Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete First Season Page 6

  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.

  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 boy,” 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 company, 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.