Aria in Ice (12 page)

He smiled. “I’m sure it didn’t. That’s why I
told you. The Duskovas are good people. Veronika can be a bit…”

“Testy?” I interjected. “Gruff?
Frightening?”

“Serious. I was going to say ‘serious.’ But
she has good reasons. She’s held that family together through sheer
hell. And managed to maintain a solid grip on the ancestral home,
which is pretty amazing.”

He had everyone’s solid attention. Especially
mine.

“So, Johnny, how
did
she hold on?
Sheer luck? So many other castles were razed during World War Two
or abandoned during Soviet occupation.”

“She’s a smart woman. Her grandfather was a
practical man and Veronika took after him. When the Russians
descended on Czechoslovakia after the Germans finally gave it up,
Mr. Duskova offered the use of the castle as a headquarters and
home for various high-ranking Soviet officials. He was fortunate
that these particular gentlemen were more interested in comfort
than destruction.
Kouzlo Noc
was not burned.
Kouzlo
Noc
was not vandalized.
Kouzlo Noc
was a nice haven from
Prague with nice members of the Duskova family to act as servants
for the Communists who invaded their country. Marta, Trina and
Veronika grew up in the house of their ancestors in the role of
underaged maids. Pleasant, huh?”

Mitchell nodded at him. “I had a chat with
Veronika this afternoon when she was explaining the history of that
marvelous harpsichord.” He turned to Shay, “Off topic, but can we
get that repaired and tuned? It really would put the polish on the
scene in the ballroom where Zilania and Honoria are singing the
love duet while his stepmother and Harold are sword-fighting
outside.”

“Sure. Abby already gave me the scoop on the
harpischord and I’ve budgeted all repairs in.” She shook her head,
“Of course, we have to find a tuner—I can’t believe the one
Veronika hired died on his first day out there. Sad and
creepy.”

Silence all around. For no reason I suddenly
felt sick to my stomach. Out of focus. I closed my eyes as the
vision of a man falling from the north tower at
Kouzlo Noc
pushed into my mind. I’d never seen him but I knew—Gustav. I
shivered, then tried to pull my focus back to Shay who was
addressing Mitchell. “So, back to topic, what all did the lovely
Madam D have to say during your get-to-know-one-another chat?”

“She told me about all the Duskovas who’d
gone before. It’s quite a bunch. Knights in shining armor centuries
ago. Members of court for various kings. Members of another kind of
court with various barristers and judges. A musician or two.”

I sat up and forced my vision away. “Really?
Musicians? What did she say about that branch of the Duskova
tree?”

I must have sounded too eager. All eyes were
now focused on me. “What?” I growled. “I’m just curious since we’re
doing a musical there. That’s all.”

I’m not a great liar. And it wasn’t a great
lie. It was really pretty stinkin’ bad. Fortunately, my old friends
and new acquaintances were more interested in Mitchell’s remarks on
the subject than my obvious desire to delve into the mysterious
pasts of Duskova musicians.

Mitchell was answering. “She didn’t get
terribly specific. She did say that a couple of family members had
played with some of the best orchestras across the country—and in
Austria as well.”

“Did she mention…
Ow!
” I howled when my
leg was kicked under the table. The kick had to have been aimed by
Johnny who was sitting opposite me. It confirmed what I already
knew. He knew about Ignatz Jezek. But since he’d been needling
Franz about Mozart I found it somewhat unnecessary to kick me to
keep me from talking about Ignatz. I was sure everyone knew
anyway.

I smiled at the startled faces. “Sorry. Cramp
in my foot. Sitting too long at the opera. You were saying,
Mitchell?”

“I wasn’t saying. You were asking.”

“Oh. Yeah, I guess I was. I just wondered if
she mentioned who, er, uh, played the, er, uh, harpsichord and when
it arrived at the castle?”

Mitchell shook his head. “No. She didn’t. But
she did say that a cousin or in-law or something of the family from
the late Seventeen Hundreds knew—was even friends—with Wolfgang
Amadeus Mozart. How’s that for a name dropper?”

“Girl talk!”

I groaned. Midnight, and true to her word
(Shay is always punctual) my best friend stood at the door of my
hotel room laden with two boxes of pastries and three bags of
potato chips.

Against all wisdom, better judgment, and
several years of history with the woman, I let her in. “My God,
Shay. You’re holding at least sixty thousand calories in one hand
there. Didn’t we just part company less than an hour ago at the
café after swigging down a few stiff drinks and inhaling three
portions of dumplings and potato pancakes?”

“Oh, shove it. We’ve had an hour to let
everything settle and I can’t abide girl talk without munchies.
Besides,
you
got to work off those dumplings and potato
pancakes with your little walk home with Johnny.”

I paused in the act of opening the mini-bar
to bring out non-alcoholic sodas. “Are we ‘drink’ drinking—or since
we’re playing tourist tomorrow, which actually happens to be today
since the hour of midnight is upon us, would we prefer to see
Prague without an hangover? And just what do you mean, I ‘got to
work them off?’ We didn’t go jogging through Old Town or skateboard
through Letna Park, Miss Smart-Ass.”

Shay snickered. “Alcohol. Preferably bourbon.
The potato chips will soak up all the lethal effects. And as to my
comment, you did indeed walk back to the hotel with the divine Mr.
Gerard, correct?”

“Yes I did. But since the hotel was a grand
total of twelve blocks from the café and I was in four-inch-tall
granny boots I had no business being in with an ankle still
healing, I wouldn’t exactly say that qualifies for high-impact
aerobics.”

Shay chortled, “Ooh, little girl—with Johnny
Gerard I would expect
any
activity to be high-impact
aerobics. And you looked like you were more than willing to partake
of some sort of activity that involved heavy breathing.”

She had that right. I hadn’t completely lied,
though. The stroll to the hotel had been exactly that—a stroll.
After I’d eaten a third helping of potato pancakes, Johnny and I
had taken leave of our tablemates. Just in time to greet Corbin
Lerner entering the restaurant. We’d smiled, pointed him toward
what was now the movie cast table, then departed.

Johnny hadn’t wasted any time in upping the
conversation ante once we were alone. “Interesting that Madam D
told Mitchell about the musician who knew Mozart, isn’t it?”

“Is it? Mitchell didn’t say ‘flautist.’
Shoot. This ‘buddy of Amadeus’ could have played slide trombone in
a marching band.”

He chuckled. “Could be. Perhaps for
Coronation Balls for big name Emperors?”

“Yeah. Exactly.”

“Then again, she could have been talking
about your favorite ghost.”

I glared at him. “Out with it, Johnny. Has
Veronika confided in you?”

“About? Subjects such as your own cryptic
statements about hearing music coming from the north wing? Flute
music?”

“That’s answering a question with a
question.”

“It is, isn’t it?”

“Are we going to do this routine again? Just
tell me if she’s said anything else. I mean, you’ve been muraling
at the castle, right, for a couple of weeks?”

“There’s that word again. Muraling.”

I shrugged as we passed what I’d just noticed
was
Jozef’s Bookstore.
“I’m sure it’s a good word. If it’s
not in the dictionary, it damn well should be. Don’t avoid the
question. What has Veronika told you?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh yeah, like I believe that.”

He smiled. “Veronika has not given up the
ghost, so to speak. However you did not ask what I picked up
independent of the divine Ms. D. There are other sources of
information on the subject close at hand.”

My ears perked up. “Yes?”

“I believe you’re acquainted with one of
them. We just passed his shop and you turned a lovely shade of red
which clashed rather badly with your green streaks.”

“Well, Jozef did come to the castle bearing
gifts this afternoon.”

“Now who’s fencing?”

I assumed a look of innocence. He didn’t buy
it. I sighed. “Fine. Yes. I spent a lovely hour or so with Mr.
Jezek in his shop—a very nice shop by the way—clean,
well-stacked—where was I? Oh, his shop. Jozef regaled me with a few
very entertaining tales about a certain musical ancestor of his—one
Ignatz Jezek, contemporary of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.”

“And Mr. Jezek told you about the magical
flute.”

“Yes. Although he was very honest about being
stumped as to just what that magical flute did. The magic of it, so
to speak.”

Johnny nodded. “So we have a mystery to
solve.”

“Several. Was Ignatz murdered? Is the flute
really magical? If so, what exactly are those powers? And the
biggie—where is the flute hidden?”

“You left out where is Ignatz’ body hidden.”
He paused, then plunged on with a surprising statement. “Or the
rather sickening quesiton as to whether Gustav’s very recent death
has anything to do with this latest quest or even who all knows
about the legend and who out of the
Kouzlo Noc
crowd is
about to jump into the hunt.”

My eyes had opened on the first part of his
statement. “Wait. Gustav’s death? I thought the old man had a heart
attack? What are you talking about?”

“Old man? Who told you Gustav was an old
man?”

“Oh hell—now that you ask—no one. I kind of
assumed it when Veronika said he’d had a heart attack. I pictured
this sweet, elderly piano tuner keeling over as he left the
castle.”

Johnny winced. “Ah, Jeez. I wish that were
the case. Unfortuately, there are several wrong assumptions.”

“Like?”

“Like Gustav was probably in his early
thirties. Not generally the age for heart problems. Not only that,
but did Veronika happen to mention where on the grounds he was
found?”

“No.”

“Try just under the window of that infamous
north wing tower.”

I nearly sank to the ground. “Oh my God.
That’s what I saw. I mean who I saw. Gustav. I had a vision of
someone falling from the north turret window. I didn’t get the
connection because I really thought Gustav was an old man who’d
died of natural causes. Johnny, do you think he was pushed?”

He quietly stated, “I don’t know. I didn’t
see his body. Veronika, Corbin and Franz were the first on the
scene. I’m going by what Veronika told me, which was that he
was—and I’m paraphrasing—‘awfully banged-up, like every bone had
been smashed.’ Not the norm for a heart attack victim.”

I stared at him. “So you’re theorizing Gustav
did not simply fall. I mean, I didn’t see the beginning of this
event, just the middle. Thankfully, not even the end when he was on
the ground. But you believe he had help doing a Louganis out that
window?”

“Bingo.” He spoke quietly. “ Why do you think
I haven’t let on that you and I are more than ‘met one afternoon by
the cemetery’ friends? I truly think evil is surrounding that
castle and since folks know I’ve been hanging out there for more
than a day, I can see it headed my way, so I’d prefer it didn’t
touch you. Honestly? I wish you guys would fly back to the States
tomorrow—much as I’d miss you—before anything else happens. I
realize you’ve got a job to do here so I’m not going to be a
noodge—yet. Especially since I have no proof of anything concerning
the death of Gustav the piano tuner. Plus, you do have a talent for
getting into trouble with villainous types so I’d feel better if
you were safely ensconsed in Seven-D whipping up brownies with
Cherry and Guido.”

He held my hand and swung it in his like we
were first graders wandering through a carnival. We continued to
walk. “So, lovely Abby, give me the scoop on you hearing ghosts.
This just sort of sprang up?”

“It’s the Dumas genes. I can’t help it if
there are latent little gifties no one talks about. Mind you, I
haven’t had any ghostly encounters other than the one with
Great-Grandpa I told you about the other day. But I have to confess
there are some durn strange folks on the Dumas side of the family.
My cousin, Julien, for example, who became enthralled with the idea
that the Fouchet children were one-quarter Indian as well as a
quarter Irish and half French, and now goes on spirit quests twice
a year with his shaman guide. A shaman guide Julien claims died
back in the earliest days of the American acquisition of the West.
Julien calls him Bubba for no good reason I can see. The guide
isn’t even remotely from the South or Texas. He died somewhere in
California.”

Johnny howled. “Bubba? Well, he sounds
friendly.”

I chuckled. “Oh he is. A cozy ghost guide. I
have to admit that Cousin Julien is pushing the ‘give me a break
b.s. meter’ with that one. Let’s see. Then I have another cousin,
Remy, who’s sort of savant. He does mathematical equations faster
than a computer. And now he’s practicing trying to move stuff with
his mind. Kinesis.”

“Kinetic movement?” Johnny repeated.

“Yeah. Tossing items around a room. Sort of
like a benign, wimpy poltergeist. I told him four Thanksgivings ago
it’d be really cool if he could actually succeed and then do
something useful like set the dining table for the mass of Dumas
and Fouchets arriving.”

“How big are the movable objects he plans to
toss? Is this dangerous? Can I borrow him for tossing paint onto a
wall?”

“So far no huge objects. And remember, he
hasn’t actually managed this one yet so no Sci-Fi reality shows are
asking for his services yet. Paints? Sounds easier than a lamp—but
sadly, Remy has no aesthetic taste so you wouldn’t want his help
with muraling—ooh, there’s that word again—although give him a year
or so to start decorating apartments needing renovations.”