Aria in Ice (33 page)

“I don’t bloody well know where the flute is!
And while I’m positive Ignatz was the one flaunting his flauting to
me yesterday when I rode the horse to Anonymity Town, I’m not so
sure his ghost is going to drop any more hints than our Deep
Southern fried fairy godmother.”

“That is a drawback. But descriptive.”

Johnny rose and began to pace. “Okay. I’d say
the first order of business is to figure out where the flute is.
Aura Lee said you had the clues, right?”

“Yeah, but she wasn’t exactly forthcoming
about what those clues were, nor was she generous in hinting where
to even start to look for those clues. Damn, damn, doo-doo! That’s
the least she could have done before she went tippy-tapping out to
fly back to Atlanta—probably without benefit of a plane. Anyway, it
would have been nice of the woman to at least drop some giant
breadcrumbs. I’d still have to put them together to make toast, so
to speak.”

“Then it’s time to do some major
deducting.”

“As Shay has said, a–greed.”

All three of us got up and started pacing. We
were all too active even on normal days to be able to get creative
without a good deal of movement. So we criss-crossed one another
and circled one another and miraculously didn’t bump into one
another and barely noticed we were looking like hamsters on crack
at a miniature rodent ‘rave.’

I halted and put my hand up like one of the
Supremes doing the chorus of “
Stop in the Name of Love.”

“Yes?”

“We need Jozef.” I tapped Johnny’s shoulder.
“Did you get a chance to talk to him about translating the
book?”

“He did.”

We turned. Jozef stepped inside the sitting
room. He was holding a book with a dust jacket that read
The
Whispering Ravens of Naked Rock
. Another very cheesy gothic
novel. I just hoped Shay hadn’t seen it because naked would be
right back in the title of
Silhouette Tower
.

“I told Johnny that I had already gone
through the journal you found in the north wing, Abby. The one that
now has the jacket cover of
Seduction of Countess Marissa
.
It belonged to Eduard Duskova—not the Eduard from Baron Smetana’s
time, but a man who lived at
Kouzlo Noc
during the
Mid-Twentieth Century. He was quite a scholarly man who became very
interested in the legend of Ignatz Jezek. My father knew him and
liked him very much. He always told me that Eduard wanted to find
Ignatz Jezek to give him a Christian burial because he felt that
someone in the family had done great wrong and murdered the
musician soon after he had moved to
Kouzlo
Noc
.
Eduard did not really care about finding the flute; in truth he did
not believe the flute held any special powers. He wrote in his
journal that he believed that Ignatz had been thrown from the
window of the north wing.”

“Isn’t everyone?” Shay muttered.

We stared at her. “Sorry. Trying to be funny
to lighten a very tense moment. Failing miserably. Go on, Mr.
Jezek, I’ll stay quiet.”

“Yeah, like that’s going to happen.” I
grumbled. “She’ll be good, Jozef. Please, continue.”

“There is not much more to say. He wrote
something about wanting to search the boathouse because he felt
that Ignatz’ body had been dragged there and dropped in the water
beneath, but only days later the Nazi army entered and they took
over
Kouzlo Noc
. Eduard was arrested and thrown into a
concentration camp.”

“Did he ever return to
Kouzlo Noc
?” I
asked.

“Yes, he did. He was the grandfather of
Veronika and Trina and Marta. Their parents were killed when the
Communists took over and Eduard raised them. But he never again
wrote in the journal and his injuries from the camp were so severe
there was no physical possibility for him to search the boathouse
alone. I believe he gave up trying.”

I was getting frustrated. “So we’re kind of
back where we started—at least as far as the flute is concerned.
I’ll bet that Ignatz body is buried under the boathouse but I’d
really be amazed if the flute was with him. And if it
was—were—whichever—I doubt it would be intact.” I looked over at
Johnny. “Wasn’t there another journal though? Didn’t you tell me
that the part of Eduard’s diary you read mentioned that someone
else had written down some of their theories as to where the flute
could be?”

“I did, but I have no idea where that other
book went. Trina probably didn’t have it, although it seems pretty
obvious that she read Eduard’s journal and decided to take a chance
and do a look-see around the boathouse.”

Shay added, “Which was when some s.o.b.
killed her. And she probably thought she was safe since she had a
full house—excuse me—castle—that morning.”

Jozef shut his eyes and thought for a moment.
“I have an idea where that other journal could have been hidden.
Miss Martin, would you accompany me through the rooms in the north
wing? There is a small library in one of the bedrooms and it is
very possible that the journal is in what you Americans call ‘plain
sight’…simply stacked with the other books.” He smiled. “If you are
not frightened to go into the north wing where so many bad things
have happened.”

Shay’s chin jutted out. “Me? Scared?
Never.”

Jozef turned and left the room. Shay followed
but whirled around before she stepped through the doorway and
winked at me, making sure first that Jozef didn’t hear her. “After
all, I’m with the man who looks like God!”

I bit my lower lip as Shay and Jozef
disappeared into the ballroom. “I’m
so
sorry I ever said
that. Shay will never let me forget.”

Johnny laughed. “As long as no one tells
Jozef, you’ll be fine. He’s a man of great faith and it would seem
sacrilegious to him.”

“I’m not talking.”

“Well. So, they’re off in the north wing and
we’re left to cool our heels and pray for divine inspiration. Shall
we sing a bit of the
Kyrie
and ask mercy for all the various
sins of
Kouzlo Noc
?”

“Couldn’t hurt. Ignatz will hear us and
decide it’s time to make a command performance. Where the heck is
he when I need him?”

“Not to be totally skeptical, but I can’t
really see this ghost blasting out tunes for you on cue, Hon.”

“Well, he does. Unfortunately I can’t ask him
straight out for an answer to where he hid the damn flute and I
have to use my imagination to figure out any clues.” Something
nagged at me. “Wait. I do hear something.”

“What?”

“Hush. I can’t believe you can’t hear it
too.”

“I can’t. Sorry. My ghost-communing skills
don’t match yours. Okay. What is it?”

I closed my eyes and concentrated and Johnny
remained silent. Ignatz had chosen something I couldn’t grasp for
his concert. Partly because it was a damn short concert. Only about
four measures in, the ghost stopped.

“Johnny. This song. It’s not a classical
piece. And it’s not one I’d’ve expected from Jezek since he died
way before it was written. Durn. Right now it’s failing me. And
there’s something you said a minute ago that’s kind of poking at
the tip of my mind and it goes along with the song. It’s important
for some reason.”

“Want to talk it through? Or would you prefer
that I not chime in with a hundred dumb thoughts?”

I laughed. “You couldn’t have a dumb thought
if you emptied your brain into a garbage disposal. Oh! Wait. That
poke is back. Only this time it’s more like a thwack in my brain
going ‘you dimwit it’s all there in front of you.’ What the heck am
I trying to get at?”

“Would it help to go back and remember what
we’ve been saying?”

“Yeah. Although, I have this feeling that
it’s not what what should be important that
is
important.
It’s more like bits and pieces of random words we’ve thrown
out.”

“Okay. Um. We were talking about God. We were
talking about garbage disposals. Uh. We were…“

“Asking for help only you said something
about singing the
Kyrie
.” I inhaled. “That’s it.”

“What?”

“
Kyrie
. That’s what I’m hearing. Only
not Mozart’s. Remember the rock group called
Mister Mister
from the 1980s? Had a great song called
Kyrie
. Really good
to do
chaineé
turns in dance class. Which is beside the
point. You were talking about chiming in.” I paused. “Hang on. I
just remembered there’s Auraliah Lee yelling “
Requiescat in
Pacem
”every stinkin’ time she leaves the castle.”

He got it. “
Kyrie. Requiescat
. As in
Mozart’s Requiem Mass.”

“As in the wind chimes at the bottom of the
bell pull which rings out the notes of the
Kyrie
portion of
Mozart’s
Requiem
.”

Johnny and I raced to the back entrance where
the tapestried bell-pull had nestled quite cozily next to the
dragon-headed doorknockers for several centuries.

“It’s
got
to be in the wind chimes.
Aura Lee said I had all the information and she was right. I
hope.”

Johnny carefully removed the pull, then began
to untie the wind chimes from the rest of the fabric. “Makes sense.
Three chimes. No more, no less just like all the various uses of
three in
The Magic Flute
. Ignatz was no dummy. He was being
hounded for his flute by crazy fortune hunters even in his own
time. He knew future treasure seekers would destroy every section
of the north wing. I’m sure that’s where he lived his last days.
And he probably reasoned that people would even turn to grave
robbing in that old cemetery. The one that held the remains mostly
of the members of his generation. So that was out.”

“Hurry,” I urged him. “Let’s find that thing
and split—now.”

There was a cold chill between my shoulder
blades. Something wicked was wafting this way.

Johnny suddenly dropped to the ground. The
man behind him calmly leaned over and grabbed the wind chimes out
of Johnny’s limp hands. His other hand held a sock which appeared
loaded with something which created a great blackjack. He dropped
it on Johnny’s chest, then reached into his coat pocket and pulled
out the dagger I’d seen him use in the crypt the first day I met
him. He calmly removed it from his belt and waved it at me.

“Thank you, Abby. Very kind of you and
amazingly smart to finally figure out the answer to this centuries
old puzzle. I was afraid I’d be stuck here for the entire time you
were filming your stupid movie, waiting until you solved the
mystery.”

“Glad to oblige, Corbin,” I stated in a
monotone. Then that serene countenance disappeared and Abby with
the temper popped out. “ So, you’re the slimey, slinking , scummy,
sordid, sonuvobitchin’ snake who’s been causing all the hurt and
sorrow over the last few days!”

“Snake? Fine alliteration, Ms. Fouchet but I
don’t accept the slur. But then, you’re deep into
Magic
Flute
, aren’t you, so perhaps the serpent in the first scene
has stuck in your pretty frivolous head?” He paused, then thrust
the wind chimes at me. “Here. You open whichever damn one holds the
flute, you little fool.”

“Why should I help you find it?” I asked with
as much calm as I could muster in my voice. It still shook harder
than twenty tumbleweeds in a Texas dust storm. And squeaked. Not a
pretty sound.

Corbin shrugged. “You’ll find it because
otherwise I shall not only use this extremely sharp antique dagger
to slit Johnny’s throat, but you’ll find it thrust into your ribs
very soon thereafter. Not enough to kill you, dear, just enough to
cause some pain.”

“Oh-kay. Good reason.” With trembling hands,
I was able to find the tip of the first chime and twist it open. It
was a heavy metal material and it was old and rusted and not
inclined to move but after a few desperate wrenches I got it
loose.

Nothing. I tried the second one. Same process
and the same result. If the third chime didn’t yield one major
magical flute, I was in big trouble. Of course I was already in big
trouble. But, If I’d been wrong about the flute’s hiding place, I’d
be in
less
trouble while Corbin Lerner debated whether he
needed to kill me and Johnny or keep us alive in hopes that my
deductions would be spot on for the next possible theory on where
this treasure lay.

Tamino in
The Magic Flute
undergoes
three trials. I prayed that’s what Ignatz had tried to recreate
with the wind chimes. I tugged and twisted and panted and twisted
and finally, finally, the third chime was open.

Buried inside was an old wooden flute. I drew
it out of the wind chimes and held it out to Corbin, while
anxiously looking at Johnny, still lying at his feet. He hadn’t
moved.

Corbin grabbed the flute and began to scream.
He dropped the instrument onto the dirt below us. His face became
distorted with pain and anger. “Bitch! You burned me!”

“What?”

“That damn flute is blazing hot! It’s like
grabbing a fry pan that’s been cooking on high flame! Damn
you!”

I leaned down and touched the flute. It
hadn’t been hot to the touch when I’d drawn it out of the wind
chime. It wasn’t hot now. What the hell was going on?

“There’s nothing wrong with this, Corbin.
Actually, it’s very cold for a flute that’s wooden, not metal.
You’re imagining things. Your senses are tricking you.”

I held the flute out again. This time he only
touched it with one finger, then quickly drew that finger away
while screaming again. Part of the screams were pain and part were
curses I’d never heard before but was sure were damning me, Ignatz,
and all our relatives to everlasting hell. Since some of the curses
were in German, I was kind of guessing at the actual
suggestion.

He switched to English again and moaned.
“It’s supposed to turn to
gold
. That’s the legend. The
alchemists of the Masonic Lodge that Jezek belonged to were turning
metals to gold. The flute was supposed to be magic because it is
made of wood, yet turns to gold and then turns other materials to
gold. What the hell is wrong with this damnable instrument?”