Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete First Season (Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete Seasons Book 1) (13 page)

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.”

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 and 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 facility. 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.

“Staring out the window isn’t going to get us any clients,” Malcolm adds.

“It was just like this, you know.”

“What was?”

“When you came to town and stole all my clients.”

He bursts out laughing. “Oh, come on. I didn’t steal all your clients.”

I pivot from my contemplation of Main Street and confront him instead, hands on hips. “Didn’t you? What would you call it, then?”

“Free enterprise?” He crosses the distance between us. “Besides, we both know how it turned out.”

For a month, Malcolm was my rival, and he did steal all my clients, no matter what he says. For a month, I loathed the sight of him. And now?

He puts his hands on my shoulders. “Didn’t it turn out?” His voice is lower, a near whisper, as if he doesn’t want anyone to overhear what he might say next.

My heart thuds hard against my ribcage. I don’t want to feel this way about my business partner. I’m not even certain what
this way
means, except that at times like this, his nearness clouds my head. He smells of Ivory soap and nutmeg and that does nothing to clear my thoughts.

“Katy,” he says, “I’ve been thinking—”

The door to our office swings open, the chime promising a customer. Malcolm drops his hands as if my shoulders burn him. In the entrance, Officer Deborah Millard stands. She’s been a police officer for as long as I can remember. Her partner is new, practically a boy. He gnaws on his bottom lip while the creases around Officer Millard’s eyes deepen.

“Katrina Lindstrom?” she says, although why, I don’t know. We’ve known each other forever.

“Yes?” I answer, although again, it seems silly, both my answer and the sound of my full name.

“I have a warrant for your arrest.”

Or not so silly.

She pulls out a pair of handcuffs. “You have the right to remain silent...”

“No, really.” Malcolm inserts himself between Deborah and me. “This is ridiculous. What are the charges? You just can’t come in here and—”

“Sir, step to the side and let me do my job.” Deborah’s words lack any inflection. “There are penalties if you don’t.”

I shake my head at Malcolm. “You can’t get arrested too.” I let Deborah take my hands and secure them behind my back. The metal is cold against my wrists, and I’m shackled. There’s no way I’m jerking free of this.

“... Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law...”

“What are the charges?” He is fierce, but hovering, one eye on Deborah and one on the boy, who has pulled out his own set of cuffs. “At least tell us that.”

“Grand larceny,” Deborah says. “Seven counts.”

I know I must be gaping. My jaw feels loose; air rushes into my mouth. I can’t imagine it. What is it they think I’ve stolen?

“Katy?” Malcolm’s eyes are wide and uncertain.

Well, yes, I’ve had money troubles. But I’ve never stolen anything, not even clients.

“You have the right to an attorney,” Deborah is saying.