Aria in Ice

by Flo Fitzpatrick

  I squinched my face with a “damn Shay, just be rude and embarrass the guys, why doncha?” expression.

  She shrugged. “What? If these guys don’t get that they’re foxier than critters at a Virginia hunt, they’re either blind or too arrogant to own up to it.” She winked at Franz and asked, “Vas is los?” I gathered that was Shay’s German translation for “what’s up, dude?”

  She turned to Corbin and scrutinized him way too intently. “The historian. Gotta be. No one can get away with the dashing professor look except for a dashing professor.”

  I groaned.

  She winked at me, then shook Corbin’s hand. The man simply looked stunned.

  Shay then held her hand out to Johnny. He took it and immediately pressed her palm to his chest. I coughed. Shay caught it and remembered in time none of us were supposed to be friends or lovers of Johnny in a previous life—for whatever bizarre reasons he had yet to reveal.

  “Hmmm. You must be the burglar. You’re way too sexy to be Abby’s ghost.”

  Terrific. She’d just released the ‘G’ word. As an Abby’s possessive.

  I suddenly realized that Franz and Corbin hadn’t even registered Shay’s comment. They were too busy staring at the girl who’d followed Shay into the room. I hadn’t seen her since I’d lifted off the floor by my buddy who had effectively hid the newcomer now posing prettily by the door.

  I started to cross to her to say “Hi,” then stopped dead. I turned back to Shay and whispered, “Is this Lily Lowe? Um. She bears a rather startling resemblance to someone from the ice cream commercial you choreographed and I supposedly starred in.”

  Shay was trying, unsuccessfully, to look innocent. “She does?”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Yes, Shay. She does. Remember Hannah Hammerstein? Of course you do.”

  Shay shrugged. “Well, now that you mention it, Lily does have a trait or two of Hannah’s.”

  Understatement. Lily was a walking clone of Hannah. Hannah the blonde-haired, blue-eyed dimwit with the turned-up nose, the perfect red lips, the legs to the neck of her five-foot-seven-inch frame, and the disposition of Rasputin on PCP, meth and acid. Hannah had been the bane of my existence from the day she hijacked the role of a popsicle (not for her dancing, which was lousy, but those stinkin’ legs made up for it and the director of the commercial was beyond hetero-male) then tried to steal Johnny away from me the first time he arrived at the warehouse shoot to take me to dinner.

  I took a breath and prepared to be pleasant to Lily Lowe. It wasn’t her fault she was Hannah Hammerstein’s doppelganger. And since Lily did look the part of “Honoria” for the film, I had to acknowledge that Shay had done a nice job of casting.

  “Hi, Lily. I’m Abby Fou… .”

  “Yes. You’re the… scout.” Her tone was sheer boredom, spiced with a smidgeon of derision.

  “Well, that’s one duty. Did Shay tell you I’m helping with the choreography for two dance sequences since she’s pretty tied down with directing?”

  Lily waved a graceful in the air, dismissing me. “Yes.” She marched on dainty feet over to Franz and placed that tiny hand on his arm.

  “I can’t wait to dance with you, Franz. I can tell you’re marvelous just by taking one glance. The perfect Count Zilania. Kissing will be lovely.”

  Whoa. Lily wasted no time. Hannah Hammerstein all over again. I waited to see what form her feminine wiles would take as she oozed toward Corbin. Franz remained speechless.

  Lily smiled up at Corbin, who loomed with great panache over her. He leaned down and kissed her hand. Smooth.

  Lily giggled. “Oh my. And who are you, charming man? Are you playing the villain,” she glanced over her shoulder at Shay, “what’s the villain’s name, Shay?”

  “Harold.”

  Lily shuddered. “What a dreadful name for such a handsome man.”

  Corbin shook his head. “And not mine, Miss…Lily. I’m only a humble professor, here to do a bit of work for the Duskova family.”

  “Oh.” The tone change was barely perceptible, but I caught it. I couldn’t tell if Corbin had or not. Apparently he’d missed it, because he bowed to the actress and added, “Just as well. If I had to perform opposite you on screen I’d be so consumed by your presence that I doubt I’d be able to remember a single line.”

  Smooth. And had just a hint of sarcasm crept in?

  Sarcasm which sailed right over Ms. Lowe’s yellow hair. She was about to turn her simpering wiles on Johnny but I tossed in a question to grab her interest for at least a second or two and keep me from maiming the leading lady within four minutes of meeting her.

  I turned to Shay. “Got our new movie title yet?”

  She fluttered her lashes. “Quite possibly.”

  Something exceedingly trashy was coming up.

  Have I mentioned that during breaks at Seven-D, when we weren’t engaged in watching Endless Time, rehearsing for shows, eating ridiculously calorie-laden meals or discussing our love lives, we’d rediscovered the enthralling world of the Gothic romances of our youth? I’d learned that both of us had fallen for the Gothics when we were eleven. Shay in Wisconsin, me in Texas but the same passion for cheap thrills and dumb heoines. We’d inhaled Gothics primarily written in the Nineteen-Sixties and Seventies—the quintessential era for dark heroes and sweet heroines who found lasting love after initially fearing, distrusting and almost killing one another—accidentally of course. Our favorite -and coincidentally a favorite of Bambi Bohacek—was a two-hundred page drama simply called “Honoria.” It was the reason we were now in the Czech Republic making this film. The plot was not unique: sweet and lovely heroine, orphaned after her professor father’s death (mother died when heroine was toddler) is sent to the scary home of one of her father’s ex-students, the even scarier, psychologically and physically scarred, semi-alcoholic, but brilliant, lord of the manor. What the plot lacked in originality it more than made up for with character and word skills. The writing was excellent, the heroine was damn spunky for a Gothic female, the hero sexy, dark and—heroic, and the setting was—in a word—cool. A large estate somewhere in the mountains of Bavaria.

  Shay had been given free rein by Bambi to name the movie. We’d been debating titles over the phone for weeks now. The top contenders were, “Turret of Dream Shadows”, “Damsel in Darkness,” and “Nightmares of Count Zilania.” Shay refused to go with the simplicity of “Honoria”. It wasn’t cheesy enough.

  I shuddered, wondering which of these would be flashed across a large screen in about thirteen months.

  Shay winked at me. “Don’t look so concerned. I came up with a wonderful name. Even you will agree it passes the cheese test.”

  I wasn’t sure if that were a good or bad thing. “Yeah, what?”

  She paused for dramatic effect. “The Naked Mistress of Dark Silhouette Tower.”

  Franz, Corbin, Lily and I all just stared at her for a moment. Johnny didn’t stare. He was carefully clutching his sides and biting his lips. Shay was right. Brie, cheddar, or Swiss—the cheese smelled strong, but the title grabbed one nonetheless. It also scared me more than Count Zilania after a night imbibing whiskey.

  I chortled,”Wait! Wait! That sounds like a porn movie. Since when is Honoria naked? And is Honoria still Honoria or did she get a name change?”

  Shay fluttered her lashes, then sneered. “Be serious, Abby. Naked sells. Porn, romance, internet. You name it. If it has no clothes, it’s a winner. Although, for the record, we’re keeping this PG-rated. Lily will stay in her stays. As for Honoria? Are you nuts? Of course I’m changing the name. Honoria sounds like a Victorian venereal disease. Our mistress of the towers is now Kelsey.”

  “Say what?” I exclaimed. “As in ‘Grammar’—as in Frasier reruns?”

  Instead of responding, Shay flashed every tooth she owned in a smile directed at Johnny. “So, Mr. Gerard? What do you do? For a living. That is,” her volume lowered, “when you’re not casing castles or being a supercop.”

>   I waited the “art mural for the Duskovas” response. It never came. Instead, Johnny stated, “Well, in about a month I’ll be designing the set for The Magic Flute for the South Sarasota Retirees Light Opera Company.”

  I coughed. “You have got to be kidding.”

  He winked at me. “I am absolutely serious. It’s a great gig. Fantastic pay.”

  “I’m not talking about the pay or the gig. I’m just reeling from the idea of an opera company composed of the geriatric denizens residing in the swamps of Florida.”

  “Sarasota does not have swamps. And you’d be amazed at the vocal talent of some of the elder performers.”

  I closed my eyes. “The mind staggers. Actually, I’m sure there are some incredible voices. I just can’t quite visualize the Queen of the Night as a ninety-plus great-granny belting out those F’s at the end of the aria where the wicked Queen tries to get Kathyina to kill Sarastro.”

  Johnny chuckled. “Well, a few of the tougher arias have been transposed down to ease the chords of the aging divas. But they’re still damn good.”

  “I believe you. Heck, keep me in the loop if they decided to do a nice musical comedy and need a short dancing alto. After a few months being chilled in Prague, I’ll be ready for some nice hundred-degree temps. Even if it’s a job wrestling alligators with any seniors who are doubtless smuggling Viagra in gator bellies.”

  “I’d pay money to see that,” Shay interjected.

  “I’m sure there’d be something artistic about it or Johnny wouldn’t be involved.”

  “When the hell did seniors in Sarasota suddenly start messing with alligators and smuggling?”

  I grinned. “They didn’t. I just wanted to change the topic before my brain turned completely to oatmeal contemplating naked mistresses in turrets and short, elderly character actors warbling the Papageno duet.”

  Perhaps it was time to shepherd the flock of actors, directors, and historians downstairs to the parlor in search of kolaches and tea laced with anything 80 proof or above. Preferably before our collective presence was noted by the M.T.V. siblings who were already nervous about visitors in the castle. Understandably so.

  Too late.

  “Vat iss all dees people doing here?”

  We turned to face the door. Marta, Trina and Veronika had managed to stand toe-to-toe in the admittedly wide space. All three ladies were glaring. For some reason, the glare was directed at me.

  Chapter 9

  My first inclination was to lie. Something on the order of “I got lost.” A simple lie. A glaringly, patently false lie—but simple. Then I glanced around the room. Every face bore an expression of guilt identical to a group of five-year-olds who’ve been caught naked, with crimson-colored finger-paints, in a white room,with a copy of Grey’s Anatomy open in the literally red hands of the smallest child.

  I couldn’t lie. The next face that flashed before me was that of Sister Martha Mary Margaret from fourth grade. The one whose eyes always asked, “You want extra cheese with that Whopper?” The one with the ruler. Digressing here, but why hasn’t a killer nun ever been plopped into a game of Clue? “I win! I win! The answer is Sister Mary Mendacity—in the classroom—with the nail-spiked ruler.”

  I opened my mouth to state the obvious—the Duskovas had been invaded by treasure-hunters, curious theatrical types and the new leasee of Kouzlo Noc who put the nose in nosy.

  It was simple. It was direct. It was even true. Up to a point. Before I could utter a word, Johnny neatly stated, “Abby got lost. We all came to find her.”

  There were holes in those two sentences bigger than the New Jersey Turnpike after five years of blizzards but Veronika glided right past them.

  “That iss all right then. But everyone now leave this room. This iss not part of film and bad thing hass happened here today. Death iss not good. We should be mourning Gustav.”

  Six sinners meekly followed Madam Duskova and her siblings into the hall and out of the north wing. I tried bringing up the rear on the off chance that I could sneak away for one extra peek, but Veronika kept in step beside me as though she could see inside my evil mind that intense impulse to check out the space I knew damn well had once belonged to Ignatz Jezek. The fact that countless of other flute-seekers for two hundred years had doubtless trooped through this room looking for the “magic flute” didn’t deter me. None of them had had the ability (I assumed) to hear Mr. Jezek play. Not to mention I was pure of heart and therefore could not fail in this quest to find the flute and bring Jezek’s alleged killer to justice. After a couple hundred years. And since I’d just stolen a manusript I hoped belonged to Ignatz Jezek I was certain I’d’ve solved all the mysteries by this evening at the latest.

  I didn’t get all A’s back in college in “Scenery Chewing” (aka Acting 101) for nothing. I can pretend innocence with the best of them. I smiled at my fellow trespassers as we wound through the gothic architecture of Kouzlo Noc and never once let on that anything odd was emanating from the north wing. I even refrained from singing the song only I was able to hear (still Cole Porter) when we entered the sitting room in the main of the castle. I even managed to compose myself enough to start introductions once the matter of tea and goodies had been neatly disposed of and Marta and Trina headed for the kitchen to whip up a gentle but more solid repast.

  “Veronika? Have you met Franz and Lily? They’re playing Count Zilania and uh, Honoria, or Kelsey, or whatever the heck the heroine will be named. And have you met Shay Martin, who’s directing the movie?”

  Eight people looked at me as though light bulbs were popping into darkness over my head. Oops. My polite introductions were redundant. Franz had been here long enough to help with Gustav’s body. And, unless Lily and Shay had entered with my ghost—unseen—of course, Veronika and her sisters had met them the instant they bonded with the dragons at the back doors.

  I smiled. “Never mind.” I reached for a kolache. Mozart’s “Kyrie Eleison” from his Requiem sounded from the front door bell pull. Trina carefully placed her tray (kolaches plus scones—third trip) on an overly laden table and headed that way. Within ten seconds she was back and she wasn’t alone.

  A beautiful young man followed her into the sitting room. A room that was getting very crowded with primarily gorgeous persons. Corbin looked a bit tense, but courteously offered the embroidered chair he’d been sitting on to the newcomer. Franz appeared to be sizing up the competition. Johnny merely took another bite of his lemon scone. Shay waved. Lily literally fluttered her lashes and straightened her shoulders so her silicone-filled centerfold chest would garner even more attention.

  This latest testosterone king looked to be in his early thirties. Blonde, with green-gray eyes. The hair was styled in what I’d call “early surfer” and he had the lean build of just such an athlete. Must be Mitchell Herbert. Composer for Naked Honoria or Whatever.

  Introductions were made all around. Mitchell seemed taken aback upon meeting Johnny and Corbin, since neither of the latter gentlemen had been expected to be part of the film crew for Naked Honoria or Whatever. His manner was a mass of nerves. He dispensed with any niceties and dove into business, turning to me with, “When do you need the first piece of music? I finished composing the number for Honoria’s first gala event at the castle. Oh damn. I just remembered. I don’t have a tape ready yet, so I guess it won’t do much good, though, will it?”

  “Did you write it out?”

  “Of course.”

  “Cool. If you’ve got the sheet music and it’s legible, I can get started with that. The tape is better since I don’t have to be charging back and forth reading and I’ll need that for rehearsals unless you care to accompany, but the music will be fine for starters.”

  “You’re telling me you can read music? That’s a surprise.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  “Um. I’m just not acquainted with many dancers who read music.”

  My hackles rose. “Well. I do. Read music, that is. But I’m exception
al—for a dancer. Sing, Act. Dance. Scout locations. Makes me a quadruple threat. And while a tape definitely will be better when I’m choreographing, I have no problem reading the music and hearing in my head as I’m arranging steps. Although I would like to get together and discuss nuances.”

  Shay bit her lip. “Watch out for Abby, Mitchell. Her temper matches matches her favorite red cowboy boots and she gets very irritated when her abilities are questioned. Didn’t I mention that she sightreads music like a conductor at the Met?”

  Mitchell nodded. “Sorry. Making assumptions. Probably not a good practice.”

  I kindly stated, “Not a problem. I’m just thrilled that I’ll be able to get started right away. This will really help Shay out.”

  Every ear in the room had been listening to the exchange but now that it appeared fisticuffs were not in order, chatter broke out between small groups of twos and threes. Lily and Franz got cozy. Shay, Corbin and Johnny were entertaining the Duskovas with American gossip.

  Mitchell stayed beside me and dropped his volume for me only to hear. “I truly am sorry, Abby. For the last month I’ve been dealing with a group of supposedly classically trained singers who don’t seem to understand the difference between Keys of C and D and the Florida Keys. Guess that translated to meeting someone and jumping to bad conclusions. Add to that, I’m not a good traveler and today has generally been crappy.”

  “Really. It’s okay. You didn’t say anything that terrible and I can be a total snob when it comes to my prowess at sight-reading.” I smiled.

  “Can I make up my faux pas to you by buying you dinner at some elegant restaurant this evening?”

  Oh yeah. Surfer boy at a nice restaurant. Hannah Hammerstein was turning to toast. I could make Johnny jealous enough to where he’d quit being Mr. Secretive and take his rightful spot as Abby’s loving fiancé.

  I answered, “Well, not this evening—although that sounds nice. I’m going to the opera tonight.