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

by Charity Tahmaseb

  * * *

  I am right about one thing. By the time I meet both Malcolm and Jack in the main office area, Jack is slapping Chief Ramsey on the back. I sense more than hear the suggestion of Finnegan’s Pub.

  “Katy, come with us,” Jack says. Deftly, he goes from slapping to urging, his fingers finding the small of my back and pushing me forward.

  “Isn’t that a conflict of interest?” I whisper. Isn’t it? My lawyer with the police chief? It must be.

  “I was thinking more of mending a few fences.” Jack’s mouth is close to my ear, his lips brushing the sensitive skin. It’s almost like a kiss or a caress, these words in my ear. “Like the ones your grandmother burned down.”

  “I think you’re mixing metaphors,” I say, and I am trapped between his lips and his fingers.

  “I was always lousy at English.” Jack steps back, pulls his hand away as if he senses my discomfort. “It’s why I’m a lawyer.”

  “I can’t go.” I scour my mind, searching for an excuse, any excuse. I never drink. Ghosts are not kind to drunken ghost hunters.

  “We need to get back to the office,” Malcolm says. And now his hand is at the small of my back, but this I don’t mind nearly as much. “Ghosts don’t wait, after all,” he adds.

  Of course, in our case they do, given our lack of clients. I decide not to contradict him.

  “Next time.” Jack leans closer, and it’s almost like the three of us are conspiring, our heads are so close together. “Really, it would be good for your business to have the police chief in your corner.”

  Jack leaves me with that bit of advice and a kiss on my cheek.

  * * *

  Our walk back to the office is silent. Main Street has rolled up for the night, with only the pub casting a beacon into the dark. Even the deli next to our office is closed, and I despair that I must cook dinner for myself.

  The samovar that sits in our front window throws a golden glow onto the sidewalk. This feels like home, but Malcolm is quiet, oddly so. I want to say something to him but don’t know where to start. When I cast him a sidelong glance, he turns toward the door, wrinkles his nose. I step back, pluck my shirt, and bring the fabric close to my face. I sniff. The holding cell comes flooding back—all stale, burnt coffee, that earthy aroma, and a hint of whisky.

  “I stink, don’t I?” I say.

  “Maybe a little.”

  “Maybe a lot?”

  His laugh is soft. He nods toward the door. “Let’s go inside.”

  Once we’re inside, it strikes me. I can’t smell him. Normally, he smells so warm, but when I inhale, all I get is stale air. The smallest bit of dreads worms its way into my stomach. This is so like before, when we confronted that entity, the thing that seemed to suck up all the life—and scents—around itself. I shake my head and try to shake away that idea. I can’t smell Malcolm simply because I reek. Nothing more.

  “So,” he says to me now. “You and Jack Carlotta.”

  “Me and Jack Carlotta what?”

  “You went to high school together?”

  “Same graduating class.”

  “Who did you end up at prom with, if not him?”

  “No one,” I say. “You ... I mean, I told you that I’ve never dated anyone.”

  Before we managed to put an end to Mistress Armand, she had coaxed that bit of shame from me. Even now, it stings. Even now, I know how odd it sounds, how odd I sound, how odd I am.

  “No one wants to date the local ghost catcher, okay?” I shrug. “Maybe it’s different in the city, at college, but here? They just don’t.”

  “It’s just that he—” Malcolm begins, his voice thick with something I can’t name.

  So instead, I don’t. I refuse to name it, and I don’t let him finish either. “Why are we even talking about this?”

  Malcolm rubs his jaw. “I realized tonight that I don’t know a whole lot about you or your life in Springside.”

  “I don’t know a lot about you, either.”

  He takes up a perch on the desk, making certain to adjust the leg of his trousers first. “Maybe we should do something about that sometime.”

  His meaning is lost on me. I’m not certain what he wants. We’re already business partners. I’d like to think we’re friends. I’m not sure what comes after that.

  “Maybe we could play truth or dare,” I say.

  He throws his head back and laughs. The sound of it is so rich, so real, and that earlier dread loosens its grip. Tension melts from my shoulders.

  “What do you think?” he says, once his laughter has subsided. “Should we call it a day?”

  “I need a bath,” I say.

  “You kind of do.” He softens this with a grin. “I can give you a ride home.”

  “I’m fine,” I say. “Really. But you can walk me to my truck.”

  He does, and even helps me inside it. Malcolm’s brand of chivalry is solid and sturdy. It never feels like a trap.

  I’m a block away, ready to make the turn off of Main, when I check the rearview mirror. In it, I see Malcolm, standing on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, gaze on my truck.

  Then I turn the wheel, the signal clicking, and he vanishes from my sight.

  * * *

  The ringtone on my cell phone jolts me awake at three in the morning. This isn’t too unusual. Even the gentlest sprite can morph into something fearsome after midnight—at least in the imagination. Some people simply can’t—or won’t—wait until morning. Of course, when we inform them that all eradications between the hours of midnight and six a.m. are at double our normal rate, most find a way to embrace the supernatural—at least until the sun comes up.

  But the number on the screen is for Springside Long-term Care. My heart thuds, the beat strange and worried, as if no matter how fast it goes, it can’t push enough blood through my veins.

  I answer, more dread filling my stomach.

  “Katy-Girl,” the caller says, voice low and hushed. “Is that you?”

  Only one person, other than my grandmother, has ever called me that. “Mr. Carlotta?”

  “Sorry to call you so late. I’ve been waiting for the night manager to take his long weekend. The substitute they get always falls asleep. I had to wait until no one was around.”

  “Why not shut the door and call from your room?” Every resident has a phone, after all. This seems like the most logical solution.

  “They monitor outgoing calls,” he says.

  This I doubt, but I suppose it’s possible. “They won’t they know you called out tonight?”

  “Just that someone did from the front desk. They won’t know it’s me.”

  Honestly? I think Mr. Carlotta is just having a bit of fun, maybe at my expense. Of course, if not for the fact that Springside Long-term Care is no longer a client, I might say this was a joke.

  “Katy-Girl,” he’s saying now, “I’m sorry for what everyone did to you. There was nothing Annabelle and I could say to change their minds. It was our two votes against everyone else.”

  “But what did I do?” There’s something awful about knowing that a large number of people simply don’t want you around, that you’re that repulsive or unpleasant or whatever it is Mr. Carlotta is about to tell me.

  “It’s not what you did, it’s what you heard, when Mistress Armand was here.”

  “What I heard?”

  The echoes of that day rattle around in my head—confessions and shame, sorrow and regrets. The things that tear at your heart decades later, big and small, the things you can’t shrug off, pretend never happened, the things you keep locked away.

  “You’re like a granddaughter to us, Katy-Girl. For some of the residents here, the ones without actual grandchildren, you are the closest thing to it.”

  “Then—”

  “No one wants their granddaughter learning those sorts of secrets, the indiscretions, the infidelity...” Mr. Carlotta breaks off, his voice rough as if it’s coated with its own layer of shame.
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  Springside Township is small enough that no one can grow up here and remain ... ignorant to all the goings-on. Still, gossip is different than confession, and truth trumps rumor.

  “So they didn’t want us to come back?”

  “They were too ashamed. Don’t hate them, Katy-Girl.”

  “I don’t. And maybe you could tell them I can’t even sort out what I heard. It’s all a jumble, and I don’t know who did what to whom.”

  Mr. Carlotta snorts. “You’re better off not knowing. Trust me.”

  In this case, he’s right. I would very much like to remain the ignorant granddaughter. I would also like our account back as well, even if it’s a gratis one. If I am the surrogate granddaughter, then these people are my grandparents.

  “But here’s the thing,” he says. “We have worse trouble now.”

  “Is it the ghosts?”

  “Someone new came around, claiming they could exorcise the ghosts from haunted objects.”

  “That’s convenient,” I say. I scoot up in bed and plump the pillow. I have the feeling I won’t be falling back asleep after this conversation.

  Mr. Carlotta snorts again. “It did work.”

  My heart sinks. This is just how it was when Malcolm first came to town and stole all my clients with his flashy golden samovar and tea. (Ghosts prefer coffee. At least, most ghosts do. A few odd ones go for the tea.) Someone new. Someone doing something different. It’s the shiny factor.

  “But there’s a problem,” he adds.

  “And that is?”

  “Not all of our items came back.”

  For a moment, I can’t speak. I feel as if the breath has been knocked from me. Grand larceny. Seven counts. I kick off the covers, my feet bicycling furiously.

  I think I’ve been framed.

  I don’t voice my suspicion to Mr. Carlotta—not yet, anyway. I want to hear the whole story, or at least, his version of it.

  “There were three of them,” he says. “But I think only one of them, the woman, could sense ghosts. The other two looked like hired muscle.”

  “But she didn’t try to catch them?”

  “No.”

  Sensing ghosts—where they are, their size, what they’re up to—is an inborn trait. Actually catching them takes skill, finesse, hours of practice, and in my case, plenty of scalding with cups of coffee.

  “Could you tell if all the items they took were haunted?”

  “I’m sure they weren’t. They took Annabelle’s jewelry box. According to her, it’s never been haunted.”

  Annabelle Greeley is another resident at the care facility. Whether it’s because she’s blind or extraordinarily sensitive, she has a feel for ghosts—my grandmother’s in particular. She’d know if she owned a haunted jewelry box.

  “Here’s the thing, Katy-Girl. They brought that back.”

  “As a ruse?” I suggest. The jewelry box is something her grandchildren bought her, probably at a dollar store. I doubt you could pawn it or fence it or do whatever it is thieves do. Its only value is sentimental.

  “My thoughts exactly!” His voice is charged with excitement.

  “And I was in Mrs. Greeley’s room not too long ago,” I add. “But I wasn’t there for the jewelry box.” My grandmother likes to visit Mrs. Greeley and often swirls inside a cobalt blue vase on the nightstand—or the Kona blend I might happen to have in a thermos.

  “And you were in my room,” Mr. Carlotta says.

  “Are you missing something?”

  “My Purple Heart.”

  “They took that?” It’s good I live alone. My outrage would wake the entire house.

  “And my ghost as well.”

  Oh, well, this is different. I hadn’t pegged his ghost as one that would haunt an item. Its connection to Mr. Carlotta feels far more personal than that.

  “Have you told Jack this?” I ask.

  “Yes, but don’t you dare say anything to him. He’s convinced I just misplaced it and forgot.”

  Mr. Carlotta still advises the Springside High School chess team. Of all the residents, I’d say his memory is the sharpest.

  “But you called him ... Why did you call him? How did you know I was in jail?”

  “Your grandmother, of course. She told Annabelle, Annabelle told me.”

  And then Mr. Carlotta embarked on his secret, after-hours mission. I sigh. “But Jack got me out of jail. He can make Chief Ramsey take this seriously.”

  “He’ll just say I shouldn’t bother you.”

  His voice tears at me, so glum, so forlorn. Mr. Carlotta is eighty-nine years old. I did the math once, figured out that he must have lied about his age to enlist during World War Two. Maybe this, too, is one of the reasons he doesn’t want to involve Jack. I think about the collective shame of everyone at the care facility, the urge to salvage a last bit of pride. I think I understand.

  “I want it back,” Mr. Carlotta says, the declaration sudden, his voice firm. “Can you help me?”

  “Your Purple Heart?” I ask.

  “No. My ghost.”

  * * *

  Our tiny conference room brims with caffeine. In addition to the coffee I’ve brewed in the percolator, Malcolm’s tea scents the air with its exotic blend of saffron and spices.

  “It’s different today,” I say to him, blinking my eyes against the steam.

  He holds his index finger and thumb together. “Just a pinch of cardamom.”

  Nigel sits at the end of the conference table, which is really nothing more than someone’s discarded dining room set. On either side of his laptop sits a cup—one of tea and one of coffee. He takes a sip from each, alternating precisely, never playing favorites.

  “I’ve traced the patterns of the thefts,” Nigel says after a sip of tea. “About three days after Katy went on a call, alone, without you”—he points to Malcolm—“something went missing.”

  “Which is why they didn’t arrest me, I’m guessing.” Malcolm leans over Nigel’s shoulder, gaze on the laptop’s screen.

  “So it looks like I was staking out places to rob,” I say, “after living all my life in Springside?” I roll my eyes.

  I haven’t been in everybody’s house, it’s true. Some people like their ghosts, especially the sprites, who are usually harmless. Some people refuse to believe, like Chief Ramsey. Still, this is a rather clumsy attempt, I think, to make me look guilty.

  “Bad blood, Katy. Blame your grandmother.”

  The voice startles me. I shoot to my feet, my chair careening backward into the wall. In the conference room doorway, Jack stands, all dark suit and red lawyer tie. He has his hands in his pockets and he leans against the frame. It’s a devastating pose, one he perfected against the lockers at Springside High School.

  I grope for my chair and plant myself in it. “Who said anything about blood?”

  “It’s an expression,” Malcolm says, his voice grumpy.

  Well, yes, I know that. I cast him a quick glance and fight the urge to roll my eyes again.

  “And I don’t think that assessment is fair to Katy or her grandmother,” he adds. This last is directed at Jack.

  “You’re new here, aren’t you?” Jack says. He is frozen now, an ice sculpture of a man.

  “I live here now.” In the echo of Malcolm’s reply, I catch: and you don’t.

  My gaze flickers between the two men, then lands on Nigel. He gives me a shrug, but I notice his lips twitch, as if he’s trying not to laugh.

  “Anyway,” Jack says, turning his attention to me, a smile melting some of the ice. “The charges are dropped, but you shouldn’t leave town.”

  “Funny,” Malcolm says. “That doesn’t sound like the charges have been dropped at all.”

  “Please, it’s not like I ever leave town except to release ghosts,” I say. “The last time I went anywhere was the school trip to the state capital.”

  This confession brings silence. I wonder if something of Mistress Armand lingers in the air of Springside, for ce
rtainly I’ve managed to blurt out several things that can kill a conversation. Again, that sense that I’m odd weighs on me. I don’t feel deprived for not traveling. Sometimes I think the world comes to me, or at least, history does. I’ve trapped enough old ghosts that sometimes I feel old myself.

  “When this is all over,” Jack says, lawyer-striding into the room, “I’m making sure you leave this town—at least for a weekend.”

  “Is that a promise or a threat?” With Jack, it could go either way.

  He laughs. “Katy, you know me better than that.”

  He’s right. I do. And my question stands, at least in my own mind.

  “What’s missing?” I ask in an attempt to change the subject.

  Jack pulls a cell phone from his suit coat pocket. “A couple of flat-screen televisions, some high-end video equipment, a brand new MacBook.”

  “And what would I do with those things?”

  “Pawn them, I guess.”

  “Where? In Springside? Don’t you think someone might catch on?”

  “Up in the Twin Cities—”

  “But I never leave town,” I interrupt. “Remember? Has Chief Ramsey really thought this through, or am I just convenient?”

  Jack folds his arms over his chest. “I think you’re stubborn. His theory is you could also use the equipment in your business.”

  “To do what? Make ghost pornos?”

  Once again I have silenced the room. After a moment, Nigel snorts. Malcolm glances away; I think he might be laughing. An angry pink blazes across Jack’s cheekbones.

  “You know it doesn’t work that way,” I say, more contrite now. “You can’t film ghosts. Not really. I don’t need all the stuff he says I do.”

  “Unless your business is failing.” Jack pauses. “Is your business failing, Katy?”

  His words sucker punch the air from my lungs. I open my mouth to contradict him, but I can’t draw a full breath. Words lodge in my throat. I can’t look at anyone, not Nigel, and especially not Malcolm. I don’t understand, either, why Jack is acting this way. So I do what any wounded thing does when desperate. I attack.

  “So I stole all these things and your grandfather’s Purple Heart? How much sense does that make?”