Kristen Ashley - Penmort Castle

It was vintage ‘40’s, made of aubergine, silk crepe. It had a bloused, boat-neck bodice that fell gracefully to a slim, body-hugging waist that had a three inch band of intricately-designed black beading. The straight skirt came to just below the knee and had a slit up the back. It had short, loose sleeves and an elegant drape that exposed Abby’s back to just above her bra strap.

Abby kept her hair down but blew it sleek to frame her face and she’d done her makeup in what she referred to in her wide array of makeup looks (an array she’d once enumerated to Ben while he nearly choked himself laughing even though she was not being funny) as “Smoky Evening”.

She wore the antique dress with a pair of sheer, black stockings with a seam up the back and her own black velvet, high-heeled shoes that had a rounded, closed toe, bare sides and an intricately designed heel made of a multitude of slender, velvet bands leading up and into a delicate ankle strap.

The shoes were designer and expensive and Abby had owned them for six years.

They were bought in the days of Ben. When he was, obviously, alive. When they’d both had good jobs (but Ben’s was better and higher paid). When they’d lived in a two-bedroom townhouse in the Georgetown area of Washington DC. When Ben had managed their money, setting aside a modest amount for their retirement, with two savings accounts he carefully monitored – a small one for a rainy day, a larger one for the extravagant vacations they liked to take.

Ben didn’t mind that more than occasionally Abby bought expensive shoes or designer clothes or exclusive pieces of jewellery. Back then, they were only just beginning to talk about starting a family. It was still just the two of them. They were young. They had all the time in the world to think about the future.

On that heartbreaking thought, Abby swung her grandmother’s heavy, black velvet cape around her shoulders, shoved her arms through the holes and fastened the silk frog at her throat.

She had to stop thinking about Ben.

At least for tonight.

“Be good, Zee,” she told her cat who meowed in return and performed a downward-facing kitty-cat stretch as Abby grabbed her grandmother’s velvet evening bag and her own black, leather gloves.

She allowed herself a moment to bend and scratch her cat’s behind, her newly-manicured, pearlescent-pink-tipped nails sifting through the fine, soft, black fur just above her cat’s tail right where Zee liked best to be scratched. When she did, as usual, Abby heard him start to purr.

After she gave Zee his customary good-bye, Abby positioned herself strategically at the door so she could push through before Cash got any ideas about coming inside. She opened the door only as far as it needed to go watching the ground so she could step out without tripping then shoving her body through. She came very close to Cash, who for some reason didn’t move out of her way.

She immediately smelled his cologne, not because it was overpowering, but because she was that close to him.

She’d smelled his cologne when she’d met him. It was subtle, slightly woodsy, slightly spicy, very male.

It entirely suited him.

Abby ignored her brain registering she very much liked his scent.

She pulled the door until she heard the latch catch and twisted, tilting her head questioningly to see that, although his body was facing her and the door, Cash’s head was turned to the side.

Abby looked in the same direction to see what caught his attention.

Then her stomach did a nosedive of dismay.

Mrs. Truman from next door was on her front doorstep, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders to protect her against the damp, bitter, late-January cold. The light from the vestibule illuminated her (and her short, tightly-set, blue hair) and two of her three King Charles Spaniels were dancing around her ankles and yapping noisily at Cash.

I don’t need this, Abby thought and opened her mouth to say something before Mrs. Truman could do something. Something crazy or snooping or irritating or all three, but as usual Mrs. Truman got there first.

“Who are you?” she snapped at Cash, as if she was entitled to know and also as if she knew beyond all doubt that whatever his answer, it was going to cause her great misery.

Abby again started to respond but it was Cash who spoke first, his deep, throaty Scottish brogue sounding through the dark night. “Cash Fraser.”

Mrs. Truman leaned forward, giving Cash a sharp look both of them could see even across Abby’s stoop, drive and hedge and Mrs. Truman’s hedge, drive and stoop.

“So you are. Thought I recognised you, seen you in the papers. What are you doing with Abigail?” Mrs. Truman asked tartly, clearly feeling that she was owed this information as a privilege of her very existence, when she most definitely was not.

Again, Cash answered, “Taking her to dinner.”

“On a date?” Mrs. Truman enquired as if this concept was foreign to her, foreign and abhorrent like they lived in a time when women were sequestered until marriage and anyone breaking this time-honoured rule should be tarred and feathered.

“Yes,” Cash replied and Abby’s head tilted back to look at him because she could hear a hint of amusement in his voice.

She saw up close (as they were only inches away) in the light which was shining from the stained glass window over her door that he was, indeed, amused.

And Cash Fraser’s handsome face amused was better than it was unamused and unamused he was spectacular.

Abby felt her jaw get tense.

“Abigail does not date,” Mrs. Truman informed Cash authoritatively and she would know, she kept a close eye on Abby, everyone in the neighbourhood and likely everyone in the entire county.

Oh dear Lord, Abby thought.

“She does tonight,” Cash returned.

Abby almost laughed because this was all so absurd, it was hilarious.

At the same time she almost screamed because this was all so absurd, it was scary.

Instead of doing either, she moved to the side, linked her arm through Cash’s and called, “We’ve a booking Mrs. Truman, we don’t want to be late. Have a lovely evening.”

Cash, Abby was happy to note, moved with her as she manoeuvred him toward the grand expanse of stone steps that led up the side of her house to her front door.

Her torture at the hands of her demented neighbour, however, was not quite over.

“Abigail Butler!” Mrs. Truman yelled to their forms descending the staircase and Abby turned her head to look at the old woman when she continued. “I’ll not have him racing his fancy car down the street, waking me up at all hours. You tell him that,” she demanded, even though Cash was right there beside her.

“We’ll be quiet,” Abby called back.

Mrs. Truman was still not done. In fact, she’d saved the best for last.

“And no necking on the front stoop. This is a nice neighbourhood,” she declared.

At that, but most especially at Cash Fraser’s highly amused, soft laughter, Abby didn’t know if she wanted to die or if she wanted to kill Mrs. Truman.

She decided to kill Mrs. Truman. The woman was old and had lived her life. Abby was also relatively certain her sentence would be light if some of her other neighbours testified about Mrs. Truman at the trial.

“Good night, Mrs. Truman,” Abby called firmly.

They heard a loud “humph” which travelled the distance between Abby and Mrs. Truman’s house as Cash led Abby to the sleek, black car in the drive.

All thoughts of Mrs. Truman fled as Abby stared at the car, not having taken it in when Cash arrived.

It was a Maserati.

Ironically since he’d died in one, Ben loved cars, all cars, indeed anything with wheels but most especially fast cars. They’d only ever been able to afford a Nissan Z car for him which he loved, nearly (but not quite) as much as Abby and that had been used when they bought it.