Aria in Ice (27 page)

I buried my head in the horse’s sodden mane
and debated the merits of just sobbing for a few moments, but
decided that would not be a good plan since all those tears would
merely freeze and I’d still be lost, cold, wet and frightened, plus
have chunks of ice nailed to my cheeks. Painful as well as plain
unattractive. And then I’d be dead.

I shouted to the universe, “That’s it! This
is just nuts! Why is nothing going right in this scene? For that
matter, who’s
directing
this scene? Do you
want
Marta
to die? Do you want
me
to die? And is it fair to kill the
horse just because Marta and I are goners? You can’t kill a horse,
dammit! It’s like bumping off a cat or worse—a dog—in a cozy
mystery. It’s just not kosher! So, enough! I need help and I need
it now!”

The snow stopped. The ice stopped. The wind
stopped. The sun suddenly appeared. The frigid air became—well—not
warm, but not freezing either. It was as if the temperature had
risen thirty degrees in thirty seconds. This was all good.

But the compass remained broken and I still
had no idea which way to go. I looked every direction hoping to at
least see a spire from one of the cathedrals in Prague. I saw
various towering monuments, but shoot, I saw them everywhere. This
area was crawling with castles with high turrets. No clue as to
which turret was in Prague—or over the mountains in Bavaria.

Then I heard a flute sounding the notes used
in the scene in
The Magic Flute
where the trio of young boys
guide Tamino and Papageno toward Sarastro’s temple. Bless him. My
favorite ghost, Ignatz Jezek, had snuck out of the castle to
provide music for the trip and I was going to follow it. I was
still on
Yankee Doodle’s
back. I nudged him gently with my
knee encouraging him to go the way I wanted to go. The lovely notes
continued for the next fifteen minutes or so, leading us to a small
town I hadn’t known existed. It wasn’t Prague; I doubted it was
even be on a map. It didn’t matter. It was a town and a town meant
people. A town meant hope.

The music stopped right as the horse and I
reached a small building that looked surprisingly official. I
jumped off
Yankee Doodle
, wound his reins around an ancient
lamppost outside the building, rather in the manner of a cowboy in
a Western movie heading for the saloon, then staggered into the
very solid warmth of what turned out to be a police station.

Far from being the empty room filled with
dead people like my sad vision on the road, this place was more
crowded than the Duskovas sitting room had been last night for Aura
Lee’s séance.

“Anyone speak English?” I gasped.

A middle-aged man who reminded me a lot of my
dad hastened to my side and threw a dry blanket over my shoulders.
“We all speak English, young lady.” He didn’t waste time. “What has
happened? Where do we need to go?”

I also didn’t waste time. No one needed the
details of my trip, or even my very real suspicions that a murderer
lurked at
Kouzlo Noc
. The important thing was that Marta get
help.

“The castle up on the hill? Um -about eight
miles from here?
Kouzlo Noc
?”

Nods all around.

“Well, there’s an injured woman there who
needs medical attention. It’s Marta Duskova. Is there an ambulance
available anywhere close by or do we need to get someone to come up
from Prague?”

The gentleman looked almost offended. “Of
course we have an ambulance. My brother is finest doctor in the
village. We go now.”

He was on the phone within one second,
calling numbers and rattling off instructions in Czech. I dried my
hair and my clothes as much as I could, then turned to leave to
help guide the villagers to the castle.

The gentleman handed me another dry
blanket.

“No, no. You are soaked and cold. You stay
here. I am the
Chief of Polici
and I know the castle well.
Do not worry. All shall be attended to. You may trust us.”

Trust. That word again. And without analyzing
why or how or whether I should—I knew I could—and I did.

Animal lovers everywhere will be pleased to
hear that I did not let the sweating, shivering horse just hang out
by the parking meter to flirt with any of the cute little
fillies—
aka
tiny European autos—that were parked close to
the police station. A boy who looked about twelve years old and did
not speak English engaged me in a nice pantomime which clearly
indicated he would see to the horse’s needs. He smiled at my
mispronunciations of “stable” and “feedbag” but I figured
Yankee
Doodle
was in good hands.

I looked and felt like a refugee in a bad
1950s horror movie. As soon as the police chief and five of his
deputies left on the rescue mission, three women popped their heads
in from the back entrance and motioned for me to join them. I was
afraid that the area held the jail cells for the tiny station, and
I’d be tossed into the slammer for my own good (keep the crazy
American from rushing out into the snow again) but was pleasantly
surprised to discover a dining room, and two den areas behind the
front offices. The ladies ushered me into one of the dens, which
also held a restroom.

“You change in there, yes?” stated the
tallest of the trio, a plump, red-faced lady who was clearly the
leader of this pack, probably because she spoke English.

I smiled. “I can definitely use the
facilities and I’d love to wash some of the grime of the road off,
but as for changing, I guess that’s going to wait until I’m either
back in Prague or up at the castle. I didn’t exactly bring a
suitcase on this trip.”

“Oh, we haf see that,” she exclaimed. “But we
haf brought for you dry clothes and warm. Katya! Quickly, give to
the young miss before she becomes chilled.”

Too late. I was already chilled, but the
prospect of clean clothes was heating me up in a hurry.

Katya, a tiny woman who looked like she’d
passed her ninety-fifth birthday about ten years ago handed me a
bundle, bowed, then backed away, flashing a toothless grin as she
picked at her long black woolen skirt, then smoothed her
nondescript, colorless scarf. Central Casting would have trotted
her out for every World War Two “peasants sheltering Resistance
members” movie every made. If I didn’t get her signature on a
Features Extra contract for Shay before I left, there’d be another
ghost at the castle because Shay would make sure I joined all the
recently deceased.

“
Dekuji
” I said in my very best (and
limited Czech). I bowed too. The ladies all seemed thrilled that
I’d managed the one big word of “thanks.”

I’d left the now-soaked coat Veronika had
given me in the main office of the station, so I just headed for
the restroom and tore off my wet jeans and turtleneck. My socks
were so damp they’d almost frozen to my feet, and my sneakers were
two lumps of fake leather ice, so I hoped whatever garments the
good ladies of this nameless town had procured included some sort
of dry footwear. Within minutes I’d changed into what had to be the
town festival outfit for some local Saint’s Day.

The blouse was a simple white peasant top
that laced at the neck. A red vest, also laced, hugged my torso.
The skirt was made of black wool with red and white embroidered
flowers stitched into cute scenes every four inches or so of a
skirt that stuck out as wide as a ballerina’s tutu. The kind ladies
had neatly folded socks that I found under the skirt. They were
also made of wool and fit nicely into black boots which were the
warmest footgear I’d ever had on in my life. I wanted these suckers
for those days in Manhattan when the wind chill drops to minus nine
and the sidewalks inhale the cold and then send darts of ice
through unsuspecting New York feet.

I emerged from the restroom to the sound of
“ooh” and “ah’” and “
hezky
” from my trio of dressers. The
only one of the group who hadn’t said anything, nor provided me
with clothing, now stepped forward with a woolen cape, complete
with metal hasps in the front. The last part of this outfit was a
white scarf tied through a bonnet that had little red flowers
bursting out all over.

I could have joined the Von Trapp family
singers on the spot. Call me the foxy chestnut-and-green-haired one
on the left.

I loved it. I thanked the ladies again, then
we all trooped back into the offices where a divine little electric
heater was keeping things cozy. Apparently, this village had been
spared the power outage we’d been hit with up at
Kouzlo Noc
.
I sank into a huge leather chair on the “wrong” side of the chief’s
desk (obviously tough love for criminals was a non-existent concept
here) and closed my eyes, intending merely to soothe the feeling of
cold from the stinging pellets of ice that had assailed my face on
my ride.

I woke up several hours later. Only one of my
trio of dressers was still there, Katya, the ancient, and she was
still smiling that toothless smile at me. I had the strangest
feeling that she hadn’t moved the entire time. My guardian
angel.

My eyes traveled from Katya to the figures
standing behind her. Johnny Gerard and Shay Martin.

“Am I hallucinating again?”

“When you hallucinating before?” The sound of
Shay’s voice flowed over me.

“On the road. Coming here. I had the damndest
visions of dead vampires. Must have been because of that nutty
nightclub we went to last night. No, wait, not last night. The
séance was last night. Oh man, I’m tired. What time is it?”

“Noon,” was the answer from Johnny. “The cops
and medical team reached
Kouzlo
Noc
over three hours
ago. They’re good. Checked out Marta and determined that she got a
huge bump on her head and a concussion to prove it, but no internal
injuries and amazingly, nothing broken except for one wrist. She’s
resting comfortably in her own bedroom. Apparently it took you
about a ninety-minutes to reach this village, but they were able to
get back up to the castle in only twenty.”

“Well, they had cars with big stinkin’ chains
and snow tires. I was at a bit of a disadvantage doing my Paul
Revere ride thing. Oh, shoot!” I sat upright.

“What” Johnny asked.

“
Yankee Doodle.
The horse. Some
teenager took him off to get him dry but I have no idea where he is
now. Kid could have been a horse rustler and Mr. Cohan’s prize
stallion—or only stallion for that matter—could be in Russia by
now.”

Shay shook her head. “The horse is fine. He’s
currently chowing down oats and hay and probably
gulas
and
potato pancakes while we speak. That kid is the son of the police
chief or captain—whatever they call him—here and he’s going to be
very good to
Yankee Doodle
and take him back home when the
roads are better for riding. Some friend of his who was doing the
translations did mention something about adopting him since Mr.
Cohan was never home but nothing criminal was discussed in our
presence.”

I smiled. “Okay. Guilt lessened. So, Marta’s
okay? That’s fantastic. Did she say what happened?”

Johnny replied. “As much as she knew. Jozef
translated for her but all we got was that she’d gotten up to go
start breakfast for all the
Kouzlo Noc
guests and heard a
noise upstairs in the north wing so she thought a bird had flown in
and couldn’t get out. She headed upstairs and tried to determine
which room the noise was coming from. Next thing she remembers
she’s in her bedroom and there’s a doctor holding her hand and
telling her she’s fine. Her head has a lump the size of Cleveland
and she’s chugging down aspirin like they’re candy, but that’s the
extent of her memory.”

“Which means she was undoubtably pushed down
those stairs. Or bonked over the head and dumped at the bottom of
them.”

The three of us stared at each other.

Johnny muttered, “
Kouzlo Noc
should
have been on the Czech Tour of Murders over the years. Guess it was
too much to hope that would change overnight.”

“I thought that was supposed to be fixed by
Aura Lee’s little routine last night?”

Shay snorted. “For the big bad Baron—yeah.
He’s off to do the rest-in-peace gig for all eternity, but—well—how
long does it takes a big honkin’ curse to get uncursed?”

“That’s not a word.”

“What? Honkin’? Or uncursed.”

“Either. Neither.”

“So, what now?” I asked. “Hey could be the
curse really
was
lifted. After all, Marta’s okay and she’s
not dead and neither am I, nor the horse I rode in on. So those are
all good omens.”

Johnny held his hand out to me, then helped
me out of the all too comfortable chair. “Well, Marta is being
guarded by about fifteen people including several law enforcement
types and one very pissed-off sister, so now I get you both back to
Prague and Abby takes a long winter’s nap.”

“Me too! Me too! I made soup and I’m tired, ”
Shay wheedled and whined.

“Fine. You too.”

I tried to look through the window at the
white world behind. “By the way, how did y’all get here anyway? I
thought the cars were all dead.”

“They were. But the police kindly gave us a
ride and even more kindly found a man who has a car to rent here in
the village, and I rented it and we’re on our way.”

“Good. I feel sort of bad not going back to
the castle, but I can assuage my guilt with a nice hot bath and a
nice long sleep.” I let my breath out.

Johnny helped me with the red woolen coat,
then he, Shay and I headed for the door. I turned around and, using
my best bad Czech thanked Katya once again as I gestured toward my
new outfit. “I’ll bring it back tomorrow. Thank you so much.” I
repeated, then I looked at Johnny. “Do you speak enough Czech to
tell her what I said?”