Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete First Season (Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete Seasons Book 1) (16 page)

“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 certainly 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?”

Jack heaves a sigh. “He probably just misplaced it.” His voice is patronizing. Does he speak to Mr. Carlotta this way? Has he always spoken this way? My mind searches the past, trying to dredge up old images of Jack. I don’t remember him being quite so abrasive. I don’t like it. I’m starting to not like him.

I turn to not Jack or Malcolm, but Nigel, who still has his hands poised over the laptop’s keyboard. “Let’s say someone came to town and did steal all those things. What would be the next steps?”

“Pawn them.” Nigel’s fingers fly over the keys. “Probably up in Minneapolis or one of the suburbs.”

“Even the medal?”

His fingers stutter, then start up again. He squints at the screen. “Oh, well, this is interesting. Apparently there’s a market for medals, Purple Hearts in particular. Collectors’ items. Does Mr. Carlotta’s medal still have the original box?”

“It does.” This is Jack, his voice devoid of arrogance now. “And the citation.”

“Could be worth something to the right collector,” Nigel says. “And ... there’s a Military Relic Show going on this weekend at the State Fairgrounds.”

“That can’t be a coincidence,” I say.

Nigel shakes his head. “Doesn’t look that way.”

“When this weekend?” I ask.

“Tomorrow, eight to six and Sunday, nine to three.”

“I think—”

I never get to say what I think. In that moment, both Malcolm and Jack burst out with something, something I can’t understand. They talk over each other, talk about me, but neither considers that maybe they should talk
to
me. I’m about to climb up onto the table, maybe stomp my feet, just to silence them, when Nigel catches my eye.

“Oh, Katy!” Nigel stands, a feat considering Malcolm has an iron grip on the back of his chair. “I almost forgot. Sadie’s sprites are getting out of hand. I don’t suppose you could—” He nods toward the door. His lips twitch again.

I take the offer for what it is: a chance to escape. “Of course. I have supplies at my house.”

Sadie Lancaster is my next-door neighbor. She believes herself plagued by ghosts, although in reality, it’s only two mischievous sprites. I’ve caught them dozens of times. They always return. They have nothing but affection for her, but sprites being sprites, they’re also annoying.

We escape, leaving Malcolm and Jack glaring at each other. I wonder if they’ll still be like that when we return.

* * *

Since I don’t need my truck, we decide to walk.

“I thought Sadie was going to embrace her sprites,” I say.

“She was. She’s trying. Thing is, they’re troublemakers.”

“Sprites usually are.”

“And ... I’m coming over for dinner tonight.”

Oh. Interesting. Something’s been brewing there, between them. My mind goes to last night, how Nigel gathered Sadie’s groceries, the comforting hands on her shoulders. Still, the two of them make such an unusual couple that I’ve dismissed the idea. Clearly, I shouldn’t have.

“The steam from the food,” Nigel continues. “You know how they like the steam. Well, if food goes in my mouth, and there’s a sprite in the steam...” He trails off because I can fill in the rest.

Nigel used to swallow ghosts, was addicted to them, the way you might be to alcohol or heroin. He’s only been ghost-free for a little more than a month, and I’m not sure that’s long enough for any addict. Accidently swallowing a sprite along with the green beans? That could cause a relapse.

We turn off of Main Street. The wind whips up funnels of leaves. We’re closer to winter than summer now. Soon it will be Halloween. Business should be good—there’s something about the winter holidays that brings out the ghosts. Of course if everyone thinks I’m a thief, we won’t get any business at all.

“Thank you,” I say.

“Thank
you
,” he echoes. “As excuses go, this one is real.”

“I just don’t—” I shake my head and try to shake off the image of the strange showdown in our conference room. “I have no idea what’s going on.”

“Don’t you?” Nigel laughs, then pauses at the gate in front of Sadie’s Victorian. “The thing about Malcolm is he’s never had to work to get a girlfriend. You’ve seen how women fall all over him.”

Yes. I have. It’s disgusting.

“I don’t know this Jack guy.” Nigel plants his hand on the gate and drums his fingers against the slats as if he’s thinking. “But I’m guessing it’s the same for him, especially now that he’s a fancy lawyer with a fancy car.”

“He has a fancy car?” I ask. “I didn’t notice.”

Nigel throws his head back and laughs. In that instance, he is very much like Malcolm, especially along the jawline and with the humor lighting his eyes. But although he’s only a few years older, that gap could easily be two decades. His hair is pure white where Malcolm’s is inky black. The lines around his mouth and eyes speak of things he probably doesn’t want to think about, never mind discuss.

“That’s your charm, Katy,” he says. “You didn’t notice the fancy car.”

“I was supposed to?”

“It was right out front.”

“It was?”

“Yes, and you were supposed to be suitably impressed as well.” He laughs again, softer this time, and more to himself. He unlatches the gate and holds it open for me. “And now? Well, now they’re both gunning for the same girl, and the best part? Neither one may win.”

“Do you mean me?” I step through the gate and start up the sidewalk.

Nigel doesn’t answer. Instead, he hums to himself. I decide to put Malcolm and Jack, fancy cars, and all the rest from my mind.

I have some ghosts to catch.

* * *

I do a quick check of Sadie’s to confirm that yes, the sprites are in residence and they’re in a particularly naughty mood. Grit beneath the soles of my sneakers tells me they’ve knocked over the planter with the fern—again. Certainly they would upset dinner plans.

“I think I told you,” I say to the air. “That if you aren’t good, you’re out of here.”

Something whirls by my face. Something else ruffles my hair.

“Kona blend.”

I also say this to the air. Nigel is—wisely—waiting outside. Sadie is upstairs, I think. She will be where the sprites are not. I’m alone with the sprites, and speaking as if they can understand me. This last, I’m not sure of. I used to think I knew everything there was to know about ghosts. Lately? I’m not so sure I know anything at all.