory? Ghosts latch onto emotions, either an overabundance of them or a complete lack, depending. It’s why you so often find sprites annoying a humorless person. They think it’s funny.

Sometimes it is.

But in Mr. Carlotta’s case, I suspect this spirit merely wants to commiserate. Maybe it was a soldier, like he was during World War Two. Maybe it suffered a great loss and feels that same loss in him. But it makes the air hard to breathe in here, dims the overhead lights. A well of sadness forms in my chest.

“Let me see if they have any coffee in the staff break room.”

Mr. Carlotta waves away my suggestion. “You won’t catch this one with that swill.”

He’s right about that.

“Go home, Katy-Girl. I’ve lived with this ghost for many a year. One more night won’t matter.”

“I’ll be here first thing in the morning,” I tell him. “With the Kona blend.”

“Extra cream and sugar?”

“Of course.” I lean down and let him kiss my cheek.

“Close the door and shut the light off on the way out?” His voice is quiet, just shy of plaintive. I don’t want to leave him here, alone, in the dark. But I do.

On my way toward the lobby, a quavery voice calls out.

“Katy, dear, is that you?”

I pause in front of another resident’s door. “Shouldn’t you be asleep, Mrs. Greeley?”

“I wanted to tell you how much I’ve been enjoying your grandmother’s visits.”

I push open the door. The room is shrouded, the space lit by single nightlight. Not that Mrs. Greeley needs it. She’s blind. I’m conscious—maybe self-conscious—about how I step, as if Mrs. Greeley can detect worry and stress in my footfalls. When I reach her bed, I take her hand.

She folds my hand between hers. “Are you all right, my dear?”

Nope, I’m not fooling her. “Tired,” I say. “I went to the séance, then pushed Mr. Carlotta all the way here.”

“Old fool. He should’ve called for the shuttle.”

“I wanted to walk,” I say.

Her skin feels papery thin against my own. She is so frail, her fingers like twigs. And yet, despite her blindness, I suspect she perceives more than the rest of us combined.

“I haven’t seen your grandmother for a few days,” she says.

“It’s a busy time of year. Close to Halloween. Sprites like to make mischief then.”

Mrs. Greeley chuckles. “Indeed they do. If you see her before I do, tell her I’d love to continue our chat.”

“I will,” I promise.

The night manager meets me in the hall, a few doors away from Mrs. Greeley’s room.

“Oh, Katy, I’m so sorry.” He’s the sort of man who wears his anxiety all over his face, and now lines crease his forehead. “We’ve had her in for testing. Her memory is fine. Why she insists that she can talk to your grandmother, no one can figure out.”

“It’s okay.”

“But it’s not. You already do so much for the residents here. That you’re reminded of ....”

He can’t bring himself to say
your grandmother’s death
, so he lets the sentence trail.

“Every single time,” he adds, with more conviction.

“It’s really okay,” I insist. “In some ways, it’s like my grandmother lives on through Mrs. Greeley.”

The night manager looks unconvinced. He crinkles his forehead, multiplying the lines there, then gives me a shrug. “How was the séance?” he asks.

“A waste of time.”

With that, I leave, before I can confess more, before I can tell the night manager that Mrs. Greeley does talk to my grandmother. For my grandmother still makes rounds here at the care facility—as a ghost. Perhaps Mrs. Greeley has always been sensitive. Perhaps it’s her blindness. Whatever the cause, she can communicate with my grandmother’s ghost. The only other person who can is me. Not that we’ve actually chatted. Sometimes words or images float into my head, unbidden. Most of the time, I don’t know what they mean. It’s like putting together a puzzle, and so far most of the pieces are missing.

Outside, the wind ruffles my skater skirt, the night air colder, the sky black with a few pinpricks of stars. Goose bumps pucker on my bare skin above the stockings. I consider asking the night manager for a ride in the shuttle. But my feet have their own ideas. I’m two blocks away before I truly regret my decision to walk.

I ignore the car at first. Because it’s cherry red and a convertible, this is hard. The driver revs the engine. He doesn’t tap the horn because it’s late, this town tucks in early, and he’s far too polite for such things. Then he says my name.

“Katy, come on, I’ll give you a ride home.”

I stop my trek, turn to face the car, my arms clutched close for warmth. It really is too cold for the top down, but then, that lets Malcolm wear the scarf. It’s dark gray wool, and he has it flung jauntily around his neck.

“You were brilliant tonight, by the way,” he says.

“Brilliant?”

Did I miss something about the séance? I remember storming out, a lot like a jealous girlfriend might. I remember being rude and disgusted. Brilliant? I doubt that.

“She made a couple cracks about you,” he adds.

Oh, how lovely. Of course she did.

“It was perfect. It’s almost like you’re here.” He taps his temple. “Right inside my head. We couldn’t have planned it any better if we tried.”

I clutch my arms tighter. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“The whole jealous routine. She totally bought it.”