Aria in Ice (30 page)

Johnny snickered.

I ignored him.. “Jozef is just a good guy.”
Johnny started to say something but I held my hand up and
continued. “He is, dammit. I can just tell. He told me all about
Ignatz Jezek which he wouldn’t have done if he wanted to go
skulking about looking for the flute—which incidentally, he could
have been doing for forty years before we all showed up and besides
that… .”

“Yes? Mind—I agree with you on all counts
which is what I intended to tell you before you rudely intimated I
should stay silent but what’s your last point?”

“He looks like God.”

I shouldn’t have said it. Not because, in my
opinion, it wasn’t true, but because Johnny Gerard started belly
laughing so hard he attracted the attention of the real suspects,
along with every one else in the museum. I’m surprised the guards
didn’t come over and toss him out for disrespectful behavior. Of
course, from everything I’ve read about Mozart, the composer had
had a wicked sense of humor and would doubtless have been delighted
that his old quarters hadn’t completely turned into a staid old
shrine.

That said, we had indeed caught the eye of
our friends and possible enemies. All five trotted outside to the
garden to join us at the table that held the bust of Mozart and
where Johnny was now trying to contain his merriment.

“How are you feeling?” asked Fritz.

“Huh?”

“You had ride in snow this morning. How are
you feeling? You did not catch the cold?”

I’d almost forgotten. Amazing.

“No, I’m fine. Warm, dry, somewhat rested and
extremely relieved and happy that Marta is going to be okay.”

Nods all around.

Johnny asked, “When did y’all leave the
castle?”

Franz answered. “Not long after the police
and doctor showed up. One of the
polici
was a good mechanic
and he was able to get our cars started again. Do you want to hear
something very strange? The batteries were fine. The distributor
cap had been twisted on every vehicle so they wouldn’t start but
wouldn’t be permanently disabled.”

Johnny didn’t even blink, so I tried to keep
my face somewhat expressionless except for mild surprise. It
wouldn’t do to start screaming,
‘Well of course the cars were
sabotaged! Can we say ‘bad slasher movie’? Some rotten scoundrel
was terrified for Marta to be seen by a cop or a doctor because
that particular suspect wanted her dead. He—or she—just hadn’t
counted on the intrepid Abby Fouchet to be loony enough to go
charging out into the snow for help.’

Instead, I played dumb and innocent.
“Probably a snowy prank by some smart-ass village kid from the Town
With No Name where I found the police station.”

Lily beamed at me. “I never thought of that.
That’s a very good explanation.”

It was a damn stupid explanation but I was
pleased Lily was pleased. Yeah. Right. It appeared that the fact
I’d played ‘Vanessa Manilow,’ daytime drama ingenue, had placed me
into Lily’s top echelon of folks to fawn over.

I changed topics. “Did y’all like Mozart’s
Museum? Pretty cool, huh?”

Fritz bobbed his head in agreement. “These
keyboard instruments are worth everything.” His tone turned to pure
reverence. “Mozart actually sat at these and composed arias for
Don
Giovanni
. They hold special magic for anyone who
loves his music, but for a ‘piano tuner’ such as I? I am in
heaven.”

“I like the letters,” said Lily. “They are
romantic and truly give one a glimpse into the mind of Mozart and
his family.”

The letters Lily was talking about included
epistles from some of Mozart’s sons, especially Karl, who’d stayed
at Bertramka for several years of his childhood after his father
died. I wondered if any of those letters also mentioned good
hidey-holes for mysterious musical instruments Karl or one of the
other kids had played with not knowing the magic within, but I
discarded that idea almost before it fully appeared in my head. If
decent clues were to be found, they would have been found a hundred
years ago—or more. Then the thought hit me that just such a thing
could have happened. Who knew if Ignatz’ flute had been discovered
two days after his death, and all the suspects and sleuths were
chasing our respective tails, along with other treasure-seekers
over the centuries?

That idea got tossed out of my brain as well.
If the flute had been found, the world would know about it. Also,
why would Ignatz Jezek still be hanging out at the castle playing
pretty tunes which could hopefully lead someone—not a villain—to
find the answers and the treasure?

I must have been muttering under my breath to
myself. Six pairs of eyes were staring at me. Johnny’s were the
only pair that twinkled with humor. The others were looking at me
as though I was demented.

“Sorry. Talking to myself. Bad habit. Works
great on the subway in Manhattan when one wants others to ignore
you because people assume you’re nuts and they go to the next car.
But I guess I should learn not to do this in polite society.”

The polite society smiled all around at crazy
Abby Fouchet.

Johnny took my arm. “Well, it’s been lovely
seeing my housemates from last night, but we’re on our way to
dinner so you guys have a great time exploring and we’ll see ya
later.”

“Where are you dining?” asked Franz.

“Not sure.”

“We’ll go with you. There’s a marvelous
restaurant back in downtown Prague that serves Indian food and by
now I’m sure all you Americans are tired of nothing but Czech
delicacies.”

I didn’t particularly want to dine with five
other people—any of whom could be a killer -and I knew Johnny
didn’t either, but I didn’t want to appear rude and, in all
honesty, a little curry and chicken briana sounded like a nice
change after potato pancakes three days running, so I glanced at
Johnny to see if he could come up with an objections that didn’t
sound pissy. He shrugged. I nodded yes. Indian it was.

“I do, however, want Abby to get a chance to
buy one of those clocks with the bust of Mozart though. Isn’t there
a gift shop right outside the museum?” Johnny asked.

“There is,” was the response from Corbin.
“But that’s a very expensive one. There’s a better souvenir shop
that carries museum replicas not far from the bus stop.”

“Then we’re on.”

The six of us trooped out of the museum bound
for sourvenirs and samosas. I made a mental note to return to
Bertramka
when I wasn’t accompanied by a crowd and when I
could just enjoy the memorabilia of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart without
looking for hidden meanings or trying to unearth hidden flutes
beneath the strings of two-hundred-fifty-year-old harpsichords.

The café Franz had suggested turned out to
serve food as good as places I’ve eaten down on New York’s Sixth
Street, which is home to quite a few very authentic Indian
restaurants, so I couldn’t stay mad at the
Kouzlo Noc
crowd
for messing up my outing with Mr. Gerard.

I’d called Shay from my cell while Johnny had
been buying one of the Mozart busts complete with a little clock as
its base. “ A gift to my lovely Abigail for being heroic this
morning,” he’d said. I’d told Shay the name of the café and
mentioned they had a rep for really spicy
samosas
, her
favorite Indian appetizer. She’d made one simple statement,”Order
before I get there and you die,” then hung up.

Shay was already waiting at a table when the
seven of us marched in. She’d even graciousy been holding that
table for us. She’d barely refrained from already ordering for
everyone although I did notice that a basket of garlic
naan
,
the flat Indian bread, was suspiciously empty.

The food was fantastic and a nice change from
the heavy, but not spicy-hot Czech dishes we’d been diving into for
nearly a week. I inwardly groaned when the vision of a scale
flashed through my head considering the amount of high-caloric
goodies I’d been consuming during my days in Prague but brightened
when I convinced myself the ride through the snowstorm had knocked
off a pound or two.

The conversation stayed general throughout
dinner, which was fine with me. Neither Johnny, nor I desired to
get into any discussions about the Duskovas,
Kouzlo Noc
,
Mozart, flutes, séances, dead Barons or live curses. Shay,
intuitively understanding our reticence, took over.

Shay told everyone about the
Klezmer Volny
Rabin
band who’d be joining the cast of
Silhouette Tower
.
Apparently she’d neglected to mention this to Mitchell, because he
was rather annoyed at having music brought in he hadn’t composed,
nor knew anything about, but I assured him that I could choreograph
one whale of a wedding number to the Klezmer sound and he’d love it
so much he’d immediately want to start composing for the band which
they would also love. He wasn’t pleased, but he did settle down and
quit arguing.

Shay told everyone about the new names for
characters in
Silhouette Tower
. Since Franz and Lily had
been put wise to this yesterday, and the others didn’t really care,
there was no great angst over that particular topic.

Shay told everyone she was indeed going to
find a way to use
Club Krev
in one of the scenes. (Anyone
getting the picture that this had become Shay’s pre-production
meeting?) Lily was thrilled. Visions of vampires sucking her neck
while loud music played were definitely dancing through her head.
Mitchell was glad to hear this gave him another number to compose
in a really heavy metal sound. Fritz asked if he could play an old
pipe organ for part of that scene, to give it the feeling of a
1920s black and white horror film and Shay agreed. She didn’t ask
where the pipe organ was coming from or how much it would cost to
rent—or buy. It was clear that he could ask for the renowned
instrument from St. Stephan’s Cathedral in Passau, Bavaria (the
world’s largest pipe organ) and she’d have it delivered to his room
gift-wrapped.

Shay finally told everyone she was tired of
tossing the conversation ball and she was going to just shut up and
enjoy her
samosas
and curry.

After that people broke into duos and trios
and talked about whatever the heck they wanted to. I stayed quiet
(I don’t like talking with my mouth full) Shay stayed quiet because
she was eating so much and so fast she didn’t have a chance to talk
with her mouth full, and Johnny stayed quiet because he was busy
with inner thoughts. I didn’t ask. I had a pretty fair idea what
those thoughts were since they were identical to mine:
translate
that journal, find out what the boathouse had to do with Ignatz
Jezek—if anything—and determine the identity of someone—sitting
with us right now—who happened to be a killer.

My appetite fled the instant that concept
tapped into my brain. A killer. It wasn’t Shay. It wasn’t
Johnny.

If one discounted Veronika and Jozef—and
while I was pretty sure neither had gone into a murderous rage and
dumped Trina in the moat—I hadn’t taken a final faithfilled
jeté
all the way their direction, although I really did have
to rule out Jozef since one cannot be suspicious of God—that
narrowed killer down to Franz, Fritz, Mitchell, Corbin and Lily. My
dinner companions.

I’d stopped eating but hadn’t stopped
drinking the excellent beer which cooled down the curry, so I took
another sip and pondered the possibilities.

Franz. From Vienna, spoke German and Czech.
Displayed more interest in Mozart than one would have imagined
coming from a good-looking actor primarily concerned about his
latest movie project. Did he know about the flute that was rumored
to possess magic powers? Did he have the temperament to coldly
shove an elderly woman who had kindness oozing from her very person
into a frozen moat of dirty water? Then push another frail lady
down a set of stairs? Had he snuck into
Kouzlo Noc
before
meeting me the other day and dispatched Fritz’s brother?

Fritz. From East Germany; spoke German and
Czech. Loved music, so not surprising he’d be interested in Mozart
and had heard the rumors about Ignatz flute through various
musicians over the years. After all, it’s a great legend. He had
that “nerdy” appearance that captivated Shay, and Shay is normally
a surprisingly good judge of character so that was a plus for
Fritz. Again, did he possess the traits of a killer? And would he
have killed his own sibling over a legend?

Mitchell. From the U.S. Could he speak
anything other than English? Probably. As a composer who had
degrees in music cluttering his garret in Soho, he was bound to
have studied German, Italian, French, and who knows what else as
part of his studies in classical music. So, was it out of the realm
of possibilities that he’d picked up a little Czech along the way?
And, like Fritz, since he traveled in musical circles he could have
heard the stories about the flute anywhere at anytime. He had a
temper and he was argumentative, but that didn’t mean he would ever
dispatch another human being to the next plane of existence.

Corbin. From everywhere. A linguist. Veronika
had told him about the flute so he could search. Or, was that
wrong? Had Veronika let him dig through St. John’s cemetery without
giving him the correct information? He had occasional flashes of
humor which endeared me to him but was also pretty damn stuffy at
times. Which had nothing to do with murder. He had that scholarly
air that exuded professionalism and “I’m above all this” but there
are plenty of college professors who’ve gotten rid of rival
academics through lethal means.

Lily. I really wished it were Lily. Charge
her with murder, clap her in irons and cart her off to a women’s
prison where she could perform Lady Macbeth for inmates every night
at chowtime. But I was charitable and realistic enough to know that
I felt this way because she was the spitting image of Hannah
Hammerstein. Plus, I hadn’t liked her slander of Johnny that
shifted to drooling over him when she found out he had a “name” in
theatrical circles. I went through my very short list of reasons to
label Lily the killer. She spoke Czech like a native. Duh. She
was
a native. She was a good actress so all her weeping and
wailing over Trina could have simply been one whale of a good
performance. She might have wheedled the story of Ignatz Jezek out
of any of the male suspects and non-suspects (except Johnny. Mr.
Gerard was not normally susceptible to wheedling—even from me.) The
last question—was Lily capable of murder—netted the same answer as
I’d determined from the others. Anything was possible.