Aria in Ice (8 page)

Wasn’t happenin’. Veronika literally began to
sob.

“Madam? What’s wrong? Have I done something
to offend you?” I gushed out, genuinely worried that I’d screwed
up. Perhaps the walk in the cemetery yesterday had been too big an
intrusion on the Duskova’s privacy? Or even asking to wander wasn’t
a great suggestion?

Veronika clutched my hand. “No, no! Iss not
you. Ach, I am so sorry. We haf much tragedy this morning.”

“What’s the matter?”

“He. We. Oh, dear God, iss so sad. He iss
dead!”

Genuine worry raced into genuine alarm.
Corbin? The non-existent Cd playing gardener? Or—my heart took a
nose dive. I barely kept from screaming. Johnny?

“Veronika. Please! Tell me. Who is dead?”

“We haf hire piano tuner from Austria you
understand, to fix piano because it iss very bad to hear.”

I nodded. If the piano was anything like the
harpischord, ‘bad to hear’ was an understatement.

“Iss today. Only just before you come, we
find Gustav—that iss name—on the grounds. He was lying dead. A
dreadful accident.”

I hadn’t noticed any ambulances or cop cars
when I drove up to the castle in my rental car but they could
easily have taken another road. Perhaps since this poor man was
already dead, there’d been no need for sirens. I said as much to
Veronika.

“Oh. We did not haf police or doctors. Mr.
Lerner and Mr. Hart—you haf met him, yes? They took Gustav in our
car to village below.”

This did not sound right. “Um, Madam Duskova,
how did Gustav die?”

“Perhaps his heart give out?”

I envisioned a Jozef look-a-like, grabbing
his chest and gasping out a last breath on the grounds of
Kouzlo
Noc
. Truly sad. I’m a cry-at-commercials type girl so I
instantly began blinking back a few tears.

Veronika saw my sympathetic reaction and
instantly turned into mother of the year. She patted my hand and
began to rapidly console me. “You must not worry, Abb—ee. You did
not meet this man and though you haf kind heart, please do not be
concerning yourself over him. You must not be in distress.”

I had no idea how to handle this. A man I’d
never met who had been at the Duskovas for what? A few hours before
he died? How much mourning was proper? Would it be rude if I kept
to my original plan to tour? Did I need to sit with Veronika and
Marta and Trina? Did I need to help with funeral arrangements? Or
contacting family? Prepare music for a wake?

I kept silent for a few moments. Finally I
said, “Well, is it all right if I still roam over the castle a bit?
I’m sure there are arrangements to make with this man’s family and
I can stay out of your way. Or I could help with those arrangements
if you need me to?” Not the brightest response but I truly felt at
a loss concerning manners in this situation.

She didn’t appear shocked over any lack of
funeral etiquette on my part. She simply nodded, said, “Please.
Roam as you need,” then sat down on the ghastly window seat, pulled
a piece of fabric out of a bag I hadn’t noticed before, and began
embroidering. Marta and Trina also produced bags and embroidery
implements. The trio barely noticed my exit into the hall or which
direction I took once I’d waved thanks and good-bye.

I can state without blushing that I headed
right for the north wing. I admit it. I confess.
Mea culpa, mea
culpa.
I wanted to find the room that seemed like a good choice
for Ignatz Jezek to use as a music studio.

The north wing was much like the south wing,
except that the stairs were rotting and the hallways were even
narrower. No wonder Johnny had used a tree for his exit. It was
safer than trying to avoid the cracked wood and gaping holes. A
trip that should have taken five minutes stretched into twelve. I
already had one bum foot. A second injury received in questionable
circumstances
(But really, Mr. Claims Person—I was on the job! I
happened to be hunting for a ghost flautist who hangs out in this
really spooky Czech castle. Uh, thought he could join the film
orchestra on his days off. Heck, he has a magic flute—isn’t that
worth more shattered bones?)
would not look good on my
insurance records.

I reached the top of the rickety stairway.
Five doors; all closed. The hallway was silent in a way that
suggested no living person had filled the space with sound in two
centuries. I shrugged away the chill attacking me between my
shoulder blades, marched to Door Number One and flung it open.

Empty. No furniture. No murals, no window
seats. If my Ignatz hung out here, he’d be bored in ten seconds. I
turned around to face Door Number Two right across the hall. I
peeked inside and was instantly disappointed. I could see furniture
but the assortment was definitely Twenty-first century. No
self-respecting spook would take up residence in this space. I
headed down the hall toward Door Number Three.

I stopped. Music. Definitely. And not just
any music—the instrument I heard was a flute. I closed my eyes and
listened until I could make out the melody. Mozart.
The Magic
Flute
. The Papageno/Papagena duet, which is the frothiest,
lightest piece in the opera. My head began bobbing to the tune even
as I quietly opened Door Number Three.

“Oh yeah.” Any ghost would be proud to call
this home. It wasn’t luxuriant; it was the comfortable residence of
a gifted musician.

Two identical floral damask-covered divans
faced one another from the east and west sides of the room. A large
instrument that looked like a cross between a harpsichord and a
glockenspiel sat smack in the center. Diagonally across from the
instrument was a music stand looming above a heavy, dark, carved
wooden chair. A leather-bound book lay on the seat as though the
reader had just plopped it down to take a quick break for a
look-see outside. A window seat with a tapestry far less violent
than the scene from the Duskova parlor took up at least eight feet
under three side-by-side windows. The shape of the moon had been
etched into each piece of glass. The walls were decorated with two
huge gilt-edged mirrors and several pieces of artwork bearing the
name Boucher. I’m no art historian, but even I recognized Boucher.
This was not a poster print, but an original work. Or a forgery,
but a damn good one. Johnny doing more than murals?

The music that had drawn me to Door Number
Three had faded to an almost imperceptible level while I’d been
taking my survey of the furnishings, but I could still make out the
melody. What the heck. I opened my mouth and sang about four bars.
The acoustics in this place made the Metropolitan Opera House in
New York sound like a garage. I began hunting for any tape players,
pods, Cd’s run by remotes or anything else that could explain where
the music was coming from even though I was convinced I was correct
in my first hypothesis—Ignatz Jezek was haunting the place and
giving concerts—at least to ghost listeners with second sight.

A different piece of music began to play. I
strained but the song stayed tantalizingly out of reach. Not
classical, that was for sure. It sounded like a show tune. I closed
my eyes and let the sound drift over me—and it clicked. “
Night
and Day.”
Cole Porter. Written in the Nineteen-Thirties.
Interesting. Could ghosts play tunes that hadn’t even been composed
until the ghost had been dead two hundred years or so?

Sheet music had been left on the music stand.
I leaned down to check any fun titles and instead found a flute
rested calmly in the crevice of the stand. I nearly screamed,
“
Magic flute! I’ve found it!”
On closer inspection, it was
clear this wasn’t the Jezek flute. If the metal material hadn’t
convinced me, then the date of 1981 and the inscription,
“
Michna’s Music Shoppe”
sealed the non-magical and clearly
modern nature of the instrument.

I turned my attention to the leather-bound
book I’d seen resting in a chair. I was in the process of lifting
it so I could at least check out the title when voices sounded from
the hall. I’m not normally into kleptomania but I decided to make
an exception, just in case whatever had been left here was
important. I quickly opened my bag then placed the manuscript
inside.

Marching through the front door were three
men I’d not expected to see together—at least not now and not here.
Johnny Gerard, Franz Hart and Corbin Lerner.

“My, my. Larry, Curly and Moe?”

Johnny snickered. Franz looked confused.
Corbin bit back a smile. Well, hot damn. The man had a glimmer of
humor somewhere inside that handsome exterior.

I stared at each one in succession, finally
asking, “So, guys. Is everything okay? I heard you were helping out
with this poor man—uh—Mr.—uh—Gustav?”

Franz spoke first. “We took his body down to
a little village not far from here. There will be a memorial Mass
there tomorrow we were told.”

“Yeah, that’s what I heard. I mean—about the
village. So, what are you doing here in the north wing? Hunting for
me? And why aren’t you running errands, Franz? Thought that was on
your agenda today?”

Franz stiffened slightly. “I decided to come
early and alone to get a feeling for the castle and when I got to
the door, Madam Duskova was rather hysterical over finding this man
on the grounds. Someone suggested coming to the north wing which
could be of interest to the movie.”

I nodded toward Johnny, then Corbin. “And
Curly and Moe? Just happened to pop in on the way to murals and
mausoleums?”

Johnny calmly headed to the window. “I was
merely out for a nice tour around the castle. Three hours of
carefully painting a mural to appear centuries old can become
tedious. Saw ol’Fritz here with Madam D and decided to join them to
see if I could help with Gustav’s body.”

Franz glared at Johnny. “Franz.”

“What?”

“Franz. Not Fritz. That would be a nickname
of a Frederick.”

Johnny. “Yes, I suppose it would.”

I pointed at Corbin. “What about you? Did you
just follow the crowd? Was there ever a leader?”

Corbin shrugged. “I saw someone in the window
and was worried that a burglar was sneaking into the north wing so
I wanted to warn Veronika since no one is supposed to be here.”

I opened my eyes wide. “Really? I thought no
one
lived here
. Is there a ban on touring? Or is that just
the graveyard?”

Franz frowned. “We are not allowed in the
graveyard?”

“Well, I’m not sure there’s an actual edict
stating that. I just had the feeling the Duskovas would prefer we
avoid it.” I paused. “Perhaps for safety reasons.”

Franz nodded, as though this actually made
sense. “Ah, of course.” He then motioned toward Corbin, burying the
topic of the very recent death at
Kouzlo Noc
. “Pardon me,
but I never asked what you are doing for the Duskovas at the
castle.”

Corbin quietly stated. “I am a
historian.”

Silence. More silence. Everyone looked at me.
I felt like I’d become the hostess for this party and was expected
to draw out the shyer guests to reveal the intimacies of their
lives and work.

No way. I smiled and said, “Shouldn’t that be
‘an’ historian’? Doesn’t the ‘h’ count as a vowel in that
word?”

Corbin did not answer. Franz looked at me as
though I’d lost my mind. Johnny, bless his heart, joined right in.
“I believe either usage is proper. The ‘a’ or the ‘an’. I taught
English part time at a private junior high school when I was at
Columbia and I seem to recall that was one of those innocuous
little pieces of grammar that drives people crazy but has no set
answer.”

“You taught grammar?”

“No. I taught English Literature but grammar
occasionally raised its annoying head.”

“Aside from inanimate substances having
heads, isn’t grammar plural? So wouldn’t it be ‘their’ annoying
heads?”

“Grammar is of one. So it stays
singular.”

We could have danced around this pole another
thirty minutes. Johnny and I were having a great time. I’d almost
forgotten why I was in the north wing and the fact that some poor
piano tuner had doubtless had a heart attack and had been
discovered below only a few hours earlier. Franz was not having a
great time. He was on a mission to discover Corbin’ s and Johnny’s
real interest in
Kouzlo Noc
. I gathered that silence had
been the order of the day during that very odd trip to deliver the
corpse of one piano tuner with a bad heart.

Corbin didn’t look pleased. He stopped our
banter with a single statement. “Miss Fouchet. Abby. Veronika tells
me you’re interested in the history of the castle. Is that
correct?”

“When did she say that?”

“After you and Mr. Gerard left the graveyard
yesterday”

Franz coughed. “Graveyard? You met Abby in a
graveyard?”

“Yes. She was… what was the explanation, Miss
Fouchet?”

I casually leaned against the windowpane.
“Hey, I was being a good little location scout. Looking for exotic
shots. Then again, to be honest—that particular graveyard? I was
nosy. Simple.” I squared my shoulders and prepared to drop a bomb.
“And of course, I was interested in discovering who’d been playing
the flute earlier somewhere near the north tower. Though I thought
I saw a gardening type troll with a trowel, who was perhaps then
lost in the cemetery.”

Franz and Corbin both whipped their heads
around to me. Franz spoke first while Corbin merely raised an
eyebrow. “You heard a flute?” That was quickly echoed by Corbin, “A
flute? Where?”

I didn’t have a chance to answer, which was
just as well since I had no desire to tell either Franz or Corbin
that I’d heard music with no one actually holding it in hand—or at
mouth- and that I wished I’d never mentioned that instrument in
mixed company. Dumb move by Fouchet.

Fortunately, I was too busy thanking all the
deities for the interruption created by the entrance of the tall
newcomer who came striding toward me with a grin of pure, delicious
evil. Shay Martin. Choreographer, director and instigator of
trouble whenever possible.