Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete First Season Page 7

  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.”

  I still have no idea what he’s talking about. Instead of responding, I shiver, icy air sneaking up my skirt, the cold making me feel both sleepy and wide-awake at the same time.

  Malcolm frowns. “You weren’t really ... jealous, were you?”

  I’m not the sort of girl who might flip her hair and pretend the image of red lacquered nails running along the jaw of her partner-not-boyfriend doesn’t bother her. So I tell Malcolm the truth.

  “I was ... am.” I shrug as if there’s nothing more to say after confessing that.

  “But why?”

  “Because you’re my partner, and—”

  “I’m still your partner.”

  “Then—?”

  “If you tried to fool her, pretended to be interested, tried to get close to her,” he says, “do you think she would’ve believed you?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Add your reputation to that, not to mention your grandmother’s. Mistress Armand seems to know a lot about everyone in this town.”

  Yes. She does. Disturbingly so.

  “But me?” Malcolm touches his chest. “When I’m, you know—”

  “Soft-headed and easily swayed by a pretty face?”

  My words ring cold in the night air. Perhaps I’ve shattered our partnership, which after declaring it so important is a rather stupid thing to do. Then Malcolm throws his head back and laughs.

  “Get in the car, partner?”

  “It’s freezing out and you have the top down.”

  “And the heat cranked. Trust me, there’s no better way to ride.”

  I don’t bother with the handle. Instead, I plant my hand on the side of the car and vault over. I’m halfway into the front seat when I remember the skater skirt. The material flares, and I flash him a generous portion of my thighs and a glimpse of my underwear—pink with black polka dots. A fierce blush chases the chill from my face. Before I can read his expression, Malcolm glances away.

  Then he puts the car into gear and we fly down the road. Whenever we go out on a call, we take my truck. The old, battered thing grumbles, but it runs. Plus, once we catch the ghosts, we can store them in the back until the release. There’s no room in the convertible for ghosts. There’s barely room for two. Despite the gearshift that separates us, I feel close to him, but not trapped or confined. No. Close. I feel close to Malcolm.

  And yet? Not.

  I exhale, sending my frustration streaming into the air that buzzes past us.

  “Cold?” Malcolm asks.

  “Tired. I pushed Mr. Carlot
ta all the way to the care facility.”

  “Oh, damn, that reminds me. I think his ghost is back.”

  “It is. But I didn’t have any decent coffee with me. I’ll stop in tomorrow.”

  “It’s just as well.” And here, I think the wind also steals Malcolm’s sigh. “He doesn’t much like it when I catch his ghost. Actually, he doesn’t much like me.”

  I want to contradict this, but can’t. Why this bothers Malcolm, especially when most everyone else in town adores him, I don’t know.

  The convertible rolls to a stop in front of my house. Next door, light blazes from all the windows. A muted glow comes from the bedroom. I suspect this night will be long for Sadie.

  “I feel like I should sneak over and scoop up her sprites,” I say. They’re back already; I can tell. That accounts for the lights, and the enormous electric bill she’ll need to pay at the end of the month.

  “If you did, it would only prove Mistress Armand’s point. I don’t think we want to do that.”

  I turn toward him. “What happened at the séance?”

  Malcolm sinks into the car seat. “What didn’t? I know there aren’t many secrets in a town this small. Still.” He swipes a hand over his face. “I’m not sure we needed so much bloodletting. I don’t know what else to call it. She left everyone bruised and bloodied up on that platform.”

  “Even you?”

  He shifts in his seat and raises an eyebrow as if to ask, Whatever do you mean?

  “You know,” I say. “The girl you left behind.”

  “Oh. That.” His laugh is soft. “I’ll give Mistress Armand that. She’s good at a cold read. We can’t underestimate her. I must have twitched my jaw. She picked up on something, but she got it all wrong. There is no girl I left behind.”

  “Oh.” Questions burn in the back of my mind. If there’s no girl, then what is there? What is it I’m missing about him? After all, he’s my business partner, and maybe my friend. Yes, he’s my friend. So what does Mistress Armand see that I can’t?

  “Anyway,” Malcolm continues, “she convinced everyone to embrace their ghosts and promised they would vanish. Business could be ... thin for a while.”

  Like it wasn’t already. My gaze is drawn back to Sadie’s windows, which continue to pour light into the dark.

  “Do you think it’s on purpose?” I ask him.

  “Well, yes, she’s being very intentional with all this, most likely to fill her bank account, even if she hasn’t charged anyone yet.”

  “No, not that. I mean, why. She claims to be getting rid of ghosts. So they must vanish, at least temporarily. If that’s the case, where do they all go?”

  We stare at each other, and I detect the moment horror fills Malcolm’s eyes.

  “Oh, no. No,” he murmurs. He shifts into gear and makes a tight U-turn, nearly hitting a car parked opposite my house. It’s a good thing I never undid my seatbelt. I’m tossed from one side to the other as we race down the road toward the center of town. Before I can ask, Malcolm speaks.

  “Nigel,” he says.

  With that one word, I understand his fear.

  * * *

  Malcolm rents an apartment at the center of town. The old, restored building has lots of brick and wood. We jog through the lobby. Malcolm punches the button for the elevator, but he’s so jittery, I think he might rush up the stairs. The doors open with a soft ding before he’s able to.

  The fourth floor hallway is quiet. Either the walls are thick or his neighbors are polite. No drone of a television set. No loud music. At the end of the corridor, he pulls out his keys to unlock the door, and we step inside.

  And I realize this is the first time I’ve seen where Malcolm lives.

  He holds up a hand, stopping me from venturing farther than the living room. “Let me check,” he says, voice low.

  I nod.

  While he’s gone, I scan the space. A flat screen TV takes up most of one wall. A blanket and pillow sit neatly at one end of a worn futon. Is this where Malcolm’s been sleeping? It strikes me as both uncomfortable and a little sad.

  On the coffee table rests a laptop computer that I know belongs to Malcolm. On all sides, I’m surrounded by stacks of books, magazines, and newspapers. One pile teeters, then cascades over my feet the moment Malcolm emerges from the apartment’s lone hall.

  “Sorry, sorry,” he says, scooping papers into his arms and a soiled coffee cup from the table. “The place is a mess.” He dumps the papers into a bin and the cup into the sink. “Hey, do you want something to drink?”

  “I’m okay,” I say, even though my throat is dry.

  Malcolm returns with two bottles of water despite my protest.

  “It’s a long walk from the community center to the care facility,” is all he says.

  I nod toward the hall. “Is Nigel—?”

  “Sound asleep. If there are any ghosts inside him, I can’t tell, but I doubt it. Insomnia is one of the signs, or at least it was before.” Here he shrugs. “Still.”

  “Are you worried?”

  “I’m worried how addictive it is, this ghost eating thing.”

  I wonder if some of that worry extends to Malcolm himself. He’s new to ghost catching. It would be easy to slip, I think, to try something, to end up liking that something.

  “Other than the name, I’m not certain there’s a connection between Mistress Armand and either of you,” I venture. “And I don’t think Nigel—”

  “It just … it just hit me all at once. Things got bad between us before I left Minneapolis. Addicts lie, all the time. Nigel has only been clean for a few weeks. And I thought—”

  “Me, too.”

  My legs ache. Malcolm was right. It was a long walk from the community center to the care facility. I cast a quick glance around. I don’t want to sit on his bed. I decide on the coffee table.

  “Before I left for the séance, I scanned the ghost forums.” Malcolm kneels next to the coffee table and flips open his laptop.

  “See?” He points to a message thread. “Someone called Mistress Ramone was in Waunakee, Wisconsin a few months back. And six months ago, a Mistress Williams was in Kendallville, Indiana. Oddly enough, there’s a Williams in Kendallville who’s a ghost hunter, and a Ramone who was mayor of Waunakee.”

  “So she borrows names? To get people to trust her?” I ask.

  “Apparently.”

  “To do what? Séances?”

  “People, it seems, were reluctant to talk about it. Lots of ‘don’t trust her’ or ‘stay away’ messages, but nothing concrete, and nothing, really, to prove that either one is Mistress Armand.”

  “So what’s her angle? What does she really want? I mean, other than to humiliate an entire town. Is that why people won’t talk about it? I don’t see the purpose in that.”

  “I don’t either, except that some people are intentionally cruel.”

  Malcolm stands and shakes out his trousers. Despite the evening, he still looks clean and pressed and ready for a date. I’m fairly certain I look rumpled, disheveled, and ready for a shower.

  “Come on,” he says. “Let me drive you home.”

  * * *

  “You don’t have to walk me to the door.”

  I’ve said this before. Actually, I’ve said it a hundred times, at least, since Malcolm and I started working together. Even though my street is quiet and half my neighbors leave their doors unlocked (the others keep a key beneath one of those fake rocks), if the sun is flirting with the horizon, Malcolm makes the trip up the front porch steps and makes sure I reach my door.

  He says nothing in response. I never push the issue and in return, he isn’t pushy. He’s just there, solid and sure. This one small thing defines who he is.

  “In the morning,” I begin. My hand lands on the doorknob. A second later, I jerk it away. What happens first, I can’t say. Do I yelp? Or do I clutch my hand to my chest, the sharp sting of freezer burn making its way through my skin?

  “Katy! What is i
t?”

  I’m doubled over, but straighten just enough to test the door again. Frozen solid. My house? Malcolm probes the door, but yanks his hand back.

  “Damn.” His gaze meets mine. “It can’t be.”

  But it is. My house is in a full-on ghost infestation.

  He scans the porch, the roof, the yard. “Back door, maybe?” He takes my hand. His fingers are so warm, I don’t want to let go. We race around the house, clatter up the back porch steps, and confront a door hoary with frost. Instead of letting go, Malcolm grips my fingers tighter.

  “Now what?” I say.

  “What did you do last time?” He nods toward Sadie’s house.

  Oh, yes! Of course. The full-on ghost infestation at Sadie’s might count as our very first job together—even if we didn’t realize it at the time. I clear my throat.

  “All of you are aware that coffee doesn’t brew itself, right?”

  At first, nothing but icy silence greets my proclamation. Then, slowly, the back door creaks open. We’re allowed only as far as the kitchen. When we try to push through to other areas of the house, a force pushes us backward, toward the percolator. Something much stronger than a sprite rattles the bin where I keep the Kona blend.

  “Looks like we have our marching orders,” Malcolm says.

  Over the past few months, we’ve brewed so many pots of coffee together it’s like a dance routine. He knows what pitcher to use for the half and half, which spoon for the sugar. It is, perhaps, not strictly necessary to use the same items in the same manner, but routine soothes both humans and ghosts. The air vibrates around us, a whole pack of ghosts anticipating the first hints of rich brew from the percolator.

  I pour the coffee into the twelve cups lined up on the kitchen table. Malcolm adds the half and half and sugar. It’s always the same: three black, three with half and half, three with sugar, and three extra light and extra sweet.

  Aromatic steam fills the kitchen. It wavers, not just with air currents, but with the ghosts that fill the space, soaking in the warmth and flavor. The temperature in the house also rises, the thermostat nearly back to normal. I sag against the sink.