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

keyboard while I pull up a chair to watch.
    “Here we go,” he says. “Looks like she maintains a static webpage. Not much here.”
    I lean forward for a glimpse of Mistress Armand’s website.
    Let Mistress Armand whisper the ghosts from your life. Guaranteed. Effective. Heal yourself and watch the ghosts flee.
    I roll my eyes.
    “Not impressed?” Nigel asks.
    “Not really. She knew all about Sadie’s marriage, and how Harold cheated on her, and probably how he died, too.”
    “How did he die?”
    “In bed, with another woman.”
    Nigel cringes. “Really? Poor Sadie.”
    “Do you think she researches a town,” I say, “then uses that as a starting point for cold readings?”
    Really, it wouldn’t be that hard to scan the newspapers for tidbits and then ask a few questions around town. Harold Lancaster’s obituary was coy, but if you knew what to look for, you could read between the lines.
    And although I haven’t met her, Mistress Armand strikes me as the sort of person who knows how to read between the lines.
    “Probably,” Nigel says. “You can find out almost anything on the Internet these days.”
    “But why use your last name?”
    “To get our attention?”
    A new voice joins the conversation. Malcolm stands in the doorway to the conference room, which also doubles as Nigel’s work area.
    “What’s your take on all this?” Nigel asks.
    Malcolm gives a half laugh and shakes his head.
    “Is she …?” Nigel points to Mistress Armand’s portrait. “In person?”
    “Oh, yeah, and then some.”
    “What?” I demand. “She’s what?” I glance from one brother to the other, but neither one will meet my gaze.
    Nigel clears his throat. “Anyway, here’s the thing about having a domain name. Even though her registration is private, we can take a trip in the Internet Wayback Machine to see if she’s always been Mistress Armand.”
    He clacks the keyboard some more. Then, in triumph, he pushes back from his desk, fists raised in the air. “Lady and gentleman, meet Mistress Ramone.”
    Malcolm leans over one shoulder. I take the other. The website is unchanged except for the last name in the center of the screen.
    Nigel peers up at his brother. “We should get on the ghost forums, see if anyone is chatting about her.”
    I almost never bother with the ghost forums since anything there is either completely wrong, or so filled with hyperbole it might as well be. But in this case, maybe it’s just what we need.
    Nigel pulls his chair closer to the desk and leans forward like he’s about to run a race. “I’m on it.”
     
    * * *
     
    What does one wear to a séance? Certainly not a skater skirt paired with over-the-knee, plaid socks. Unless you’re me. Because that’s exactly what I’m wearing. The only other dressy item in my closet is the suit I wore to my grandmother’s funeral. I can’t bring myself to pull it on; I doubt I ever will. I can’t bring myself to donate it, either, so there it hangs, haunting my closet.
    Outside the Springside Community Center, a crowd is gathering. Residents from the long-term care facility make their unsteady way down the steps of the shuttle bus while others wait for the wheelchair ramp. I wave at Mr. Carlotta, who has just landed on the sidewalk.
    “Katy-Girl, do you believe this bunk?” He takes my hand, like he always does. We proceed inside as if I’m his date for the evening, one of the attendants pushing his wheelchair.
    “Bunk, I tell you,” he says again. “You don’t believe it, do you?”
    “Of course not.”
    “Then what are you going to do about it?”
    People swarm the lobby. A sticky, sweet smell rises in the air. Some enterprising soul from the school board has set up a cotton candy machine. Someone else—just as clever—is selling bottled water. Sweat trickles down my spine, and despite the two-dollar markup, I buy a bottle.
    “I don’t know what we’re going to do,” I say to Mr. Carlotta. “I’m meeting Malcolm here