Penmort Castle (37 page)

“And those
are?” Abby asked.

“The first, you
find its mortal remains and burn them,” Cassandra replied.

“I’ve seen that
on TV,” Abby told her, and she had. That show with two hot
brothers, one sensitive, one wise-cracking, both running around
fighting demons, burning bones and shooting spirits with shotguns
loaded with salt.

That show was
great!

Cassandra
nodded. “It’s true.”

“Well, it’s
gross to dig up a grave and burn bones but let’s do that,” Abby
suggested brightly.

“Can’t,” Mrs.
Truman put in.

“Why not?” Abby
queried and Mrs. Truman looked at Fenella.

“I’ve done a
little research over the years, seeing as I’ve lived with Vivianna
for, what feels like, ever,” Fenella told them. “I found out the
townspeople didn’t really like her much. They were into all that
hocus pocus stuff back then and knew about the
burning-the-bones-thing so, after she threw herself off the castle,
they gathered together the pieces and burned her remains.”

Abby did a
little shiver at the thought of gathering up Vivianna’s “pieces”
then she enquired, “Then how can she still be around?”

“Either they
didn’t salt it first, doesn’t work if you don’t salt it,” Cassandra
explained, “or, if they did, which they likely did, because
everyone knows you salt the body before burning it, then Vivianna
probably knew she’d have to get around that. So, she left some
earthy remains somewhere.”

“Okay then,”
Abby said slowly, “we’ll find her remains and burn them.”

“In a week?”
Mrs. Truman demanded then finished on a firm, “Impossible.”

Abby stared at
Mrs. Truman thinking she was, unfortunately, right.

“Okay, what’s
choice number two?” Abby asked on a sigh.

“Choice number
two was what we were doing at your house Saturday night,” Cassandra
answered. “A mortal can’t fight a ghost, but a ghost can fight a
ghost. We were seeing if there were any of your relatives hanging
around who could help out. Normally you can’t leave the place you
haunt. And that place has to be either where you died, where you
lived or somewhere you spent a lot of time. But I know a spell that
can un-tether a ghost. Not for long, but for long enough for your
relative either to take down Vivianna, or provide you with
protection while you’re at the castle.”

“I’m guessing
that didn’t work,” Abby remarked.

Cassandra shook
her head. “Nope. Fortunately for them and you under normal
circumstances, all your relatives have gone on to the next plane.
Under these circumstances, it’s rather
unfortunate
.”

“What’s choice
three?” Abby asked.

“Choice three
is that you take a potion which would make you able to fight a
ghost. It would give you keener senses so you’d see her, even if
she wasn’t making herself visible. If done right, the potion would
mean you could sense she was coming, giving you a warning. If done
really
right, the potion would allow you to combat her,
physically or at least ethereally,” Cassandra explained.

Abby thought
that sounded great. “Let’s do that.”

Cassandra shook
her head and Abby’s shoulders fell.

“The potion
needs three weeks to ferment. A month to work well. About six
months to work well enough to fight back. It isn’t often you need
to fight a ghost. I didn’t have any in my larder. I made a batch
after Mrs. Truman called and explained what was going on but it
won’t be ready in time,” Cassandra told Abby.

“What happens
if I take it early?” Abby queried.

“You get sick.
Very sick. Stomach cramps, nausea, vomiting, fever, delirium, cold
sweats – you name it, you’ll get it. It only lasts a few days, a
week at most, but you’ll look like death and not only will you
want
to die, those around you who don’t know you took the
potion, like your boyfriend and, say, doctors, will
think
you are. Dying that is,” Cassandra said.

“Well, that’s
out,” Abby muttered.

Cassandra
leaned toward Abby, her eyes going soft, and said gently, “I’ve
sent out feelers to see if any other witches have a usable potion,
Abby. I know it doesn’t sound good but maybe we’ll catch some
luck.”

Abby gave her a
small smile before asking, “What’s option four?”

“Option four is
your cat,” Cassandra told her.

Abby blinked.
“Zee?”

Cassandra
nodded. “Not all felines have the ability, but your cat does.”

“What ability?”
Fenella asked.

Cassandra
looked at Fenella. “Ghosts don’t like cats on the whole. But cats
like Abby’s they’ll avoid like the plague. Cats like Abby’s can do
what Abby could do if we had a usable potion. See the ghost, even
when hidden, sense it before it comes and fight it.”

“Fight it?”
Abby prompted.

Cassandra
leaned forward and nabbed a scone and a knife. “Fight it, yes, but
not destroy it. Fend it off. Say, if Vivianna was stalking you or
even attacking you, your cat could do her damage. Weaken her. Make
Vivianna disappear until her strength returns.”

“Let’s do
that!” Fenella screeched.

Cassandra’s
eyes went back to Fenella as she cut open her scone and started to
slather it with cream. “Two problems with that.”

“Bloody hell,”
Abby muttered and thought,
Great, two
more
problems
.

“One,”
Cassandra continued, “when Vivianna came back, she’d be angry.
Very
angry. Abby would be gone but your family would be in
targeting range.”

“That’s not
good,” Mrs. Truman commented under her breath.

“Two, I said
Abby’s cat could fight it, I didn’t say her cat would win,”
Cassandra noted. “And Vivianna can’t die. But Zee can.”

“That’s out,”
Abby stated instantly.

Everyone went
silent.

Then Fenella
cried, “So what are we going to do?”

“I need a
scone,” Abby muttered, leaning forward and seizing her own
scone.

“I’ve got some
amulets, some powders, some potions. All for protection. Some of it
pretty potent stuff. I’ll give Abby everything I’ve got and show
her how to use it,” Cassandra answered Fenella.

“And then
what?” Mrs. Truman asked.

Cassandra sat
back with her fully-loaded scone and responded, “Then we hope,” she
took a big bite and chewed.

Suddenly Mrs.
Truman’s back went ramrod straight and she looked from right to
left.

Then she said,
“That better be Jennifer.”

“What better be
Jennifer?” Fenella asked.

The doorbell
rang and Cassandra, Fenella and Abby stared at each other in
astonishment. They hadn’t heard a thing that would herald a
visitor.

Then again,
nosy Mrs. Truman undoubtedly had super-powered ears.

“Is Jenny
coming over? I thought she was out with her pensioners on a field
trip,” Abby asked, going for a double dip of clotted cream. Since
she’d likely be dead in a week’s time, she might as well go to her
grave with clogged arteries and cellulite.

“Yes,” Mrs.
Truman answered while getting up and bustling toward the door,
“she’s got a lead. She was checking it out. She must have
news.”

Then Mrs.
Truman was gone.

Abby spooned
jam on her scone and glanced from Cassandra to Fenella. “It’s nice
of you both to do this.”

Fenella just
smiled and waved her hand in front of her face.

“I’m not nice,”
Cassandra said, “I’m getting paid thirty quid an hour for this
gig.”

Abby’s hand
froze and the jam slipped from her spoon back into the pot.
“What?”

Cassandra’s
eyes went from the jam to Abby. “Thirty quid an hour.”

“But,” Abby
began then looked back to her scone and jam, clearing her throat,
“I didn’t… that is to say, I’m happy to pay you, I just didn’t
–”

“I work for
Mrs. Truman. She’s paying me,” Cassandra informed Abby and Abby’s
mouth dropped open.

“Really?” she
breathed.

“Sure,”
Cassandra replied.

“I’ll have to
pay her back,” Abby muttered while squishing the top of the scone
on her jammy, creamy bottom.

“I wouldn’t try
that,” Fenella warned.

Abby looked at
her. “You wouldn’t?”

Fenella shook
her head. “I mentioned I wanted to contribute, seeing as Vivianna
is a family problem really. Mrs. Truman was a tad…” Fenella
hesitated then leaned forward and whispered dramatically,
“
upset
.”

Abby could very
well imagine Mrs. Truman’s “tad upset” being described, more aptly
by an American as “having a conniption”.

She decided not
to mention it to the older woman. She also decided to bake her some
cookies. And, maybe, buy her a knick knack.

Or two.

“This will not
do,” Mrs. Truman declared, walking back into the room, followed by
Jenny.

And Jenny was
followed by a man the like of which Abby had never seen.

Well, she had.
In a movie. And blowing on a bagpipe.

But not in
someone’s living room during afternoon tea.

He was wearing
full Scottish gear, kilt, hose, ghillie brogues, garter flashes,
knife in the hose, belt, sporran, the whole enchilada.

He came
directly to Abby, arm out, his shock of white hair wild, his face
red either from cold or it was that way normally, his crooked,
slightly demented smile wide and his huge body lumbering ungainly
across the room.

“Wee lass, am I
happy to meet ye,” he declared, Abby put her hand in his and he
pumped her arm so hard, her whole body shook. Jam splodged out of
the scone in her other hand and splatted on her knee. “Uh. Sorry,”
he mumbled, letting go of her hand, his eyes on the jam.

“That’s okay,”
Abby murmured, dropping her scone on a plate and grabbing a napkin
to wipe up the spill.

“Praise be!” he
cried, Abby jumped, looked up at him and he shouted, “A fine beauty
and a sweet lass. Nothing better for our native son.”

“Oh my,”
Fenella whispered, eyes wide and staring at the Scot.

“Were none too
happy, we Scots, when Cash Fraser found himself an American. But
one as fine as you, lassie, we couldn’t be unhappy for long,” he
told her and then gave her an exaggerated wink.

“This is
preposterous,” Mrs. Truman announced, arms crossed on her chest,
narrowed eyes on the Scotsman.

“Mrs. Truman,
give him a chance,” Jenny mumbled. “We need all the help we can
get.”

“I’ll give him
a chance,” Mrs. Truman returned, “a chance to turn around and walk
out my front door.”

“What’s this
I’m hearing?” the Scotsman bellowed.

“Maybe you
should tell us who you are,” Cassandra suggested, peering at him
closely.

“Excellent
idea,” the Scotsman declared and put his hands to his hips,
planting his legs wide. “I’m Angus McPherson,” he told them as if
that said it all, which it did
not
.

“You are not,”
Mrs. Truman informed him irritably and he blinked.

“I’m not?” he
asked.

“No one is
really
named ‘Angus McPherson’,” she stated.

He shook his
head and then recovered.

“Well, I am,”
he retorted.

“Are not,” Mrs.
Truman shot back.

“Am too,” he
roared on a forward lean.

“All right!”
Abby cut in loudly, standing and facing Angus. “Why don’t you,” she
stopped and turned to Jenny, “or maybe, Jenny, it should be you who
tells us why Angus is here.”

Angus didn’t
catch Abby’s hint.

“I’ll be
hunting the ghost who wants to murder the true love of a Scotsman,
that’s why I’m here,” Angus declared.

“Oh my,”
Fenella said again.

“Um…” Abby
began then was uncertain how to proceed so she went for the most
obvious point, “I’m not his true love.”

“Balderdash!”
he shouted.

“I’m not,” Abby
insisted.

“I’ve seen the
pictures, lass. That boy loves ye, make no mistake,” Angus decreed
and Abby’s eyes went to Jenny who made a slight grimace and
shrugged.

“Scones!” Angus
boomed, “Jam! Cream! The only three things the English could ever
do right.” Then he pushed forward toward the plates of food while
the women tensed for The Truman Detonation to End All Truman
Detonations.

They didn’t get
it.

Instead, Mrs.
Truman asked calmly, “Mr. McPherson, would you care to desist
eating my food before you tell us how you’re going to make Abigail
safe?”

“Don’t you
worry, I got my ways,” Angus replied, cutting open a scone.

“Why don’t you
share your…
ways
?” Mrs. Truman suggested but without it
sounding even a bit like a suggestion but an awful lot like a
demand.

“Can’t,” he
returned, flipping open his scone, “family secret.”

“I’m afraid
we’re not ready to rely on, nor pay for I might add, any ridiculous
and likely ineffectual family secrets,” Mrs. Truman proclaimed.

Angus loaded
cream on his scone. “Oh, I’ll not be expecting payment, woman. I’m
doing this for a fellow
Scot,
” he boomed out the word “Scot”
and all the women jumped except Mrs. Truman.

Then Cassandra
murmured, her eyes on Angus, her voice strangely filled with awe,
“Oh my Goddess, you’re
The
McPherson.”

Angus slopped
an enormous spoonful of jam on his scone but his head turned to
look at Cassandra and his loud voice had gone quiet when he
replied, “That I am, lass.”

“I thought The
McPhersons were a myth,” Cassandra breathed, still staring
wide-eyed at Angus.

At her comment,
Angus chuckled, “No, love, we’re real.”

“What’s this?”
Mrs. Truman demanded to know.

Cassandra
continued staring at Angus then she sat back, glanced at Mrs.
Truman then her eyes moved to Abby.

“You’ve got
nothing to worry about,” she informed Abby.

Abby looked at
Angus, who had straightened and was consuming his scone,
unabashedly getting cream and jam all over his mouth. Then she
looked back at Cassandra.