Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete First Season Read online

  “I’ll tell you my secrets, Mistress Armand, but you have to tell me some of yours.”

  * * *

  The sobs and wails from the residents’ rooms weaken me further. I continue forward on hands and knees. Every time I try to push to stand, another cry assaults my ears. At last I reach Mrs. Greeley’s door and slump against it.

  “Mrs. Greeley? Are you in there? Are you okay?”

  “Katy, dear, is that you?” Her voice is anxious, but free of tears.

  “It’s me.”

  “I’m trapped. That witch jammed something in the door handle.”

  “Give me a moment,” I say. Oh, the handle is up so, so high. Can I stand up to reach it? How can I not try? I let my head thump against Mrs. Greeley’s door, the sound that of defeat.

  “Close your eyes, dear,” Mrs. Greeley says.

  “What?”

  “Close your eyes. They’re blinding you to the falseness of her voice. With them closed, you will hear her for what she is.”

  Certainly I’ve blinked since entering the facility, but I haven’t left my eyes closed, not for more than a moment, if that. I don’t want to fight ... blind. But that’s exactly what Mrs. Greeley is doing, and so far she’s the only one not caught in this web of sorrow and shame. I think about the séance and how Mistress Armand insisted Sadie keep her eyes open. To confront her personal demons? Or to let Mistress Armand feast on some shame?

  I shut my eyes. At first, nothing changes. The crying rings louder in my ears. But strength returns to my limbs. I reach up and open Mrs. Greeley’s door. It creaks, and Mrs. Greeley claps her hands together.

  “Well done!” The tap of a cane accompanies her voice. “Now, we must get down the hall and tell the others to shut their eyes.”

  A shriek echoes through the hallway, wretched and otherworldly. In it, I detect the barest hint of Mistress Armand. There is no seduction left, but an occasional musical tone breaks through, tempts me to open my eyes.

  “Don’t,” Mrs. Greeley says. “Yes, I feel the urge too,” she adds, “but I simply can’t comply. I’m certain Mistress Armand didn’t count on me.”

  Indeed she didn’t. I push to stand, then hold my hands out in front of me, fingertips straining against the air. I will crash into something on my trek down the hall, without a doubt.

  “Stop!” The command is robust, so much so that I do falter in my steps. That low, musical tone is stronger. My eyelids flutter before I squeeze my eyes shut again.

  “Go,” Mrs. Greeley urges.

  Yes, but where? I don’t dare open my eyes. Before I can move in any direction, something crashes into the backs of my legs.

  “Oh! Katy-Girl, is that you?”

  “Mr. Carlotta?”

  “Keep going,” he says. “You’re covered. Annabelle and I will guard your back.”

  “Old fool,” Mrs. Greeley mutters, but her voice is nothing but tender.

  I still don’t know which way to walk, not with my eyes closed. Then something cold and familiar brushes my cheek. The words Katy-Girl float into my mind. My grandmother. She’s here, and she’s showing me which way to go.

  Gingerly, I take a step, then another. My grandmother nudges my face, first the right cheek, then the left, helping me navigate around obstacles. Every few feet, I call out.

  “Shut your eyes. Don’t open them.”

  Bit by bit the sobs subside. Bit by bit, the care facility quiets. Despite the fact that Mistress Armand’s words now cajole and mock, they hold no power. Not over me, and not over anyone in the facility who has their eyes closed.

  Even so, or perhaps because of this, she comes for me. Where Malcolm is, I don’t know, and I don’t open my eyes to find out. Mrs. Greeley cries out. Mr. Carlotta calls, “Hang on! She’s broken through.”

  I hold still. I’ve reached the lounge area. From the television comes the muted hum of a morning news program. The crying has all but ceased. Perhaps it’s my imagination, but I think I detect snoring. My grandmother swirls around me like this alone will protect me. I feel her against my eyes, as if she’s trying to remind me not to open them. Then the other presence enters the room.

  “You think you know him,” Mistress Armand croaks. Without everyone’s shame, she is a weak thing. “That will be your undoing.”

  It’s nearly enough to tempt me, nearly enough that I open my eyes. But I don’t. I clench my fists against the urge. My grandmother whips around me like a cyclone. I think we might stand like this forever—Mistress Armand too weak to attack with anything but taunts, me not daring to open my eyes.

  Then a thump echoes in the lounge area and her presence vanishes.

  “You can open your eyes, Katy.” Malcolm’s voice is calm and welcoming, and with my eyes closed, its rhythm is startling. I think I could listen to him like this for a long while. But instead, I open my eyes. When I do, his are the first thing I see. He glances downward.

  There, on the floor, his foot secures a Tupperware bowl. Inside the bowl, the misty and shrunken image of Mistress Armand floats.

  “Nice work,” I say.

  “You too.”

  We don’t lift the container. Instead, the night manager brings us a thin cookie sheet from the facility’s kitchen. We slide it beneath the bowl, and now our trap is mobile.

  Malcolm drives. I clutch the two pieces—bowl and cookie sheet—until my hands ache. We drive past our usual release point, the windbreak with a little creek. We drive past the nature preserve and state park where we release the meaner ghosts.

  We drive for another full hour after that. The wind chases my hair around my head, into my eyes and mouth. I still clutch the bowl and cookie sheet. Malcolm leaves the freeway, navigates back roads until he finds a deserted gravel road that’s barely more than a path. Next to a plowed-under cornfield, he stops the convertible.

  He holds up a hand. “Hang on,” he says and rounds the car to open my door.

  I step out, Malcolm’s hands joining mine. Together, we stumble through the ruts and rows of the cornfield. We stand in the center of what must be the most desolate spot on earth—or would be if Malcolm weren’t next to me. Then we set the container on the ground. We don’t bother to remove the cookie sheet. The wind or an animal will knock it off soon enough. In the meantime, Mistress Armand can stew in her own mist.

  We return to the convertible without looking back. Halfway across the field, Malcolm takes my hand.

  * * *

  “Things are changing,” I say to Malcolm right before we enter Springside Township. It’s the first words we’ve spoken since leaving the cornfield. “I used to know what to do, how to capture ghosts. But ghost eating? Mistress Armand? None of this makes sense. I can’t believe my grandmother wouldn’t tell me about such things.”

  Malcolm is silent, jaw tense. In front of us, the stop light for Main and Fifth turns red.

  “What do you think she was?” I ask. “You said before you thought she was human.”

  “I did,” he says. “I think at one time, she must have been. I think the addiction ate away at her. I mean, look at Nigel compared to me. He’s only two years older.”

  But looks at least twenty.

  “I wonder if my grandmother ever knew of such things?” I think she must have. Maybe she died too soon to tell me.

  “About what Mistress Armand said—” Malcolm begins.

  I cut him off. “I doubt you have any shameful secrets. And if you do? So what? That’s in the past.”

  I want to reach over, pat his knee or something. I don’t. Instead, I clutch my hands together and hope I’ve said the right thing.

  He sighs. The light turns green. With a single nod, he puts the car in gear.

  Malcolm slows the convertible when we reach my street. We crawl up the road, well under the speed limit. In fact, I could walk home faster. All appears quiet. Still, my heart thumps with worry.

  Inside my house, warm air greets us. The frost has melted from all the brass doorknobs. I do a quick circuit, but
not even a sprite is in residence. The only proof I have of last night’s ghost infestation is the mess—cold cups of coffee scattered all over the place, brown stains on the carpet, a splatter pattern on one wall that would be creepy if it were blood rather than Kona blend.

  Malcolm casts a wary look around. “Where’s Nigel?” He bolts and is out on the street before I can suggest an answer.

  We find Nigel next door, in Sadie’s kitchen, drinking coffee. Sadie chats happily over the drone of a talk show host. Nigel stares into the middle distance. Whether he hears Sadie or not doesn’t seem to matter. Odd contentment lights his face, and the man who stared mere hours before with horror and hunger is banished. Malcolm places a hand on his brother’s shoulder and squeezes.

  To my surprise, Sadie’s sprites are basking in the steam of an extra-large cup. But other than that, her house is also ghost-free.

  I point to the sprites. “Do you want me to take them with me?” I ask her. For certainly they are up to no good, no matter how complacent they appear to be.

  Sadie considers, hand on her chin. “Maybe tonight, if they start acting up. But for now?” She throws them a stern look. “They can stay.”

  Malcolm’s pocket buzzes. Or rather, his cell phone does. He pulls it out, raises an eyebrow, then meets my gaze.

  “Looks like we’re back in business,” he says. “Want to go catch a ghost?”

  “My grandmother?” I whisper on the way out.

  “Possibly.”

  “Law firm again?”

  “Bank. The manager is locked in the vault. “

  “That’s probably my grandmother.”

  “The tellers want us to bring extra coffee.” He checks his phone again. “And one wants tea.”

  “We’re going to have to charge extra if we’re supplying drinks for ghosts and humans,” I say.

  Back in Malcolm’s convertible, I realize I’m still in last night’s clothes, the skater skirt limp, my stockings sagging well below my knees. I haven’t brushed my teeth. My hair? After that ride in the country? I’m afraid to look. But when he puts the car in gear and gives me a grin, none of that matters.

  “Ready, partner?” he asks.

  “I am,” I say into the wind. “I am.”

  Gone Ghost

  Coffee and Ghosts: Episode 4

  I STAND OUTSIDE THE DOOR to the Springside Long-term Care Facility, my hands clutching an insulated carafe of the best Kona blend. I have a ghost to catch, one who is picky and prickly. Even with the most expensive beans, I might not be able to tempt it from its haunting.

  The melancholy ghosts are the hardest to catch.

  My business partner, Malcolm Armand, stands next to me. In the canvas bag we use as a field kit, he carries a collection of thermoses. They jangle as he halts, a hand on my shoulder to keep me in place. His brow wears a worried frown, and his lips are pursed.

  “Malcolm?” I say. “What—?”

  “Where is everyone?”

  Through the glass double doors, I can see the woman who works the reception desk, but no one else. Above us, the sun is doing its best to pretend that summer hasn’t faded. It’s one in the afternoon, activity time. Most residents should be doing something. But the building feels quiet, as if everyone is tucked in for the night.

  Malcolm’s cell phone buzzes. He pulls it out and holds it so we both can read the text message from the facility manager.

  Please stay where you are. I’ll be out in a moment.

  Malcolm and I lock gazes.

  “Did we do something wrong?” I ask.

  As if in answer, a breeze catches strands of my hair and chases them into my mouth. Since I’m holding the carafe, I blow and spit, and it’s entirely unladylike. I ponder our last visit here: we rid the place of a rather obnoxious (if preternaturally beautiful) being, a woman who claimed to be a ghost whisperer, but instead feasted on everyone’s shame. And when you’ve lived a very long life, you have plenty of shame in reserve.

  The double doors whoosh open. The facility manager strides out, her heels clicking on the sidewalk, pant legs fluttering in the breeze and from her gait.

  “I’m sorry you had to come all the way out here.” She holds out her arms as if to herd us back toward my truck. “There’s been a change in plans.”

  “Do you want us to come at a different time?” I ask.

  I’ve been coming here for years, first with my grandmother, then on my own. Now, Malcolm and I visit. Springside Long-term Care is one of our gratis accounts. We don’t charge for catching ghosts. My grandmother always said the people here already had enough ghosts to contend with—why not make things a little easier on them.

  “Actually, we’re changing our routine, and we won’t be...” The manager trails off, bites her lip. “Needing your services from now on.”

  “But we’re not charging you anything.” It’s a stupid protest. We all know this.

  Malcolm’s grip on my shoulder tightens. With the slightest bit of pressure, he eases me back, steps between me and the manager, and turns on the charm.

  “Vanessa, what is this about? Have there been any complaints? I’ve been promising a taste test between Katy’s coffee and my tea.” He gives the canvas bag a shake, jostles the thermoses, and the aluminum sings out. “Today’s the day. I’d hate to disappoint the residents.”

  By residents, he means the female residents, or at least most of them. While the Malcolm Armand variety hour goes on in the common area, I’m always down the hallway, in residents’ rooms, catching picky and prickly ghosts.

  Vanessa wavers, swaying back and forth in the breeze and under Malcolm’s gaze. Then she shakes herself and shakes a good dose of resolve into her features.

  “This is hard for us,” she says, “but we took a vote on it. And by we, I mean all the residents and the staff. We no longer want you visiting Springside Long-term Care. I’m sorry.”

  She turns and bolts toward the glass double doors, high heels striking the concrete like icepicks. With each step, I feel a sharp stab in my stomach. I loosen my grip on the carafe and press a hand against my belly, my pulse beating frantic beneath it.

  I survey the building, the drawn curtains, and the now-empty reception desk. “They took a ... vote? What does that mean?”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

  “But I promised Mr. Carlotta that I’d take care of his ghost. No one else can catch it.”

  “I know.”

  Not even Malcolm. And for a while, I doubted my own ability to do so. Mr. Carlotta’s ghost is very old and very sad. It weights the air, makes it hard to breathe in Mr. Carlotta’s room. He claims the ghost has been with him since Guadalcanal, but I don’t know how true that is. What I do know is that something about this is wrong.

  I step forward, determined to find out what—exactly—that something is.

  “Katy, no.” Malcolm jogs to catch up. “If they don’t want us here, and we barge in, that’s trespassing.”

  “What are they going to do? Call the police?”

  He points. “Maybe.”

  Through the glass double doors, I see Vanessa, cell phone pressed against her ear. But it doesn’t matter. When I reach the entrance, nothing happens. The sensor that opens the doors automatically is switched off. I stand there, peering into the space, my fingers leaving smudges on the glass.

  Malcolm takes that hand, the one glued to the glass, and folds it in both of his. He tugs me away. The movement is gentle, like a mother reluctantly pulling her child from a swing, a father urging his son away from a toy that’s far too expensive. I think he might wrap his arm around my shoulder on the way back to the truck, but all he does is clutch my hand.

  I can’t explain how much this hurts. I can’t explain why it plants an ache in my heart. It’s just business, isn’t it? But when Malcolm holds out his palm for the keys to my truck, I know he understands. I pass him the keys, not because I can’t drive. I certainly can. But I want to take a long, hard look at the care facili
ty. I want to study each resident’s room. And when the curtains flutter in Mr. Carlotta’s window, I want to make sure it’s something I’ve really seen.

  * * *

  It’s the late afternoons, when the buildings across from our office fracture the setting sun, that are the hardest to endure. That tender light signals another day without a client, another day without income, and one day closer to giving up this space if we can’t make the rent.

  I love our office, all of it. I love the gold lettering on the front window, proclaiming us K&M Ghost Eradication Specialists. I love that we have Malcolm’s old samovar in the window, along with a vintage percolator that belonged to my grandmother, one I’ve recently retired from service. I love how unlocking the door every morning makes all of this feel real.

  But when lunch rolls around without a call or email, when I peer through the large bay window and see the bank closing down for the day, it feels as though the ventilation system isn’t pumping in enough air. It’s been two weeks since Vanessa at Springside Long-term Care told us not to return. I’ve gone out on a few jobs, nuisance calls involving sprites that I handled on my own. But after that? Silence.

  I’ve been here before.

  “Maybe it’s the change in the weather,” Malcolm says.

  We haven’t been talking about the lack of work, but clearly it’s on both of our minds.

  “In college,” he continues, “nothing supernatural happened until at least October.”

  “You were probably too busy to notice,” I say.

  Ghosts love autumn, and Halloween in particular, especially the sprites. They love to play pranks, and Halloween is perfect for that.

  “Then maybe that’s it,” he counters. “People are too busy going back to school and with sports and all of it to care about a few ghosts.”

  “Maybe.” I rub my neck. Across the street, the bank manager pulls the shades on the entry doors. I’m too far away to hear the click of the lock, but that doesn’t stop me from imagining that I do.