Aria in Ice (4 page)

I released the breath I’d been holding since
first seeing the dragon-headed poker in the hands of someone a foot
shorter than the deadly instrument. The ladies led me to a sitting
area complete with café table, dainty chairs, reading lamps, and a
window seat offering comfort and doubtless a spectacular view of
the countryside and river below.

I turned to Veronika. “Do you mind if I sit
on the window seat? This view is truly breathtaking.”

Marta appeared, without the poker, just in
time to join her sisters in nodding. Veronika spoke for all. “Iss
fine. Iss nice to see view. Hass been in family many year. Tapestry
made by ancestor from Emperor Jozef. No one buried under seat for
two centuries now. I get tea for you now.”

Veronika and her sisters exited the small
space, leaving me gaping at the embroidered fabric that topped the
window seat. The scene depicted was that of a sienna-colored horse
bearing the image of a knight prepping to throw a silver lance at a
group of beige and brown-clad peasants. The lance appeared
bloodstained and the peasants were obviously scared witless.

I swallowed hard. I had no desire for the
murdered spirit of some hapless enemy of the Duskova family to rise
up from the window seat and plead for my intercession in his quest
for justice and vengeance.

“Cream and sugar?”

I turned to watch the taller sister (Trina?)
who was inching her way into the salon. The slow pace was doubtless
due to the fact that she was struggling to carry a huge platter of
pastries, cream and sugar pitchers, and dainty napkins stamped with
the visage of dragons. Sis
Numero Dos
, Marta, was close
behind her, bearing a tray with what had to be a teapot. Hard to
tell. It was hidden by a ‘cozy’ displaying an agitated black
rooster crowing at his harem of six depressed chickens decked out
in canary yellow bibs. Veronika allowed her sisters to play servant
while she smiled and gestured toward a dainty chair on the far side
of the café table. I smiled back.

“Thank you, ladies. Yes, cream and sugar
would be lovely. And, oh my!
Kolaches
. I love them.
Especially the ricotta cheese and poppy seed.”

Veronika’s eyebrows shot into the top of her
tightly bound hair. “You haf had
kolace
? You haf been in
Prague how long?”

“Oh, it’s not from being in Prague. I grew up
in El Paso, Texas but had buddies from Austin to Dallas which meant
stopovers in West—this little town that’s primarily Czech. West is
really name of the town, not the geographic location. The owner of
the film company, Bambi Bohacek, comes from West and she’s always
getting her mom to send kolaches as care packages to New York.
There’s a marvelous bakery not too far off the interstate that make
fresh kolaches daily and Mrs. Bohacek just goes in and buys them
out. Yummy. I’m beyond addicted to these guys.”

Veronika’s eyes glazed a bit. “Ah.”

Any conversation we’d’ve attempted came to a
halt while we drank very strong tea from very delicate cups. Then
the sisters watched, squealing with delight, as their crazy
American guest devoured five of the kolaches. They did not partake.
For those uninitiated as to the delights of Czech baked goods,
kolaches are a sweet breakfast pastry. They can be filled with
fruit, cheese, poppy seed, almond paste, or for a heartier meal,
with sausage. I’ll eat any of them with whatever stuffings are
inside.

I finished with a particularly fat little
treat made with apple filling, sat back, thanked God for great
cooks, then politely dabbed at my mouth with the linen napkin.
Madam Veronika Duskova knew a satisfied customer when she saw
one.

It was time for negotiations to begin.

“So, Mees Fouchet…”

“Abby. Please call me Abby, Madam
Duskova.”

She nodded but did not return the favor of
casual address. Madam D she was and Madam D she would remain—at
least to her face.

“Ab-bee. How much iss film company weeling to
pay for use of
Kouzlo Noc
?”

I named a price. It was a nice price. I’m a
good performer, trying also to be a good location manager, but I’m
a lousy bargainer. I knew Shay would adore this castle. The
distance from Prague was right. The turrets and stairs and moat had
a great fantasy look that was needed for outside shots. The
ballroom was tailor-made for the inside musical numbers. The
harpsichord alone would be worth renting the whole castle, even if
a single note never sounded. The marble coffin was a bonus. In a
word—perfect. I wasn’t going to quibble over price. For all her “go
with cheap, Abby, Bambi is so poor,” grumblings, Shay was well
aware that Ms. Bohacek had some very wealthy backers lined up for
this project.
Headlights Productions
could afford to pay the
Duskova family a tidy sum for the privilege of invading their
castle for a few months.

But before I signed over any of the company’s
funds, part of my job was detailing precisely what we were
buying.

“Ladies.
Kouzlo Noc
seems to be just
what we’re looking for, but I need to ask whether we’d be allowed
access to any of the rooms upstairs. We don’t want to toss anyone
from a bedroom, but we very much could use several turrets, uh,
towers. We also could use a small room for some of the more
intimate moments in the movie. Not every scene will be a big song
and dance number in the ballroom. And we’ll also want some shots of
the door areas with the dragons and everything. And probably the
cemetery as well. I mean the newer one.”

Veronika bit her lip, then turned and began a
rapid-fire discussion in Czech with her sisters. I say ‘discussion’
but it was really a monologue. Marta and Trina stayed silent. After
much head shaking and nods and waving about of teacups (fortunately
empty) all three ladies turned and stared at me. Trina and Marta
picked up some embroidery work from bags nestled close to the
window seat, then calmly began to sew. Veronika stood.

“Ve haf decided that you may use the south
wing. There iss much rooms there along with stairs to turret. Good
scene of outside too. Come. I show you.”

I plopped my napkin and cup on the tray next
to the rooster, then sped after her. I was nearly out the door when
I stopped and turned. Trina was crooning into her embroidery. It
sounded like Eric Clapton’s
Layla
. She looked up at me and
the sound stopped. She smiled. I blinked. And could have sworn she
was singing this to me—and me only—as she was being carried out,
God help me and her—in a black body bag.

Crap. A Dumas vision zinging into to my brain
from wherever those damn premonition visions come from. I quickly
thrust that image from my mind. Veronika motioned for me to follow
her up the huge staircase at the back of the ballroom. We took a
left at the top of the stairs under a chandelier worthy of a set
for any version of
Phantom of the Opera
. I got lost soon
after we took a right, then another left before heading up the
dizzying, narrow, staircase that would have sent anyone with
claustorphobic leaning to imagine the walls were closing in at a
rapid pace.

We finally made it up the last flight and
entered a landing, bookmarked at either end by solid doors standing
at least eight feet tall. Veronika opened the door to our left with
an oversized key from a metal key ring.

It was a simple guest room. A wedding-ringed
patterned quilt, colored in soft shades of ivory and sage, lay on a
bed that must be several centuries old. Head and footboards,
stained in a light walnut, framed the box springs and mattress. A
vanity, wardrobe, and small washboard, all in the same walnut
color, were the only other furnishings in the room. It was
immaculately kept, with a saccharine sweetness to it. It should
work well for our heroine Honoria’s bedroom when she arrives from
London. Some place more exciting and ominous would be needed for
her seduction at the hands of Count Zilania.

I nodded at Veronika. “It’s very pretty. So.
What else is up here?”

Veronika marched across the landing to
another room, without bothering to notice if I followed. There were
no furnishings in the tiny space, not even a table or a chair. But
this was a room with a view. I’d been enchanted with the scenery
from the window seat downstairs, but it paled by comparison. An
entire forest lay before me. Spires from the cathedrals in Prague
off in the distance, jutting into the bluest sky I’d seen since
last time I was in Texas.

I didn’t care if Shay used this room for
Honoria, for Zilania, for one or more villains or the whole camera
crew. I’d’ve paid any amount of money simply for the privilege to
worship the countryside through this glass once a day for the next
month. I leaned out the open window and breathed in the pure, crisp
air. A chilly wind blew my hair back from my face so I retreated.
Veronika started to shut the window but I stopped her. “Wait.
Please. About an hour ago, I heard the most marvelous musician
playing the flute. Sounded like it came from what I guess y’all
refer to as the north wing? Who lives there?”

My question was greeted with silence and
looks that chilled me more than the gust of wind had. “Dere iss no
one. We are only people at
Kouzlo Noc
.”

“But I’m sure I heard music.”

“I do not hear anyting. Perhaps our gardener
is playing a, how you say, ‘see dees.’ He likes music from America.
Must be that you hear, no? He iss here today.”

I knew what I’d heard and it wasn’t the
family gardener strutting around listening to some rapper from the
States with a CD player held on his shoulder while he planted and
pruned in the lilacs (or whatever blooms bloomed at the castle.)
The music hadn’t come from below. It had come from this wing. It
was very classical. It was also very Mozart. Wolfgang Amadeus. The
one, the only. The tune had been an aria from
The Magic
Flute.

Johnny had denied being the musician.
Veronika had denied any music being played except on a boombox. I
knew better. A ghostly flautist was playing for my benefit.

Perfect. I’d stumbled into a Gothic tale
while trying to rent a Gothic castle for a Gothic film based on a
Gothic novel. The intrusion of Goth was making me dizzy. Doubtless,
a headless flute player was being held in chains in one wing
(and no,
that’s not logical because how the hell can one
play a flute without lips which would normally be attached to a
head?)
A beautiful damsel in distress would be found in the
tower of another wing, cranking out arias from Mozart’s last comic
opera while hoping a gallant prince would hear her songs and arrive
with sword in hand to rescue her from her sad fate. During some
dark and stormy night, the murdered peasants depicted on the
bloodstained tapestry on the downstairs window seat would pop out
and hunt down their oppressors. The dragon-headed doorknockers
would take human form in the guise of a black-clad demon-possessed
tortured hero. Finally, the Victorian governess trio of the sisters
would burn the place down a la Jane Eyre’s Mrs. Rochester.

Veronika stared at me as though I’d brought
the madwoman’s matches. I hoped I hadn’t just opened my mouth and
aired my fantasies to
Headlights Productions’
new
landlady.

I smiled. “Well, at least your gardener shows
good taste. Can’t do much better than Mozart.”

Not an ounce of color could be seen on the
woman’s face. She struggled to catch her breath. She gulped at the
air around her. She arranged one of her hairpins trying to subdue a
non-existent errant lock. Her hand went to her chest and for a
moment I thought CPR was next on the day’s agenda.

“Veronika? Beg pardon. Madam Duskova. Are you
all right? Did I say something to upset you?”

“No. No. You say not’ing bad. I—I—perhaps am
winded climbing so many stairs.”

“I’m so sorry. Do you want to rest for a bit?
I have no problem staying up here looking at this view for
awhile.”

“Iss okay.” Her spine stiffened. “We set
price, yes? With south wing, and west and east wing. No north wing.
Iss no available. Cemetery include, but no north wing. Add thousand
koruna
to rent and we haf deal.”

I tried frantically to remember the exchange
rate for the Czech Republic with American dollars and decide this
would not be the time to make a joke about
koruna
and Corona
beer.

“We have a deal. Our director, Shay Martin,
will be in next week, but I have her power of attorney to sign
whatever contracts are needed.”

“Good. We go downstairs, now, yes?”

It was a dismissal. I didn’t care. I followed
her in silence to the landing, then down the stairway from hell,
musing the whole time about why Veronika had gotten into such a
tizzy over a harmless comment about Mozart. Unless she knew the
flute-player was indeed not part of life’s present tense.

Veronika literally marched me to the back
door. We murmured a few pleasantries and determined how and when
the contracts for renting the castle would be signed. Then I was
outside staring at the dragonheads and the tapestry pull. I felt
like the relative who’s just been informed the family disowned them
for burping during Thanksgiving dinner.

“Well, fine,” I addressed one of the dragons.
“Ms. Veronika Duskova is a strange bird, but I have achieved
victory for
Headlights
and gotten Bambi and Shay their
friggin’ spooky castle. I shall see you and your fire-breathing
brothers in a day or two with contracts in hand, but meantime I’m
heading down to the Vitus Bar for a stiff drink—and I don’t mean
tea.”

The closest dragon assumed an expression
amazingly similar to the one I’d last seen on Veronika’s face. I
turned my back and gazed up at the north turret where I’d heard the
haunting music. The north turret that Madam D had clearly stated
was off limits to everyone. This time no denim-clad burglar could
be seen. Johnny had just vanished without bothering to say
good-bye.