Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete First Season (Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete Seasons Book 1) (17 page)

In five minutes’ time, I return with my supplies—the percolator, cups, sugar, and half and half. And of course, the Kona blend, not that these two deserve it. Still, it makes them easy to catch. I won’t even need to pour twelve full cups, like I would during a normal eradication job.

The third cup does the trick, one with extra sugar and cream. They swirl in the steam, and the air sparkles with their presence. I trap them both in a Tupperware container. They thump the sides, more put out that I’ve spoiled their fun than in anger.

“You two,” I say, “are causing problems.”

Thump.

I snap the lid on tight before calling up the staircase.

“I’ve got them. You can come down now.” I peek out the front door and wave Nigel inside.

I’m concentrating so hard on the sprites in the Tupperware that I don’t notice Sadie at first. Then, all at once, she blooms before me. Her hair, which normally is a mix of salt and pepper, now glows with hot pink highlights. I step back, not certain about this new transformation. A moment later, I’m plucking a strand of my own hair and considering highlights for myself. Green? Or maybe a neon blue.

She shakes her head, the short curls bouncing. “Too much?” she asks.

“No, it’s great. I was just thinking.” I tug at my hair again. “Maybe blue?”

“The girl at the salon said even women my age are doing it now, so I figured why not? It’s not like Harold’s around to criticize.”

And a certain ghostly-haired Nigel will understand. I remember, years ago, my grandmother and Mrs. Greeley talking. They kept calling Sadie a young bride. Looking at her now, I see that was true. She isn’t even close to fifty, but she’s always seemed old to me. I think that comes from having been married to Harold and then having him die in another woman’s bed.

Nigel raps on the doorframe. “All clear?”

I hold up the Tupperware. The sprites whirl about. Often, when trapped, ghosts will manifest grotesque—or obscene—images. These two are all sugar and light, just like their preferred coffee.

“Would you like to stay for lunch?” Sadie directs this at both of us, but I suspect she only wants Nigel to stay.

“I’d better get back.” I tap the container with my charges. “And do something about this.”

Nigel opens his mouth. I think he might refuse, so I rush a few more words.

“Nigel, you should stay.”

“But—”

“Stay, unless you really want to run interference between Malcolm and Jack all afternoon.”

“You shouldn’t have to alone.”

I tap the container’s lid. “Who says I’m going back to the office?”

His grin is filled with relief and gratitude. Sadie is already chattering by the time I’m at the front door. So I slip from the house, leaving them to their lunch. The ghost eater and the woman terrified of ghosts. It occurs to me, now, that this coupling is not as odd as it first seems.

* * *

I’m a block away when a cherry red convertible pulls up alongside me. Have I noticed his fancy car before? Honestly, it’s hard not to notice Malcolm’s car. But I’m not sure I’ve given it the proper consideration.

“Hey,” he says, killing the engine. The street is quiet except for a crow and the light thump of two naughty sprites. “Catch of the day?” he adds.

I examine the Tupperware. “You could say that.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, “about earlier. I was a ... jerk to your friend.”

“You mean Jack?”

Malcolm makes a sour-apple sort of face. Yes. That’s exactly who he means.

“We went to school together,” I say. “I’ve known him since kindergarten. But I’m not sure I’d call him my friend.”

“He thinks you’re friends.”

“Jack thinks a lot of things that aren’t always true.”

Malcolm nods toward the Tupperware in my hands. “You want to get rid of them?”

“Yes, otherwise they’ll ruin the romance.”

His gaze goes from me to Sadie’s Victorian. His eyes cloud. His mouth goes slack. “No. You’re kidding me. Nigel and Sadie?”

I nod and then shrug. “Nigel and Sadie.”

“It’s kind of a ... not May-December, but I don’t know. July-October sort of thing.”

I choose this moment to launch myself into the front seat of his convertible. It’s much too cold to have the top down, but Malcolm drives it this way every chance he gets.

“Older woman, younger man?” I say. “It’s very twenty-first century.”

“How far out do you want to drive?” he asks. “Should we lose these two permanently?”

At the suggestion, the sprites sink to the bottom of the container, as if weighed down by sorrow. I study them, considering their persistent haunting. They are so playful, like puppies or children. Oh.
Children
. Ghosts search out emotion, either fueled by their own or that of a living person. In this case, I think these two are filling an emotional hole.

I shake my head. “No, let’s take them to the usual spot. They won’t make it back before dinner, but they won’t be missed for long either.”

Malcolm has just put the car in gear when I cover his hand with mine. His skin is so warm in the autumn air. For a moment, we sit like that. I’ve held his hand before. He’s taken mine while we’re out on a call.

Something about this time is different.

“I want to find Mr. Carlotta’s Purple Heart,” I say. “If we leave early tomorrow morning, do you think we could be the first in the doors at the Military Relic Show?”

“Katy, you’re not supposed to leave town.”

“I don’t care. Besides, if I find his Purple Heart, won’t that clear me?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Besides, you don’t even know it will be there. Those exhibition halls at the State Fairgrounds are huge. Even if it’s there, you might not find it. You could leave town, get in trouble, and it would all be for nothing.”

“Where would you sell a stolen Purple Heart?” I counter. “Where would you sell a haunted one?”

Malcolm turns in his seat to face me full on. “Mr. Carlotta’s ghost?”

“It’s attached itself to the medal. Whoever has it will want to unload it, and fast. I think the show is the best option. It won’t matter how huge the hall is. I know that ghost. I’ll find it.”

Malcolm drums his fingers on the steering wheel. He gazes through the windshield, then turns back to me. “How fast can you pack a bag?”

“What?”

Instead of answering, Malcolm puts the car in reverse and backs up until we’re even with my house.

“How fast can you pack a bag?” he asks again.

“Five, ten minutes? Why?”

“Let’s go now. I’ll show you around the Cities, the U of M campus. We can park at my old frat house and jump on the Green Line.”

“Green Line?”

“Light rail. We can ... go out to dinner?”

Out. To. Dinner. Is Malcolm asking me out? Should I say yes? Should I really date my business partner? But is one dinner really dating?

“There’s this Persian place. It’s where I get all the spices for my tea. I’d love to take you there.” The words stream from him as if he’s convinced the more of them he uses, the better the chances are that I might say yes.

His chances were already pretty good. “Is it fancy? Because all I really have to wear is my skater skirt.”

His eyes light up in a way I can’t decipher. He nods. “Pack the skater skirt.”

So, I’m not supposed to leave town. I shouldn’t go on a date—or an overnight—with my business partner.

I hand Malcolm the Tupperware container.

“Five minutes,” I say. “Ten at the most.” I leap from the car.

I make it back in seven.

* * *

I try not to gawk. But when Malcolm drives us through downtown Minneapolis, convertible top open to the autumn air, I crane my neck as far back as it will go and stare at the blue, glimmering buildings on either side of us.

He parks the car at his old frat house and we wander the campus until we reach the Mississippi River. Students stream here and there, some with backpacks, others with soccer balls tucked beneath an arm. I inhale as if that alone will let me breathe in the entirety of this place. When I exhale, it comes out as a sigh—a sad one.

“Didn’t you go to college?” Malcolm asks, his fingers brushing my wrist.

“No. I ... we didn’t have the money for that, and I didn’t have the grades for scholarships. Besides, I was doing most of the chasing and catching by then.” I turn from the view of the Mississippi and the paddleboat that’s chugging its way up the river. “I couldn’t leave her.”

Her. My grandmother. I wonder where she’s gone. I haven’t sensed her for days, and that secondhand report from Mr. Carlotta wasn’t reassuring, either. Every time I feel her presence, part of me is convinced it will be the last.

“You could still go,” Malcolm says.

I nod, unconvinced. I like my work. I like catching ghosts. But as I take in the golden leaves, the green grass, the campus with all its buildings and that undeniable buzz in the air, a yearning tugs at me. There is so much more in this world than Springside Township—and I’ve been working very hard trying to tell myself there isn’t.

My contemplation turns toward Malcolm. He had all this—the campus, the glimmering downtown. Does he miss it?

“Hungry?” he says.

“Maybe.”

“Come on. You’re going to love the restaurant. Actually, you’re going to love the frat house.”

“There’s no way I’m going to love your frat house.”

Granted, I’ve never been inside a fraternity house, but I’ve done my share of ghost eradications in the boys’ locker room at the high school. I can’t imagine it’s all that much different.

“Want to bet?” Malcolm grins at me. Those fingertips at my wrist slip until our palms meet and our fingers lace together.

On our way back, I catch glimpses of dorm rooms. I find one I like and pretend it’s mine. I pretend Malcolm and I are students here and we’re on a study date. For the ten-minute walk, I don’t think of ghosts, or Purple Hearts, or my grandmother. For those ten minutes, I simply dream.

* * *

The second we step into the English Tudor that houses his fraternity, I know Malcolm is right. The rush is immediate, icy against my cheeks. Something tugs my hair.

“It’s haunted!” I say.

“It is.” Malcolm glances around as if tasting the air. “A few new ones since I was last here.”

“Are they always this rowdy?”

“Only when there’s a pretty girl around.”

Since no one else is around, my cheeks blaze at this, more heat for the ghosts to absorb. But it makes me wonder where all the humans are.

“Is it always this quiet?” I ask. It is a frat house, after all. Granted, my only experience with them is what I’ve seen in the movies. Still. I was expecting more than ghosts.

“Everyone is either at class or getting supplies for tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“It’s Friday.”

“So?”

Malcolm gives one of the ghosts a sidelong glance. “I know. She doesn’t get it. Someone is out getting a keg as we speak.”

“For a party?”

“Yes.”

“What kind?”

“Friday. It’s a Friday party.”

As if to send the point home, two of the sprites go whipping around my head. I laugh and reach out a hand as if to capture them. “They’re almost tame,” I say. They’re almost like pets.

He holds out his hand as if he, too, might like to hold or pet one. “I used to catch the nasty ones,” he says, “and keep them in my samovar.”

“At least now you can catch and release.”

“At least now I can,” he echoes, his voice oddly nostalgic.

Again, I wonder if he misses his college days, his life here. I think he must. It’s in the set of his shoulders. They’re not slumped in defeat, nothing like that, but determined, as if now that he’s chosen a path, he won’t alter his course.

But then he turns a grin on me. “Let’s change and go out. Trust me, you don’t want to be here when they tap the keg.”

“Do ghost drink beer? Do they get drunk?”

I always thought they loved the coffee for both its heat and the flavor. But beer? Could you catch a ghost with that?

“They like the foam,” he says. “And yes, they do get drunk.”

The rowdiest ghost, the one that has been tugging strands of my hair, whips about in a frenzy of ghostly anticipation.

“Plus,” Malcolm says. He has both our bags and is urging me up the stairs. “I don’t want to introduce you to any of my fraternity brothers.”

I climb the first steps. “Aren’t they nice?”

“They’re fine.”

“Then—”

“I don’t want the competition.” With that, he dashes up the remaining stairs.

When I’m locked alone in the bathroom (yes, it really is just like the boys’ locker room), I try to sort out what he means by that. I try to sort out how I feel about that—and him. Before I can, there’s a thump against the door, jarring me from these thoughts.