The Complete Coffee and Ghosts

2. Giving Up The Ghosts-2

My arm aches from the tetanus shot. This small annoyance bothers me more than the swath of bandages across each thigh, and the fact I can’t tug any of my jeans up and over the bandages. I’m reduced to wearing a short, flirty skater skirt. This skirt, which is really too short for most activities, might be the only thing I can wear for the next week.

This does not bode well for ghost hunting.

I sit on the couch in our office, tray propped up and over my thighs—a bridge over my bandages. In a wise move, Malcolm brings in a cold lunch—sandwiches and icy lemonade from the deli next door. I am not in the mood for coffee.

“You okay?” he says. Actually, he has said this about once every fifteen minutes. Until now, I haven’t felt like answering.

“I’ve never blistered like this before,” I tell him.

“The doctor said it wouldn’t scar—”

“That’s not what bugs me.”

Oh, I have scars, many of which are on view, thanks to the skater skirt. I look at them more as badges of honor, a legacy of working with my grandmother. “I was totally unprepared for what happened.”

“We both were.”

“But I shouldn’t have been.”

This still eats at me, hours later, has led to endless Internet searches, and has left me so frustrated, I’m afraid most of my words will emerge with more than a growl—I will bite, too.

“It’s different for me,” I add. The words hang in the air, and I realize just how arrogant they sound, and how it’s too late to take them back.

He studies his sandwich, a Black Forest ham with baby Swiss, on rye, his favorite. Instead of eating, he sets it on his paper plate.

“You know what I think?” he says.

“What?”

“You’re right, sort of. It is different for you, but not because you think you went in unprepared. No one is more prepared than you are.”

“Then what was it?”

“I think it was ... a trap, an ambush. Whatever that thing was, it targeted you.”

“You think that?”

Malcolm tips his head; it’s a slow, thoughtful sort of movement. He rubs his jaw. “I don’t have proof, but I sense it. There was nothing when I ran back inside. I couldn’t even smell the spilt coffee.”

“You were in a hurry—”

“And I had to pick up all the cups and the thermoses. You know the smell of cold coffee.”

Do I ever. An involuntary shudder runs through me and has Malcolm securing a fleece throw and wrapping it around my shoulders. I don’t refuse.

“The place should’ve reeked.” He sits on the coffee table so his gaze strikes me dead on. “I’m telling you, there was nothing, no odor, and it’s not like that place smells of anything except stale air.”

“The fans?” I suggest. “They were going full blast.”

Instead of responding, he pulls the field kit out from under the table. Inside, the contents rattle. He lifts a silver thermos from the pack, the one we use for the extra sweet, extra light concoction. The sides should be damp and sticky. No matter how carefully we pour, this is our messiest thermos. The silver gleams. Malcolm unscrews the cap. He waves it under his nose, then mine.

Nothing.

“That’s weird,” I say, “but it doesn’t prove this thing is after me.”

He directs a pointed look at my thighs. Okay, maybe it does.

“Vendetta,” he says.

“What?”

“The word is stuck in my mind. Vendetta. Only I can’t figure out why. Who, or what, would have a vendetta against you? You’ve never done more than catch and release, have you?”

I shake my head. No, that was always our strict policy. Ghosts can be nasty, it’s true, especially those who resent their afterlife. For the stronger, meaner ones, the solution is nothing more than driving them farther out, and around in circles, until they lose all sense of direction. Sure, once released, they might make their way back. More likely, they’ll find a new spot to haunt.

“What about your grandmother?”

“Not that I know of, and I learned everything from her.”

He props his elbows on his knees and plants his chin on his fists. His dark eyes are fringed with black lashes. This close, the effect is breathtaking. No wonder the women who work the deli counter toss in dessert for free.

“Maybe we need to expand our search,” he says. “Maybe this thing isn’t a ghost. I told you about the old Victorian I lived in back in college.”

It’s where he picked up his ghost catching ability—or maybe it picked him.

“People thought it was funny I could catch ghosts and put them in my samovar, but I always thought it was kind of sad.”

By people, he means his fraternity brothers, and he had amassed quite a collection by the time I met him. I had to teach him how to release ghosts, although he still doesn’t have the knack. Half the time, they double back and smack him in the head.

“But there was other stuff going on. Not ghosts, but ...” He pauses, presses a finger against his lip. “Definitely supernatural. I never knew what they were, only that I couldn’t catch them.”

I don’t like the idea of things that can’t be caught. I think of that white fluttering—of bed sheets and bridal veils. Merely a ruse, then? Something to grab our attention—or the attention of a potential client? If so, it worked.

“Maybe you should talk to Doug,” I say. “Give him an update.”

Malcolm groans. “If I do that, he’s going to blather it all over the internet.”

“One, there’s already so much ghost crap all over the internet, what’s a little more? Two?” I catch Malcolm’s eye. “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”