Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete First Season

by Charity Tahmaseb

  * * *

  I pour coffee into three bone china cups. The porcelain is so fine that the cups are nearly translucent. Wedding china. My grandmother’s. At least, I think it is. I never asked. Now, regret tugs at me that I didn’t.

  I swallow back the sigh. I’m too full of caffeine to stay sad for long. I’m in Mr. Carlotta’s room, the last stop on my pilgrimage to thank all the ghosts of Springside Township. They all helped, but it’s this fierce warrior of a ghost who rallied them and led the charge. That deserves something special.

  “Ah, Katy-Girl,” Mr. Carlotta says. “I think your coffee may even outshine your grandmother’s.”

  “I don’t see how it could. She taught me everything I know about brewing coffee.”

  He sips again. “It tastes different today.”

  Perhaps it does. Or perhaps it’s because today, his room feels lighter. Granted, his ghost is not a presence you can ignore, but the air doesn’t feel quite so melancholy, my lungs don’t struggle to draw a breath.

  Still, I make the offer. “Do you want me to take your ghost when I go?”

  Mr. Carlotta strokes his jaw, his eyes on the very spot where his ghost rests. “No, let him stay. He’s not thickening the air quite so much, and I get the sense he needs the rest.”

  “All right,” I say, “but there are some things you should know. Your ghost is a warrior.”

  “I knew it! He has the feel of an old soldier.”

  “Maybe,” I say. “But your ghost is actually a she.”

  Mr. Carlotta’s eyes sparkle with discovery. “A she? Are you certain?”

  “Positive.”

  “An Amazonian, then?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. All I know is this ghost is very old.”

  “Or perhaps Queen Boudica herself!” He nods. “Yes, I think she must be.”

  The ghost swells at this suggestion. Whether true or not, she certainly seems to like it—and Mr. Carlotta.

  “She could use a little R and R,” I say. “She fought a big battle the other day.”

  “I thought you were up to something.”

  Once we finish, I clear the cups and saucers, tucking each in bubble wrap before placing them into the field kit. I’m at the door, ready to leave, when Mr. Carlotta calls out.

  “So, I was talking to Jack last night—”

  I shake my head, but I’m smiling. He’ll never give up. “I’m seeing someone right now.”

  He scrutinizes me. “So you are, Katy-Girl. So you are.”

  I’m halfway down the hall when he wheels his chair into the corridor.

  “But you tell him for me that I’ve got my eye on him!”

  * * *

  When I reach K&M Ghost Eradication Specialists, Malcolm is outside, leaning against the door. The sun glints off the storefront glass and the lettering glows like pure gold. It’s one of those rare November days that make you think winter will never invade. The air is warm, but it holds undertones of the cold to come.

  “Have fun?” he asks.

  I nod, but it’s a distracted sort of gesture.

  “You didn’t find her,” he says, “did you?”

  I shake my head. “I think she’s gone for good this time.”

  “Remember when you told me that the thing she wanted most was to take care of you?” Malcolm says. “Well, maybe she’s done that. Maybe that means she can move on. Maybe … oh!”

  Oh? What does he mean by oh? “Tell me.”

  “It just hit me. Maybe she went to find your grandfather.”

  “Then you don’t think that entity destroyed him?”

  “Not with the way your grandmother loved him.” He pauses and considers the sky. “I suspect his spirit is out there somewhere. It was her love that sustained him.” He looks at me now, those brown eyes soft. “That made all the difference. I’m certain of it.”

  We each wear scars from our own battle with the entity. Silver strands thread their way through Malcolm’s ebony hair, a bit a gray settling in around his temples. His eyes have more creases when he smiles. While the spot on my cheek is gone, the skin where it sat has a faint blue cast to it, a stain that no amount of scrubbing can remove.

  He shifts and I notice the sign on the door behind him.

  Closed for QBR.

  “What’s QBR?” I ask.

  “Quarterly business review. It’s been a busy three months.”

  Yes, it has.

  “A lot has happened,” he adds.

  That, too.

  “So, in a QBR you review the business, wins and losses, make plans. Basically, it’s an honest look at where the business is at.”

  “Emphasis on honest?”

  He clamps his mouth shut. That only lasts for a second. He bursts out laughing, hands propped on his knees.

  “Yes,” he says, catching his breath. “Emphasis on honest.” He tips his head toward the sky again. “And since it’s so nice, I thought we could have a picnic.” He gestures toward his convertible.

  There, tucked behind the passenger seat, is a wicker basket. Tucked next to it is a red and white checked blanket.

  “So this would be what?” I ask. “A date?”

  “Only if you want it to be.”

  I consider this, and Malcolm. I could weigh pros and cons, I suppose. I could walk a careful line between business partner and friend. Or I could trust that we’ll figure everything out as we go along.

  “Yes,” I say. “Let’s go on a picnic.”

  He keeps the top down and cranks the heat. We drive along Main Street until we leave Springside Township behind us. The sky is so blue, Malcolm’s fingers laced in mine so warm, and the wind steals our laughter.

  We drive so fast that—for once—the ghosts won’t be able to follow us.

  Sneak Peek: Ghosts of Christmas Past

  Coffee and Ghosts Season 2: Episode 1

  IT’S TWO WEEKS before Christmas, and I’m crouched in our storefront display. Morning sunlight shines through the gold lettering on the glass and casts the words K&M Ghost Eradication Specialists along my arms. The velvet beneath my shoes makes it tough to gain purchase. My thighs ache. My palms sweat. The scalding cup of coffee I’m holding threatens to spill.

  Passersby stop and stare, mouths open. I catch sight of Police Chief Ramsey, but all he gives me is a smirk. He doesn’t believe in ghosts, not even when they’re right in front of him. If I had any sort of presence of mind, I would’ve thought to print out a sign, something along the lines of: Demonstration in progress.

  But that would be a lie. This is no demonstration. The sprite careening around the display window really is agitated. I really need to catch it. I’m really not certain this single cup of coffee will do it. Not this time of year.

  There’s something about December that brings out the worst in ghosts.

  I’m about to admit defeat. The coffee’s cooling too rapidly to tempt this one much longer. The sprite shoots back and forth, whipping around the samovar and percolator we keep on display, nestled in the velvet. It slips inside the samovar. The whole thing shakes, then teeters off its perch.

  I pitch forward to catch it. My fingertips skim the metal. The coffee in my other hand sloshes, soaks my sleeve, and splatters the window. I’m flat on my stomach in the middle of the display. The sprite does a victory lap around my head and I glance up into the perplexed gaze of my business partner.

  He’s standing on the other side of the glass. His lips twitch. Malcolm Armand (the M in K&M Ghost Eradication Specialists) was once my rival and is now my partner—and sometimes there are benefits with that arrangement. He doesn’t move from his spot outside our window. In fact, he looks like he’s about to settle in for a show.

  “Help?” I mouth.

  I can’t hear his laugh, but I can see it, head thrown back, the way it lights his eyes. He vanishes from sight and a moment later, the chime over our door rings out.

  “Katy, what on earth?”

  “We have a sprite,” I say.

 
; He sticks his head into the display area. “We have a sprite?” He glances about like he’s tasting the air. “Oh … we have a sprite. Any idea how that happened?”

  “None.”

  The sprite shoots past Malcolm and heads for the conference room.

  “Damn,” he says. “Is Nigel in yet?”

  “Not unless he came in the back way.”

  Without another word, Malcolm sprints toward the conference room. I crawl from the display as quickly as soggy velvet will allow. Nigel, Malcolm’s brother, was once addicted to swallowing ghosts. Granted, there isn’t much to a sprite, but it’s better if he isn’t tempted.

  I’m at the threshold to the conference room when Malcolm emerges.

  “All clear.” He holds up a sealed Tupperware container. “Look what I got you for Christmas.”

  “Seriously? You caught it that fast?”

  He shrugs. “I’m just that good.”

  He is, actually, but I’m in no mood to admit it. I cross my arms over my chest and stare hard, waiting for the rest of the explanation.

  “And I think you wore it out,” he adds.

  I study the sprite trapped inside the Tupperware. It floats lazily about, giving me a single thump against the side in agreement.

  The chime above our door rings for a second time that morning. Nigel strolls in. His shock of white hair always takes me by surprise. Although he’s only a few years older than Malcolm, he wears the legacy of his addiction in his hair and in the lines around his eyes and mouth.

  Today a grin brightens his face. He looks almost boyish. His steps are quick and light. I think he might break into a song or possibly execute some sort of dance step. Instead, he merely nods at the sprite as he passes by.

  “Good work,” he says, and heads into the conference room where we keep the computer.

  Malcolm and I stare after him. A tune reaches my ears, the melody off key but buoyant.

  “Is he whistling?” I ask Malcolm.

  “I think so.”

  “Does he do that often?”

  I’ve only known Nigel for about four months, Malcolm a touch longer. Both brothers still hold a great deal of mystery for me. I couldn’t tell you if Malcolm whistles.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever heard him whistle before,” he says.

  Malcolm creeps toward the conference room door and peers inside. Then he whirls, eyes wide, lips pursed as if he’s trying to hold in laughter. He crosses to the far side of the reception area, gesturing for me to follow. We bend our heads close together.

  “Nigel went over to Sadie’s for dinner last night.”

  I nod. This, I know. Sadie Lancaster is my neighbor. I swept her house for sprites about fifteen minutes before Nigel was due to arrive. It’s become an evening ritual.

  “Well,” Malcolm says now. “He never made it back to the apartment.”

  “Never made it …” I trail off, the obvious hitting me with enough force I almost gasp. “You mean they … that he … he stayed the night?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean.” Malcolm grins and leans in even closer. “I think it explains his mood, don’t you?”

  I clamp a hand over my mouth so I won’t giggle or do anything else juvenile. Sadie deserves some happiness. So does Nigel, for that matter. Still, Malcolm and I are responding with all the maturity of a couple of twelve-year-olds.

  Maybe that’s because we haven’t taken that step. We’re not even close to that step. We are, by my calculation, at least five miles from that step. My gaze drifts from the conference room door to the display window. From here, I can make out the sodden velvet and the way the gold lettering makes it glow.

  K&M Ghost Eradication Specialists

  My eyes lock with Malcolm’s. His are a deep brown, close to black, like an excellent dark roast. We both know why we haven’t taken too many steps. What happens to K&M Ghost Eradication Specialists if K&M the couple doesn’t work out?

  “Katy,” he begins. His voice is soft, devoid of that earlier glee. He sounds like he might say something quite serious.

  Before he can, my phone buzzes in my back pocket. I tug it out, and Malcolm sighs. I can’t tell if I hear regret or relief in it, so I focus on the text instead.

  Sadie: Katy, can you come over

  I hold the phone so Malcolm can read the message. “I just cleared them last night.”

  “Maybe it’s time we took them farther out.”

  “Maybe.”

  Sadie’s two sprites adore her. They are, I think, like the children she never had. But they’re not children; they’re sprites. Like the one thumping the Tupperware container Malcolm is holding, they cause trouble. Sprites love to play pranks, get a reaction, soak in attention.

  “If Nigel …” He nods toward the conference room. “I mean, if this is getting … permanent, they can’t hang around.”

  No, they can’t. Nigel’s addiction makes that impossible. But something about losing them for good makes my chest ache, just a little.

  My phone buzzes again.

  Sadie: Katy please

  I tuck my phone back into my pocket and hold out my hands for the Tupperware.

  “I might as well go. I have coffee at home, and I can lose this one and the other two while I’m at it.” I give my soggy sleeve a shake. “And change. I should probably change.”

  My hands are on the container, so when he pulls it toward him, I come with it. We’re close now, with just a sprite and some plastic between us.

  “I probably smell like the Coffee Depot,” I say, and my voice has gone all breathy.

  “I’m not complaining.”

  Between us, the sprite thumps the sides of the Tupperware, and my heart picks up its beat. If I smell like the brew of the day, then Malcolm spices the air with a strange mix of Ivory Soap and nutmeg—it’s warm and exotic all at once. Malcolm’s gaze is locked on my face. I couldn’t look away even if I wanted to.

  And I don’t want to.

  My phone buzzes a third time.

  Malcolm sighs again and then gives me a grin of resignation. We are K&M Ghost Eradication Specialists and this is how we pay the bills.

  “I’d better.” I wave a hand toward the door.

  “Yeah. You’d better.”

  When I’m outside, with my truck rumbling to life beneath me, I can’t tell if it’s regret or relief that will follow me on this call.

  * * *

  Something green is hanging from my door. The wreath looks festive, like Christmas, but it wasn’t there this morning. The front walk bears the slightest imprint of someone’s boots, a pair much larger than I ever wear. Instead of heading around back to the kitchen like I normally would, I follow those snowy footsteps up my walk.

  A mistletoe wreath is hanging from a hook on my door. It’s an old-fashioned arrangement, the perfect complement for the old Victorian house, and the sprig of holly berries glow blood red against the white of the door. In the center, stuck beneath a plaid bow, is a card.

  I strip off my mittens and tug at the card. The entire wreath wobbles, then plunges to the ground. I balance it against one boot while I read the note.

  For one speaker to the dead from another:

  Did you know that the French once referred to a bough of mistletoe as a specter’s wand? They believed that not only could the holder see ghosts, but could induce them to speak as well.

  Of course, we don’t need those sorts of tricks, do we? Still, what would the holiday be without such ornaments as this?

  The card is unsigned. I turn it over, check the envelope, but there’s no clue to who might have sent the wreath. Malcolm, possibly? Was that why he was a few minutes late this morning? I frown at the card. It doesn’t really sound like him.

  “It’s bad luck, you know, to let mistletoe touch the ground.”

  A voice echoes around me, low and masculine. I shove the card into my coat pocket and whirl to face it.

  No one is there. Not on the sidewalk or the street. No one has crept up behind me
on the walkway, although my heart is thudding like someone has. I scan the area, my back to the door. Without taking my gaze from the street, I bend down and pick up the wreath. It takes three clumsy tries before it lands on its hook once again. Then I decide the best place to be is inside the house.

  Without shrugging off my coat, I brew a quick pot of Kona blend. If Sadie’s sprites are back so soon, I’ll need extra enticement to get them to leave. They’ve been stubborn lately. Maybe it’s the holiday. Maybe it’s because they’re lonely.

  Maybe I don’t blame them. I haven’t climbed the stairs to the attic yet to bring down the decorations. I haven’t bought a tree. Whenever my mind drifts to this first Christmas without my grandmother, I force myself to think of something else.

  Like now. I’ll go catch some sprites and breathe in all that is Sadie’s house at Christmastime—sugar cookies and gingerbread houses, strings of popcorn and cranberries, spiced apple cider.

  Although first I take a quick look around outside, but the street is late-morning quiet with children at school and people at work.

  The door to Sadie’s house is ajar. Warm, scented air greets me when I push it open all the way.

  “Sadie?” I call out.

  I stop at the threshold, pulling in a few deep breaths, tasting the air. Sprites have such a slight presence that sometimes it’s hard to tell if they’re in residence at all.

  Something otherworldly is here. That much I can tell. Normally, when the sprites act up, Sadie will be somewhere they are not. I call out again.

  Nothing.

  I pull out my phone. On the screen is one final message.

  Sadie: he

  He? Is there someone—or something—else in the house? Or is it the start of a word—a word like help? I don’t think, don’t question what I should do next. I dash up the stairs to the second floor, taking the steps two at a time. I call out again, my voice ragged.

  “Sadie, are you okay?”

  I don’t want to barge into her bedroom, but that’s the most logical place to search. I push open the door, the sight that greets me freezing me in place.