Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete First Season (Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete Seasons Book 1) by Charity Tahmaseb Page A
Authors: Charity Tahmaseb
Tags: Fiction
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the question and it’s barely out of my mouth when Sadie hands me a trifold brochure. “Long, dark hair,” I say.
“Check.”
“Could be anywhere between twenty-nine and forty-nine.”
“Check.”
“Long, flowing robe-like thing?” I add.
“I think they’re called kaftans.”
Yes. Leave it to Malcolm to know the correct term.
“Whatever,” I say. “She’s wearing a pink and yellow one in her photo. It’s fancy.”
“Blue and green. But yes, and it looks expensive, like it’s made out of silk.”
“It is made out of silk.”
I jerk around because the lilting female voice seems to come from both the phone and the air around me.
“Speaker,” Malcolm murmurs.
I mute my own phone and then press it close to my ear, unwilling to miss a single word of this exchange.
“I hear we share an interest in the supernatural and a surname,” that same lilting voice says. “I am Mistress Armand.”
“Malcolm Armand.”
He sounds impressed, or like he’s trying to impress. From the brochure, her image stares up at me. I assumed Photoshop. Perhaps I assumed wrong. My throat clogs again, the taste of it thick and salty. Don’t be stupid. Malcolm is your business partner. He’s free to impress anyone he likes.
If only I weren’t so impressed.
“We need to embrace our otherworldly friends,” Mistress Armand is saying. Her voice wavers in and out, like she’s turning as she speaks.
“Physically speaking,” he says, “that’s not possible.”
Her laugh tinkles as if he’s uttered the funniest thing ever.
“But you do catch them, don’t you?” she says. “They must have some substance.”
Well, yes, but not enough for a hug.
“And then you just set them free?” she asks.
“Of course.” Malcolm’s voice is sturdy and sure. “We are strictly a catch and release operation. No extermination.”
“But, in some ways, isn’t that just as cruel?”
Cruel? My ears strain to hear what Malcolm says, what she will say.
“I don’t see how,” he says. “We set them free.”
“Unmoored, unprotected, lost, in all that air? It’s like releasing a laboratory animal or a house pet into the wild. Without their familiar surroundings, they’re unable to survive.”
Worry pings inside me. I’d never thought of what we do as deliberately cruel. It’s a service, really, for both humans and ghosts. Most ghosts are more than willing to be caught. Many, like Sadie’s sprites, find their way back to haunt yet again. My grandmother—who taught me everything I know about ghosts and ghost hunting—always said we were doing everyone involved a favor.
“I don’t think that’s true,” Malcolm says, but the conviction in his voice bears cracks. At least, I can hear them even if no one else can.
“Here.” Something rattles, something that sounds like paper, quite possibly a replica of the brochure Sadie handed me earlier. “I’m holding a séance tonight. Bring your little partner.”
Little partner?
“Cups of coffee and Tupperware?” She snorts a laugh, one that does not tinkle, thank goodness. “Come tonight and watch how a real ghost whisperer does it.”
* * *
Malcolm is not at our office by the time I arrive there, but his brother Nigel is. Nigel, who is also an Armand. Nigel, who knows a thing or two about ghosts, even if those things came from swallowing them. He’s recently recovered from his addiction to that. Although sometimes his eyes glimmer, like he’s contemplating a tasty sprite. He is also our resident computer expert. I hand him Mistress Armand’s brochure.
“Whoa.” Nigel runs a hand through his pure white hair. “She’s … intense.”
“A relation?”
“Not that I know of, but—” He shrugs. “The Armand family tree is kind of scattered.”
He studies the brochure for a moment, then glances up, dazzling me with a rare smile. “She has a domain name. Where there’s a domain, there’s a trail. Let’s follow it.”
His hands fly over the
“Check.”
“Could be anywhere between twenty-nine and forty-nine.”
“Check.”
“Long, flowing robe-like thing?” I add.
“I think they’re called kaftans.”
Yes. Leave it to Malcolm to know the correct term.
“Whatever,” I say. “She’s wearing a pink and yellow one in her photo. It’s fancy.”
“Blue and green. But yes, and it looks expensive, like it’s made out of silk.”
“It is made out of silk.”
I jerk around because the lilting female voice seems to come from both the phone and the air around me.
“Speaker,” Malcolm murmurs.
I mute my own phone and then press it close to my ear, unwilling to miss a single word of this exchange.
“I hear we share an interest in the supernatural and a surname,” that same lilting voice says. “I am Mistress Armand.”
“Malcolm Armand.”
He sounds impressed, or like he’s trying to impress. From the brochure, her image stares up at me. I assumed Photoshop. Perhaps I assumed wrong. My throat clogs again, the taste of it thick and salty. Don’t be stupid. Malcolm is your business partner. He’s free to impress anyone he likes.
If only I weren’t so impressed.
“We need to embrace our otherworldly friends,” Mistress Armand is saying. Her voice wavers in and out, like she’s turning as she speaks.
“Physically speaking,” he says, “that’s not possible.”
Her laugh tinkles as if he’s uttered the funniest thing ever.
“But you do catch them, don’t you?” she says. “They must have some substance.”
Well, yes, but not enough for a hug.
“And then you just set them free?” she asks.
“Of course.” Malcolm’s voice is sturdy and sure. “We are strictly a catch and release operation. No extermination.”
“But, in some ways, isn’t that just as cruel?”
Cruel? My ears strain to hear what Malcolm says, what she will say.
“I don’t see how,” he says. “We set them free.”
“Unmoored, unprotected, lost, in all that air? It’s like releasing a laboratory animal or a house pet into the wild. Without their familiar surroundings, they’re unable to survive.”
Worry pings inside me. I’d never thought of what we do as deliberately cruel. It’s a service, really, for both humans and ghosts. Most ghosts are more than willing to be caught. Many, like Sadie’s sprites, find their way back to haunt yet again. My grandmother—who taught me everything I know about ghosts and ghost hunting—always said we were doing everyone involved a favor.
“I don’t think that’s true,” Malcolm says, but the conviction in his voice bears cracks. At least, I can hear them even if no one else can.
“Here.” Something rattles, something that sounds like paper, quite possibly a replica of the brochure Sadie handed me earlier. “I’m holding a séance tonight. Bring your little partner.”
Little partner?
“Cups of coffee and Tupperware?” She snorts a laugh, one that does not tinkle, thank goodness. “Come tonight and watch how a real ghost whisperer does it.”
* * *
Malcolm is not at our office by the time I arrive there, but his brother Nigel is. Nigel, who is also an Armand. Nigel, who knows a thing or two about ghosts, even if those things came from swallowing them. He’s recently recovered from his addiction to that. Although sometimes his eyes glimmer, like he’s contemplating a tasty sprite. He is also our resident computer expert. I hand him Mistress Armand’s brochure.
“Whoa.” Nigel runs a hand through his pure white hair. “She’s … intense.”
“A relation?”
“Not that I know of, but—” He shrugs. “The Armand family tree is kind of scattered.”
He studies the brochure for a moment, then glances up, dazzling me with a rare smile. “She has a domain name. Where there’s a domain, there’s a trail. Let’s follow it.”
His hands fly over the