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

the top of the cup. The sprite is there, waiting to be caught. This one is a tease.
    “Cold reading,” I murmur to myself.
    “Pardon, dear?”
    “I said, the coffee is getting cold. I need to take it to the bathroom.”
    What I need to do is think, and possibly call Malcolm, and catch a ghost. I can do all three in the bathroom.
    I set the cup on the vanity, then return with a Tupperware container. I hold it open next to the rising steam. The coffee is cooling, and the sprite has had its fill.
    “In you go.”
    I don’t even need to scoop up the tiny thing. It floats compliantly into the container, settles at the bottom, and makes no protest when I snap on the lid. I hold the container at eye level and stare through the opaque plastic.
    “We’ve met before.”
    In response, the sprite thumps the Tupperware’s side.
    Sprite secured, I text Malcolm. Nothing. I call Malcolm. Still nothing. As a last resort, I try the main number of the Springside Long-term Care Facility.
    “Oh, hello, Katy,” the manager says, her voice clear and light and full of humor. “Yes, Malcolm is here.”
    The fact I’m speaking with the manager—and she sounds so happy—can mean only one thing: Malcolm is holding court. The Springside staff and residents love him. Or rather, most of the female staff and residents love him. For a man so obsessed with our cash flow, he certainly doesn’t mind spending hours at one of our few gratis accounts.
    In the background, a cry goes up, a gasp as if a magician has pulled a bouquet of flowers from a hat and presented them to someone in the audience.
    The manager laughs. “Oh, his visits brighten everyone’s day ... yours do too, Katy, I didn’t mean—”
    Whenever I visit, I only manage to mess up everyone’s bridge game. So no, I doubt I’m a day-brightener.
    “It’s kind of important,” I say. “Could you put him on the line?”
    The manager sets the phone down. Sounds filter through the receiver, chatter and laughter. Someone squeals. When Malcolm picks up the phone, his voice is tinged with warmth.
    “Malcolm Armand.”
    “It’s Katy.”
    There’s a pause in which I hear him mentally berating me. Yes, I know. I’m interrupting the Malcolm Armand variety hour and all his fun.
    “Do you have a sister?” I ask.
    This is a fair question—and not out of the blue as you might suspect. Up until a few weeks ago, I never knew Malcolm had a brother, one who swallows ghosts. It’s entirely possible his family tree includes a medium.
    “No.”
    “An aunt, then? Or a female cousin?”
    “Maybe a second cousin. Or is that first cousin, once removed? I can never remember.”
    “How about a mistress? Do you have one of those?”
    “Katy, what the hell is this about?”
    “Someone is in town. She claims to be—” I pause and glance at Sadie, eyebrow raised in question.
    “A medium between this world and the next,” Sadie rattles off. She sounds like she’s parroting an infomercial.
    “A medium. She’s been advising Sadie.” Possibly for a great deal of cash, but I’ll investigate that later. “And she calls herself Mistress Armand.”
    “Seriously, Katy,” Malcolm says. “Assuming I had a mistress, which I don’t, would she really go around calling herself Mistress Armand?”
    “No .... I was just trying to get your attention.”
    The line goes silent, and then his laugh fills my ear. It’s a rich sort of laughter that—if you could brew it and pour it into a cup—would taste like a sweet, dark roast.
    “You’ve got it,” he says, humor returning to his voice. “You always do.”
    My throat tightens. I’m not entirely certain what he means by this. However, I am certain I won’t ask. Or at least, I can’t ask. My throat won’t let me. Through the receiver I hear the volume of the chatter in the facility drop, a collective hush that sounds like the rushing of air. Malcolm sucks in his breath.
    “Uh, Katy, do you know what Mistress Armand looks like?”
    I repeat