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

by Charity Tahmaseb

  “What is it?” I ask him. “Are you hurt?”

  “I know better than to do something like that,” Malcolm says, his words low and taut.

  “What does it mean?”

  “It means that thing has marked you.”

  Marked me. That sounds ... disturbing. “And what does that mean, exactly?”

  “The thing, that entity, can find you again.”

  Even more disturbing. “Why would it want to find me?”

  Malcolm shakes his head. Whether he knows—and won’t tell me—or simply doesn’t know, isn’t clear.

  “Why did it call you a necromancer?” I ask.

  Malcolm eases from his knees to sitting. My legs are wobbly, and standing isn’t something I plan to attempt just yet.

  “Because I am one.” He sighs. “I haven’t told you the whole truth.”

  I cock my head to the side and give him a hard stare, because that? That is the only thing I do know at this point.

  He raises a hand. “Yeah, I know. Pretty obvious, right? I’m a necromancer. I talk to the dead, or as the case may be, with ghosts.”

  “But ghosts don’t really talk.”

  “Don’t they? They communicate with you all the time. Besides, if you invited one inside, you’d hear plenty.”

  “You mean swallow ghosts, like Nigel used to? Is he a necromancer?”

  “Nigel’s what happens when a necromancer gets ... careless—or addicted. A true relationship between a necromancer and a ghost is symbiotic. Each partner helps the other.”

  Something Mistress Armand said to Malcolm echoes in my head. I’ve always thought he left more than simply his job when he came to Springside.

  “The girl you left behind,” I say. “That’s what Mistress Armand meant. That’s your ghost.”

  “That was my ghost,” he says, “before Nigel swallowed her.”

  “Did she escape when we set them free?”

  The crinkles around his eyes deepen, his mouth a grim line. “I don’t know. Maybe. I didn’t sense her, but it was kind of chaotic.”

  “What was it ... I mean. How...?” My words are nonsensical. How do I ask this question? Were they in a relationship? Can you date a ghost?

  “How does it work?” he supplies. “What did we do?”

  “Yeah. That.”

  “She helped me play the market. It’s why I was so good. She listened in on phone calls, picked up gossip and pieces of information floating around on the floor, and brought it all back to me. Then I’d make a killing.”

  “That sounds like cheating.”

  “Or leveling the playing field. A lot of successful brokers are necromancers.”

  That sounds insane. I don’t say this out loud, but I’m certain it shows in my expression. “What did you do in return?”

  “Spent a lot of time in art museums.”

  “As a ghost, she could go any time she liked.”

  “According to her, it’s not the same, not as enjoyable, not as ... sensual.”

  Okay, I’ve heard enough. Malcolm has—or had—an invisible girlfriend. My legs find their strength and I push to stand.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Home,” I say.

  “Do you want a ride?”

  “No.”

  “Katy, I know it’s strange, but give it some thought—”

  “My grandmother never said anything about necromancers, ever.”

  “Then maybe your grandmother didn’t tell you everything. They exist. I’m one. And I’m pretty sure you’re one too.”

  “I’m a ghost hunter.” I turn from him and start down the walk.

  “Katy—”

  “I’ll see you Monday. At work.”

  This time, he lets me walk away without another word.

  * * *

  The walk home is long and cold. I pick up two sprites along the way—two that I recognize. They dart and spin about, feeling oh so full of themselves. When I pass Sadie’s house, they peel off and zip to the roof and down her chimney.

  My own house is dark. Only recently it started feeling like home again, but now, when I unlock the door, emptiness greets me. I think of all the things Malcolm said and all the things that my grandmother never did. I don’t feel like Katy Lindstrom, ghost hunter. I’m certainly not Katy Lindstrom, necromancer.

  For now, I’ll go through the motions. I’ll take a shower, brew a pot of Kona blend. I’ll drink it slowly and study the walls. I’ll pretend I know all the answers. I’ll pretend last night never happened.

  That will work. For now.

  As long as I don’t look in the mirror.

  A MERE FOUR DAYS AGO, I was behind bars. So meeting Police Chief Ramsey on the front steps of the Springside Township Police Department?

  Somewhat awkward.

  Chief Ramsey’s bulk casts a shadow across the steps. He studies the space behind me, around me, in between us. He coughs, once.

  “You’re not under arrest,” he says. “You know that, right?”

  I cock my head and stare. His gaze darts to my face and lingers there—or, more accurately, on my left cheek—before he can compose himself.

  I resist the urge to touch my face.

  “And you’re free to leave town as well.” He shrugs, as if the last forty-eight hours were a simple misunderstanding. “Seems there was a theft ring operating here. Pretty clever of them to follow you around. The Minneapolis Police have picked up their trail. We might even get some of the stuff back.”

  The traffic on Main Street consists of a single VW Bug, sky blue with a convertible top. From the Pancake House comes the scent of bacon wrapped in maple. I want to cross the road, leave Police Chief Ramsey behind, and order a stack of buttermilk pancakes. The fresh-squeezed orange juice is to die for. No coffee, though. They make the worst in town.

  Instead, I work a few more degrees of frost into my stare. My grandmother would do this when whatever came from someone’s mouth didn’t match her expectations. During her lifetime, Chief Ramsey got the ice glare more than once.

  “And I really appreciate you finding Mr. Carlotta’s Purple Heart.” His tone implies that these might be the hardest words he’s ever uttered. “That was the one thing that insurance couldn’t replace.”

  It’s not much of an apology, but it’s close enough.

  “So ... you’re free to go.” He doesn’t shoo with his hands, but his fingers twitch as if he wants to.

  I would love nothing better than to comply, but I’m here at the police station for a reason. Before either of us can do or say anything further, a van rumbles up Main Street. The vehicle is strange, both in the sense that I’ve never seen it before—in a town the size of Springside, I’ve seen most everybody’s car—and in the sense that it’s ... strange. Bright yellow paint. Black lettering. Antennae sprouting like an untamed garden on the roof.

  The van creeps past us, going well below the speed limit. The lettering on the side reads:

  Ghost B Gone

  Gregory B. Gone, proprietor

  Chief Ramsey snorts and shakes his head. He doesn’t believe in ghosts, although he should. He has two sprites in the booking area and a more substantial one that haunts his garden shed. We both track the van until it turns off of Main Street.

  “What do you know, Katy?” he says. “Looks like you have a little competition there. Gotta love free enterprise.”

  He steps inside without bothering to hold the door for me. I let it shut, my gaze still on the intersection where the van disappeared. Choices, choices. Do I hop into my truck and follow it? Do I go to the office and confront my business partner, who’s been lying to me, and maybe kissed me not so long ago? (Okay, he did kiss me, and I kissed back.) I peer up at the police station’s façade. I have business here, too.

  I step inside, since of all the things I must do, this is the most clear-cut.

  Penny is working in the reception area, her hair frizzed as if she’s clutched chunks of it several times in the past hour.

&n
bsp; “Not again,” she moans. “Third time this morning.” Her fingers move across the computer’s keyboard in the Ctrl-Alt-Del dance. She flops back in her chair, then jerks forward when her gaze lands on me.

  “Katy? You don’t ... I mean...” She trails off, her stare more blatant than Chief Ramsey’s.

  She focuses on the spot on my cheek, her eyes glazing over. I’ve studied the iridescent blue that mars my skin in the mirror, and I swear it rotates oh so slowly. Penny’s current state of hypnosis might be proof of that.

  “Penny.”

  No response.

  “Penny.”

  Still nothing. I slap my hand on the counter. She blinks.

  “How can I help you, Katy? Did you leave something here from when ... I mean, last Thursday?”

  Yes, when I was incarcerated. “No, I’m good, but I need to know something else.”

  Penny leans forward.

  “What do I need to do to get Belinda Barnes out of jail?” I Googled last night, but I’m still not certain what I might need to do in Springside—or rather, what I might need to do because of Police Chief Ramsey. “Do I pay her bail? How does it work?”

  Penny’s mouth hangs open. Her computer whirs. It’s then I notice the source of her technical difficulties. The two sprites that haunt this place are at work—or, more accurately, play. Sprites love to annoy, startle, pull pranks. You find them in twos and threes because they also love an audience.

  “Belinda?” I prompt. “Is she still here?”

  Penny clamps her mouth shut and nods.

  “Then what do I do? Penny, help me. Do I sign her out? Give you money? Talk to Chief Ramsey?” This last is something I’d rather not do, but I’ll try anything.

  She shoves from her desk. “Let me go talk to Chief.”

  Her chair spins as she passes by, then keeps spinning long after she’s left the room.

  “Nice trick,” I say to the sprites. “Don’t get out of hand, or I’ll come back with Kona blend and some Tupperware.”

  The chair continues to spin. I continue to wait. All the while, I keep my palms glued to the countertop. I will not touch my cheek.

  For a full five minutes, my resolve actually holds.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, Penny ushers me into Chief Ramsey’s office. He’s a big man, and he has a big chair and desk to match. But the space we’re forced to share is tiny. Morning sunlight filters through a window that’s more of a vent. Dust motes dance in the sunbeam, but it’s devoid of sprites. This is just as well. I’m not certain we could cram another being in here, ethereal or otherwise.

  “Belinda Barnes is free to go,” Chief tells me.

  “Does she know that?” From what I gathered during my stay on Thursday, I’m not so sure.

  He raises his hand and then tips it this way and that. Maybe yes? Maybe no? Then he uses that hand to rub the back of his neck.

  “I’ll be honest, I bring her in sometimes when I think she can use a shower and a decent meal, somewhere dry to sleep.”

  “So she really isn’t under arrest.”

  “Drunk and disorderly. That’s the charge, if anyone cares to check.” Chief shakes his head. “Shame, bright girl like that, drinking her life away.”

  “But she is free to go,” I say. “Right? She can come with me.”

  “To do what?”

  “I have a job for her and a place for her to stay.”

  “A job.” Chief shifts into full-on skeptic mode. Two words never held so much doubt.

  Because what can the crazy girl offer the drunk one? I go with the truth, or at least, the piece of it Chief Ramsey might believe.

  “It’s been lonely since my grandmother died. My house has lots of bedrooms. I thought Belinda could stay in one.” I give what I hope looks like an innocent little shrug. “Room and board in exchange for a few chores. That takes care of food and showers and a dry place to sleep.”

  Chief strokes his chin as if my request takes great consideration.

  “And the only thing I have to drink in the house is coffee.”

  This gets a laugh, although he steels himself almost immediately. With a sigh, Chief Ramsey heaves himself to his feet.

  “Go wait in the reception area. We’ll start the paperwork and bring her out to you.”

  I don’t release my own sigh until I’ve passed the front desk and landed in one of the hard, molded plastic chairs. Penny leaves her desk, and the sprites sag. Other than myself, Belinda is the only other person currently in the station who is aware of them, and I’m stealing their audience.

  “Be glad I’m not driving you out to the nature preserve,” I tell them.

  “Oh, I don’t know. That sounds nice.”

  Belinda’s voice startles me. She’s standing in the doorway to the booking and holding cell area, Chief Ramsey glowering behind her.

  “I was just talking—” I begin.

  “To yourself?” She nods toward the sprites. “Careful, or Chief Ramsey will start locking you up on a regular basis, too.”

  “Now, Belinda, I promised your father—”

  “Oh, don’t worry about Daddy. He’s not around to haunt you. Trust me. I’d know.” With that, she breezes out of the police station.

  “Reckless girl,” Chief mutters.

  I dash out the door without a goodbye—or a thank you. No matter. Chief wouldn’t hear me. No time, either. Belinda is halfway down the block before I catch up to her. At first, she won’t adjust her stride. I’m not short, but Belinda is six feet tall, and most of that is leg.

  “Thanks, Katy,” she says, boot heels clacking on the sidewalk. “But I don’t need your pity.”

  “Would you just stop, or at least slow down? You have no idea what you’re talking about.” I’m close to begging, but I’m not sure that will work with Belinda. Again, I try the truth. “I need your help.”

  She halts so suddenly that I shoot past her. I whirl around, afraid this is a ruse. But she’s standing there, arms crossed over her chest.

  “My help,” she says, her tone nearly as skeptical as Chief’s was. “What on earth could I ... what the hell is on your cheek?”

  I deflate. I tried makeup this morning, but clearly it isn’t working. “I wish I knew what it was. It ... happened on Friday night.”

  Belinda steps closer. “This doesn’t look like the result of too much tequila and a trip to the tattoo parlor.”

  “It isn’t.”

  She leans in. Since Thursday—when we shared the holding cell together—she’s had a shower. Someone must have taken the overcoat she wears to the drycleaner. The khaki material hangs in smooth lines, the stains gone, or at least faded so you might not notice.

  “Don’t touch it,” I say.

  “Not going to. It’s sending out a serious keep-back message.”

  “The last person who did got hurt,” I add.

  “Who was the last person to touch you, Katy?” Her provocative lilt implies volumes more than her mere words.

  My heart beats volumes more than I think it should.

  “That would be Malcolm.” My throat is tight. I try to swallow, but it doesn’t do any good. Malcolm, my business partner, the man I kissed not too long ago. Malcolm, who calls himself a necromancer. Malcolm, who is expecting me in the office about ten minutes ago.

  “It’s too bad no one was taking bets on that,” Belinda says. “I would’ve made a killing.”

  “I don’t want to talk about Malcolm,” I say, hoping to steer the conversation in another direction. Except Malcolm’s involved in all of it, and in ways I’m not sure I understand. “I want to hire you,” I blurt out, certain this will do the trick.

  “What?”

  “I want to hire you.”

  “To do what? I have no skills beyond scooping ice cream.”

  “All I can do is make coffee.”

  Belinda snorts a laugh. “You can do a lot more. You didn’t see Chief Ramsey go after Mr. Carlotta’s Purple Heart, did you?”


  “You heard about that?” I only arrived back on Saturday afternoon. But Springside Township is small, and word gets around.

  “Penny.” Belinda holds up her hand as if it’s a talking puppet. “And the sprites. You’d be surprised how much I hear.”

  “Actually, I wouldn’t. Not anymore. It’s one of the reasons I need your help.” I nod toward the Pancake House. “I barely ate yesterday, and I’m starving. Can we talk over breakfast?”

  Maybe it’s the maple syrup drenching the air, but she wavers. Hardly anyone turns down breakfast at Springside Pancake House. Belinda doesn’t nod. She doesn’t say a word. Instead, she strikes out across Main Street, cutting in front of the No Jaywalking sign.

  I run to catch up.

  * * *

  Once upon a time, I thought I knew everything there was to know about ghost hunting. You don’t need high-tech gadgets or sensors or a (usually faked) connection to the other side. You don’t need to wait for dark. What you need is a really good cup of coffee.

  It might sound immodest, but I make a great cup of coffee. This, however, is the only thing I can do. As recession-proof skills go, it’s a mediocre one. When she died, my grandmother left behind the family business. She left me her house. What I’m finding out now is that she left a lot of unanswered questions as well.

  I think Belinda can answer some of those.

  I wait until we’ve plowed through a first round of silver-dollar-size buttermilk pancakes. They cook them all day long and will bring you as many as you can eat.

  “This beats the burnt toast Penny made me this morning.” Belinda raises her glass of orange juice to mine. “Thank you,” she adds. “That should’ve been my answer before. Thank you.”

  “I do need your help, but I don’t know if you want to talk about it.” When she doesn’t respond, I say, “Ghosts. I know they’ve always harassed you.”

  Belinda sets down her glass. She’s always been so golden—well-to-do, adoring parents, hair both naturally wavy and blonde. Add in academic success in high school, all the extracurriculars, and all the awards—prom queen, homecoming queen, most likely to succeed. It could make you crazy with jealousy, if you let it. Or if you could see what I do—and did see all through our school years.