Abigail

The invitation arrived in the post, the black font printed on heavy vellum paper. At once, I knew what I would find inside. 

SOUR It Up With Cocktails!

Come to imbibe and ingest.

Saturday the 7th at 7 pm

Abigail's Abode

RSVP: AbigailHoyles_1@icloud.com

A shudder of expectation and dread shivered down my spine. 

***

When I arrived, Abigail's crimson front door stood open, held back by a quirky iron door stop shaped like a high-heeled shoe. I paused, catching my breath while painting on my party face. Ella Fitzgerald's muffled voice floated down the hallway.

A smile shaped my lips as my eyes surveyed the scene. As always, I felt like I was walking onto a 1950s stage play. From the three-pronged light pendants shining onto the retro pastel kitchen appliances accented by the classic Pratt and Lambert French grey walls.

Abigail held sway over an ever-growing circle of chic congregants. Across the room, her cat's eyes met mine, winking in welcome. Abigail wore one cocktail dress to each of her soirees: a 1950s A-line lace cocktail swing dress with accompanying belt, on her feet black kitten-heeled pumps. If a first-time attendee did not know better, he or she would imagine Audrey Hepburn hosted this party. 

The regulars gathered around the corner bar: Tilda, Quinn, Holly and Jesse, filled glasses in hand, conversation unceasing. 

"Hello, Glenda!" Their voices harmonized. 

"Hello, all. What's the poison tonight?" 

"As you know, it's all about the 'sour.' The spotlight cocktail, of course, is Abigail's favourite Bootstitch, a twist on the whisky sour. Other selections include Greyhound, Sea Breeze, or Salty Dog."

"Hmmm. I suppose each of you chose a different drink, right?"

Their laughter confirmed my guess. 

"Think I'll choose a Sea Breeze for the medicinal effect of the cranberry juice."

I had just accepted the frosted glass from Tilda and was about to enjoy my first sip when a warm hand squeezed my shoulder. Turning, Abigail enveloped me in her lavender-scented arms, then as flighty as a butterfly, she flittered away. 

"Well, aren't you the blessed one!" Tilda's husky voice mocked. 

I watched as her eyes narrowed to track Abigail's movements, her eyes seemed to glow with venom.

I took her words as a prompt to remove myself, wandering around the space, searching our Abigail's new artwork acquisitions. Over by the double patio doors, my eyes lit on Frank Sinatra's Mug Shot, the original in certainty. The fresh outdoor air beckoned me, letting me escape from the music, chit-chat, and tension to hurricane lamps flickering beneath a star-filled sky. 

When I could no longer ignore my guilt at evading the spectacle, after a final sip and a deep breath, I retraced my steps inside.

The core group reclined on the Scandinavian sofas, grouped around Abigail slumped on her ebony Eames Lounger, her unshod feet resting upon the matching ottoman. 

As the hours inched towards dawn, I woke up to find Abigail and me were alone. Wanting to go home, I tapped her shoulder, rubbed her cold hands. My heart hammered at her lack of response. I grasped her shoulders, shaking her like a rag doll, the only effect being her wagging head. In desperation, I slapped her cheeks, screaming her name into her ears. 

Stepping away from Abigail, I wiped errant tears from my eyes, then keyed 9-1-1.

"Hello, What is your emergency?"

"Hello. I need an ambulance to 1354 North Avenue, Suite 2101. My friend is unconscious."

"What is your name?"

"I'm Glenda Cadogan."

"And who is the patient?"

"She's my dear friend: Abigail Hoyles."

"I need you to remain on the scene until the emergency staff arrives; they should be here in about 15-minutes."

I found my purse to rummage around for my compact — a retro gift from Abigail — and held the mirror beneath her nostrils. No breath steamed up the surface. 

A crisp knock on the door alerted me to welcome the emergency medical team. In a flash, the gurney rolled across the hickory flooring, Abigail's body resting upon the stretcher, attached to the equipment. After two medics repeatedly performed CPR without success, the third member contacted the coroner. I overheard him sharing that Abigail had no pulse, no breath, with rigor mortis of her eyelids, neck and jaw. 

A coldness entered my body, shuttering my breathing. I had seen enough crime shows to recognize that Abigail had died. I held a hand over my mouth, tears spilling down my face. 

"We need you to remain here. How about we move you to another room?"

I followed the uniformed man, numb with grief. I sank onto a cozy chair in her study. I had always found this book-lined room calming, filled with Abigail's favourite authors: Salinger, Ellison, Bradbury, Read, Beauvoir and Friedan. The grey walls with the brown and yellow accents communicated Abigail's 1950s muted fashion style.

I awoke groggy from my impromptu nap. Faint voices carried from the great room. My bladder about to burst, I slipped open the study door tip-toeing down the hall to the pastel powder room. 

A uniformed police officer waited in the hallway.

"Come with me," she said, gesturing for me to walk ahead of her, returning to the study. A man dressed in a tweed suit rose as I entered. 

"Hello, I'm DCI Neal Sims. Please take a seat. I need to talk with you."

"Oh my God. Abigail's dead! Isn't she!" I sank onto a chair, holding my head in my hands, tears wet on my face. 

"Here," Neal held out a box of tissues, "take one."

I felt self-conscious, sniffling while wiping my eyes. "May I get a glass of water, please?"

"We'll get one for you. So, how do you know the Abigail?"

"She's one of my dearest oldest friends from uni. Oh, she was."

"Have you been with Abigail this evening?"

"Yes, I was attending one of her cocktail parties."

"I'll need to know the names of the other attendees."

"Well, I don't know everyone, but I can give you some names. There was Tilda Cooper, Quinn Poole, Holly Harper and Jesse Bennett. We were the last to be with Abigail."

"Were you in the same room as Abigail the entire time?"

"Well, no. She came over to say hi then headed back with her other guests. I hung around with my friends, the ones I mentioned earlier, then I spent some time on her patio before rejoining the group. By the time I got back inside, Abigail was seated on her Eames chair, surrounded by our core group. She seemed rather out of it — perhaps she had too much to drink — but that wasn't usual for Abigail. Abigail did not lose control like that. I should have noticed something earlier."

"Do you know how long Abigail had been sitting in that spot?"

"No."

"Is there someone we can call to be with you?"

"My partner is away on business. I'll be okay. Does this mean I can go home now? I'm exhausted."

"Yes. Are you okay to make your way home?"

"Yes, thanks."

My mind clouded with sadness and stresses, I caught a cab home, grateful to slip out of my heels and tumble into a troubled sleep.

***