Aria in Ice (2 page)

His eyes widened. “A flute-playing spook is
haunting the castle?”

“Well, I’m not sure I’d put it in those
terms. Common theories say ghosts do not appreciate being called
spooks. Kind of like spies, I guess. It sounds rude to them. Where
was I? Oh. Yes.
Kouzlo Noc
is haunted.”

“And you’ve determined this—why? Because, to
paraphrase Irving Berlin, you’re ‘hearing music and there’s no one
there?’”

“I thought it was ‘hear singing’?”

“It is. I
said
I was paraphrasing. You
weren’t paying attention.”

“I was.”

“Were not.”

“Was to.”

“Were no…what were we talking about and are
you going to refrain from singing the refrain? Or beginning the
Beguine?”

I realized I was indeed singing a few
measures of the song he was referring to.
You’re Just in
Love.
“Sorry.”

“Are you telling me you heard music from a
non-living presence?”

“Uh—sort of.””

“Cripes. Care to explain?”

“Remember that little talent I was bequeathed
from Granny Dumas?”

“The foreshadowing premonition second sight
thingee?”

“Yep. Guess what? It’s more than possible
Granny bestowed upon me with a little extra giftie that lies
dormant until one is past legal age. Like—uh—hearing music from
folks who aren’t with us anymore.”

“Oh crap. This could get dicey.”

“And dodgey. Not to mention possibly
dangerous.” I paused. “This isn’t actually the first time I’ve had
an experience bonding with the deceased.”

Johnny’s eyebrow lifted. “Do tell. Unless you
want to count that premonition about me that thankfully didn’t come
true?”

“No,no. That was a whompin’ big vision. This
is different. I’m talkin’ ‘bout spook—excuse me-
ghost
communing when I was six and attending a fine Irish wake for my
great-grandfather who was half Irish and half French. Minette’s
side of the family which of course is no surprise since the Dumas’
have all the weird voodoo genes. Where was I? Oh yeah. People at
the wake suddenly began asking why I was singing the Canticle
harmony to “
Scarborough Faire.”
Not the ancient regular folk
song, but the Simon and Garfunkle arrangement from the Sixties. The
anti-war version with the really cool lyrics that send chills down
one’s spine even at a very young age. Anyway, I explained that
Great-Grandpa had taken the melody and I was being polite by
singing harmony. Gramps had perfect pitch as well. Even after he
died.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Johnny said.

“Because I had visions thirty years into
future talking to your father last July?”

“Which I still find fascinating. Of course, I
find everything about my petite little Abby fascinating but your
Dumas abilities are sort of reality sci-fi tv fascinating. Now we
get to add—what? Harmonious trysts with spooks?”

I frowned at him. “Now, now. I won’t let you
play ghost hunter with me if you’re going to have a bad attitude
about this.”

“I shall be totally supportive. Although, as
to flute-playing ghosts, I hate to play Mr. Practical but I do have
to point out other possibilities—at least as to the why or how of
ghostly sounds wafting out from the north turret.”

“Such as?”

“What about the clichéd but reasonable
suggestion of that old standby- the hidden tape player? Cell phone,
MP3 player boombox held to head by the creepy gardener who roams
the castle?”

“Yeah, yeah. Logical. All great explanations
and I promise I plan to explore them all if I get to rent
Kouzlo
Noc
for Bambi’s company and sneak around in turrets. But I’m
telling you what I’d heard and the techno-quality of your
suggestions don’t quite fit the sound of live. Even by a dead
flautist.”

He smiled. “Nice phrasing. Okay, howsabout
your imagination kicked over into Gothicland because it’s romantic
and you love romance?”

“Aw, come on. Yes, I have a marvelous
imagination, but I also have a fairly decent grip on reality,” I
batted my lashes, “unless I’m around Johnny Gerard who tends to get
me into surreal situations even when he’s not playing Gregory
Noble.”

Johnny patted my green and chestnut hair as
though I was a toddler, then casually leaned down and proceeded to
plant upon my lips a kiss that curled my toes as well as my hair.
Just as casually, he let go. “Darlin’, I personally love the ghost
theory better, too. Tell you the truth, I’m very curious as to any
specteral wanderers wandering
Kouzlo Noc
. Care to take a
stroll around the castle cemetery and see what pops up?”

I winced. “Not sure ‘pops up’ is exactly what
I need to see happening in a graveyard but I do like the idea of
exploring.” I linked my arm through his. “Lead on, burglar
boy.”

Within six seconds I was rethinking this
whole stroll around the graveyard. To begin with, I didn’t see a
single grave worthy of a digital click from even a throw-away
camera—unless I wanted promo for a bad slasher movie. This cemetery
must have been intended for the dregs of society. Every headstone
was chipped or cracked into pieces. Not even foot markers had
remained intact through the centuries. Broken bottles decorated the
headstones and vines strangled the larger pieces of stone,
effectively blocking inscriptions and epitaphs from the few curious
souls seeking a shred of history.

Graveyards aren’t normally party sites, but
this untended, ignored plot of land was—to put it mildly—sad.
Johnny pushed aside a particularly annoying vine and we both nearly
fell over partially-intact headstones. Since the epitaphs were in
Czech the words were somewhat unintelligible to me, but the carved
numerals were easily deciphered. 1721-1764. 1725-1780. Odd. The
graveyard was such a mess I would have expected to find that the
dates were more in line with much earlier centuries, perhaps even
from the medieval period. Johnny knelt down to inspect a marker,
while I sidestepped the two headstones and walked a few steps
further. More Eighteenth Century dates. I wandered through this
forgotten piece of history, pushing away the dead greenery and the
piles of dirt that clung to the stones. Everything was
Seventeen-such-and-such to Seventeen-so-and-so.

I slowly surveyed this small cemetery. And it
hit me with such force I sank onto the nearest block of stone that
seemed intact enough to hold my weight.

“Johnny.”

“What?”

“Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”

He nodded. “These headstones don’t look like
they’ve been destroyed through the forces of time, nature and
neglect.”

“I agree. It’s like they’d been deliberately
smashed.”

I walked on, surmising that this destruction
didn’t appear to have been caused by kids out for a sick vandal
romp through a burial ground, but by a person or persons who had
been hunting for something. The cracks and the crumbles had been
forced in such a way as to allow the perpetrators to literally
search inside the stones. That wasn’t the worst of this scene. It
was obvious, once I took the time to really look, that each plot
had been dug up; that some of the wreckage now lying in a sorrowful
and frozen chaotic tableau on the ground were the remains of
coffins—with parts of the original inhabitants now outside those
original resting places.

I felt chilled. There is something so unholy,
so sick, so uselessly mean about a grave robber. If one has to
steal from the dead, then plan a heist on a museum where the
personalities have been long forgotten.

Prague in the spring, yet suddenly cold as
ice. I wanted out of this place. Time to let Johnny Gerard go paint
the mural or whatever he wanted to do with the rest of this day
while I headed up to
Kastle Kouzlo Noc
, talk to the owners
about renting this castle for Shay’s movie—and get warm. I
shivered, looked around for Johnny, who’d wandered off to
investigate broken angels, then carefully shielded my face from an
open grave about eight feet away from me. No one had bothered to
toss the dirt back inside. I closed my eyes, took as much of a
breath as I could stand in this desolate and decayed area, sat up
straight, opened my eyes again, and prepared to leave.

I screamed. There was a wool-trousered butt
sticking up from the grave.

A torso followed the distinctly male
derriére, then a neck appeared, and finally, I was reassured to
notice, a real human head. Alive. Jet-black hair, amazingly
well-coiffed for someone hip deep in dirt, hit just above
neck-line.

I yelled with as much fury as my fright would
allow, “Dammit! You just scared the holy livin’ heart out of me!
Doesn’t anyone around here ever make a normal entrance?”

The man straightened and whirled around with
such force I expected him to fall back inside. Golden brown eyes,
like a superior feline, stared at me. I stared back, prepared to
play “blink first” for as long as it took. Enough time passed for
me to see the straight nose, the Cupid-shaped lips and the lashes
that were triple mine (even with Volumized Billion Dramatic Double
Layered mascara). The lashes pissed me off so much I was able to
stay silent until the grave-popper spoke first.

“I’m very sorry if I startled you, young
lady. I was engrossed in what I was doing and didn’t realize anyone
was above the crypt.” The man paused. “What do you mean—normal
entrance?”

I started to explain, then gave up. “Never
mind. It was supposed to be funny theatrical reference but if
you’re not an actor, it’s probably not even remotely amusing.
Forget I said anything.”

Johnny suddenly appeared next to me. “You
okay?”

“Sure. Just startled by Mister Whomever here
literally popping up out of the ground.” I glared at the man. “So.
That’s a crypt, right, not an undone grave?”

“Of course. What a strange question. Why do
you ask that?”

“Well, sure. Silly me. The fact that there
isn’t a solid grave anywhere to be found was a just a tad
suspicious. What had you so captivated you didn’t hear either of us
above ground? What were you doing?”

“Working.”

Johnny looked at me. I looked back at him.,
then at the gorgeous man in the dirt.

I smiled. “That sounds—excuse the
term—cryptic. What exactly were you working on? If you don’t mind
telling us.”

He smiled. Instantly he looked ten years
younger and far less threatening. Neither thought reassured me.
“I’m a historian. And I am currently engaged in a research project
for the residents of
Kouzlo Noc
.”

This sounded nice except that I’d just
noticed the man was holding a dagger. Looked antique. I could feel
my teeth grinding out of sheer nervousness.

Johnny obviously felt the same. “Um. Do you
mind placing that knife on the ground or someplace where it’s not
in your hand? No offense.”

He looked at the weapon as if he’d just
noticed it was there. “Sorry. I use this to chip away at some of
the century old encrusted dirt obscuring names and dates.”

He laid it on top of a headstone above
ground.

I began to breathe again. “Thank you. So. I’m
intrigued. What are we talking about here? Are you writing a book?
Dissertation? Or perhaps taking a leisurely stroll down genealogy
lane?”

Again, the quick smile flashed. “That’s a
very good summary.”

“In other words, you’re not going to tell
me.”

“I didn’t say that.”

I groaned. “Enough. I’m about to meet the
owners of this castle and try to present a dignified—uh—presence
but I’m standing in the middle of a major horror show, so I’m not
up to games involving wresting info from an avowed academic.”

Those cat’s eyes stared at me again from the
grave. Again, I broke first. “ Do you have a name?”

He relaxed. “I do. Corbin Lerner. I teach at
a small eastern University.”

He didn’t say east of what. Could be Prague,
could be Eden, could be Des Moines.

“I do some sideline work for the Duskova
sisters. Those castle owners you’re about to meet.”

“Oh. Well, thanks. That rather sums it up.
Neatly and with total ambiguity.”

He wasn’t going to tell me why he was
sneaking around the graveyard. That much was certain. I tried a
different tack. “I’m Abby Fouchet. Currently acting as location
scout for a movie company planning to rent the castle from the
Duskovas. This is Johnny Gerard, who is also doing work for the
Duskovas.”

Johnny tensed. The Dumas second sight didn’t
kick in, but it didn’t need to. I got it. He wanted our romantic
relationship kept secret. I didn’t skip a beat. “Restoring a mural,
isn’t that right, Mr. Gerard?”

Johnny nodded. “Precisely.” He immediately
added, “So, Mr. Lerner, as an historian, do you have any theories
as to why this graveyard only contains the dearly departed from the
Seventeen-Hundreds?”

Lerner’s shoulders lifted until his neck
nearly disappeared into his collar. “That is interesting, isn’t it?
Veronika Duskova told me that years ago the family decided that the
original gravesite was too crowded. So starting in Seventeen
Hundred, all the deceased were interned here.”

Something didn’t quite ring true here—like
where’s the rest of the dearly—and much mor
e
recently—departed and is their site a bit nicer and more
refined?

Johnny didn’t buy it either, but only asked,
“Did you find what you were looking for in the crypt?”

“Sadly, no. There are some interesting
artifacts there, but the information I sought was not
available.”

“Can you tell us what you were looking for?
Or is that a deep, dark secret?” I asked.

He gazed a bit too intently up at a tree
branch that had nothing whatsoever of interest to distract him. He
didn’t answer.

I was about to take another stab at sticking
my nose in where he obviously didn’t feel it belonged (I have no
shame when it comes to being curious) when I felt a light touch on
my right shoulder. Normally I wouldn’t flinch. But I was in a
cemetery with a man who was bent on being stubbornly and
ridiculously quiet about an old crypt and my boyfriend who was
mysteriously bent on keeping quiet about his girlfriend—me. I
jumped, whirled and prepared to beat the living fool out of who or
what was behind me.