Relief. I didn’t want to have company if I got my nerve up enough to sneak away from the Duskova sisters and take a peek into the north wing of Kouzlo Noc. Especially if I happened to bump into a ghost warming up his flute for a morning performance.
Shay hadn’t called me back since yesterday afternoon when I’d phoned Kathy’s home in Paris to give her all the info about renting the castle. Now, standing under the watchful eye of the dragons, I figured I’d give my buddy another try before I tugged on the Mozart bell-pull and got ushered into the castle to be swallowed up by spirit-searching pursuits. Shay is usually very good about returning calls, so I was a bit worried. I didn’t need any extra angst before starting my flute hunting for the morning. I hasten to add I wasn’t interested in finding a treasure trove, although that would be a perk for the Duskovas who plainly could use one; I just wanted to find out what happened to Ignatz Jezek.
I dialed Shay’s cell, but again, only got her voice mail. “This is Shay Martin. Spill it.”
I yelled into the phone, “Shay! It’s getting better and better. Not only is this place spooky, huge, scary, gorgeous, and cheap. Uh, it’s also haunted. I met a very aesthetic, attractive historian—even if he’s a possible graverobber. And Franz, your Count Hoo-haw whatever. Who is also some serious eye candy, albeit jumpy when the name of Mozart is mentioned. And guess who’s playing Gregory Noble detective? Yep. I’m not supposed to be seen as his engaged woman, which pisses me off, but at least he’s here and not tango-dancing with some African princess in Kenya so I’m a happy little locator. Although it’s very possible Franz and Corbin are skunks going after treasure and this whole exercise could end violently. I’ve already experienced two strange visions, neither of which did not leave me with nice feelings. Okay. I’m hanging up now. I’m about to tackle the dragons in the den and, if I’m lucky, have a nice duet with a ghost.”
The arrival of anyone responding to my tug on the bell pull was taking forever and I was getting nervous. Had I upset Veronika too much yesterday by snooping in the graveryard? Or mentioning the music I’d heard?
After an eternity of playing “Blink First” with a non-blinking dragon, the door opened. But this was different from yesterday’s scenario. Veronika was the one who opened the door and Veronika was edgy and tense and tearful. Her eyes were red and her voice cracked when she asked if I’d like refreshments, but I forestalled her attempts to add to my waistline.
“Is it all right if I just wander today with my notebook? I need to jot down what rooms would work best for each scene. I don’t want to disturb you and I don’t want you to vary whatever your routine is.”
It wasn’t a total lie. I did plan to make a note or two about the rooms on my way to look for Ignatz Jezek and his flute. Hopefully, she’d taken the hint that this was to be a solo tour by Abby Fouchet, location scout.
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 music
ian.
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 t
hat 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.
Chapter 8
As I’d informed Franz yesterday, Shay and I really did meet in dance class before she’d pursuaded me to join her at the residence on Seventy-Ninth and Amsterdam along with our other roommate, Cherry Ripe, a former topless dancer at Manhattan club on Eighth Avenue. Shay and I had become friends in class, then bonded into true sisterhood through various emotional, physical and vocational traumas suffered in and around‘Seven-D.” Which Shay joked was her bra size. She is a big girl for a dancer, which is one reason she turned to choreography and direction. The other is that she’s damn talented at both and sure as heck making more money than we lowly players.
She crossed the room in three graceful strides and enveloped me in an excruciatingly tight bear hug. “Little Abby! What a damn weird and wonderful room. Does anyone live here other than dead people?”
I hugged her back and ignored her statement and question. “Sass-shay! Not that I’m not thrilled to see your smiling face in Prague, but exactly why are you in Prague? I mean, now, not in a week, like after the wedding?”
We drew apart. She growled, “Because that idiot Kathy and her even more idiotic fiancé, Jean-Claude Lafitte the Nineteenth or whatever, had another huge fight and called off the wedding for the sixth time in five days. I said, ‘Nuts to this. I’m not waiting around playing peacemaker until the two of them decide either to elope or just shoot each other.’ I’m tellin’ ya, it’ll take a Nobel Prize winning mediator to solve the war between them!”
She suddenly realized we were not the only two folks in the room. “Who the hell are the hunks? Chee –wow –wah! Oh wait. Franz! You sexy man, you look even better than you did at the screen test.”
Aria in Ice Page 6
