Penmort Castle (Ghosts and Reincarnation #1)(88)

And she couldn’t park in front of her house, a skip containing a distressing amount of debris was sitting there.

As she got out of her car, a man walked out her front door carrying a toilet. She watched as he went straight to the skip and hefted it over the side.

She winced when she heard the toilet crash into the skip.

“All right?” he called and her eyes went from her toilet, which she hadn’t realised until that moment held sentimental value, to the man.

“All right,” she called back.

Then, before she could witness more, she hightailed it to Mrs. Truman’s.

Mrs. Truman had the door open before Abby’s foot hit the first step on her stoop.

“Bang bang, crash,” Mrs. Truman snapped irately as Abby ascended the steps. “All day yesterday, all day today. Those workmen are loud. My dogs are in a state!” She stepped out of the way for Abby to precede her into the entry, all three dogs moving around Abby’s calves calling for attention. Then Mrs. Truman continued as she slammed the door, “I want a word with Fraser. You give me his phone number the minute you take off your coat.”

Abby considered the emotional turmoil Cash put her through that morning (she was blaming him as it was far easier on her peace of mind then to blame herself or the unthinkable, give in to her current dilemma). Then, once she handed her coat to the older woman, Abby very unkindly pulled her mobile out and gave Mrs. Truman the number.

“Hang on, hang on,” Mrs. Truman chanted, her arm up, hand waving in the air, “let me get my phone.”

She led Abby and the three dogs (who appeared to be happy and excited, not in a “state”) down her hall into the sitting room where Fenella and Cassandra were both seated. Fenella was biting into an enormous scone filled with clotted cream and jam. Cassandra was holding a saucer in one hand and daintily sipping from a delicate china teacup in the other.

Abby greeted them both with a wave and all three dogs jumped up on the sofa beside Fenella and her scone.

Abby, at Mrs. Truman’s orders, was there to have tea with Fenella and Cassandra in order to devise a strategy to defeat a ghost.

Bearing in mind that Abby’s move from being Cash’s pretend girlfriend to his real girlfriend (or possible mistress, depending how you looked at it, and Abby was trying not to look at it at all) was approximately nine hours old, it was likely not good that she was already withholding something from him.

Trust was important in a relationship.

Then again, Cash would probably, first, flip out that she was going to sit down with his cousin, a witch-cum-clairvoyant and Mrs. Truman and decide a plan of action to conquer a ghost.

Then he’d have her committed.

So Abby thought it her best option to enter the part of her life’s journey that included Cash by, essentially, lying to him.

She was, she found, totally okay with that.

“Abigail, I’m ready, give me his number,” Mrs. Truman demanded as Abby seated herself in an armchair next to Cassandra and across from Fenella.

Mrs. Truman was standing with hand on hip, other hand curled around a phone, thumb at the ready.

Perhaps at this juncture calling Cash wasn’t such a good idea.

“Maybe you can call him after we have our chat,” Abby suggested.

“But I’m angry now. I might cool off after I eat a scone. I baked those scones myself and I bake the best scones of anyone I know,” she bragged with not a shred of humility. “If I eat a scone, I might want to take a nap instead of have my word with Fraser.”

Abby came up with a better idea. Not only was it her turn, it would mean Cash’s torture would last a whole lot longer (and he couldn’t hang up).

Therefore she suggested, “We’ll have you to dinner.”

“When?” Mrs. Truman snapped.

“Tomorrow?” Abby asked.

Mrs. Truman immediately dropped the phone into its receiver, accepting Abby’s invitation by announcing, “I don’t eat celery,” she sat down beside Fenella and reached for the teapot, “or peppers. They give me wind.”

Abby heard Cassandra chuckle and Fenella raised her eyebrows, her lips pressing together in an effort not to laugh.

Mrs. Truman poured Abby a cup of tea and splashed a dash of milk in it while going on, “And if you make beef, I won’t eat it unless it’s well done. I’m English. We cook our beef through. That’s the way we’ve always done it, that’s the way we’ll always do it. No one does tradition like the English.”

“I bet the Italians would have something to say about that,” Cassandra put in.

“Pah!” Mrs. Truman retorted.

“And the Spanish,” Fenella added timidly.

“And practically everyone else, but the Americans,” Cassandra finished with a cheerful wink in Abby’s direction and Abby decided instantly she liked her.

Mrs. Truman handed Abby her tea. “Are we here to talk tradition or are we here to talk ghosts?” Once she’d divested herself of Abby’s tea, she turned to Fenella and pointed at her. “You! Start!”

Fenella’s eyes moved to Abby and she began, “Well –” but Mrs. Truman cut her off.

“And don’t be all mealy-mouthed about it. Spit it out!”

As ordered, Fenella rushed on.

Eyes on Abby, she asked, “You didn’t slip when you were in the bathroom, did you?”