I text Malcolm Misty’s address and add:
It’s Harold’s ghost. Bring extra Tupperware. And anything else you can think of.
In the kitchen, I consider the percolator, the Kona blend, our field kit for toting coffee when we don’t brew on the premises. But Harold Lancaster hated coffee, and his ghost has shown us—in no uncertain terms—how it feels about the stuff.
Coffee won’t work. Maybe nothing will.
Misty lives in a duplex a few blocks from Malcolm’s apartment. He’s on the porch, stamping his feet against the cold and blowing air against his hands when I pull up in my truck. He has a bag slung over one shoulder filled with Tupperware and a small electric samovar.
I’ve arrived empty-handed.
“She’s not answering?” I ask when I reach the porch.
“Decided to wait for you. What’s up?”
“I’m
