A waiter clad in an even more elegant tux than either Johnny or Franz was sporting arrived to take our order. I needed something stronger than cocoa and Kahlua so I ordered agin and tonic. A double. I deserved it after what had been a durn stressful day.
“What about any surprise spectral guests in the orchestra?” Shay hissed while my two escorts for the evening were giving their orders.
“Shut it.” I growled. “No. All present and accounted for. And alive. Will you quit with the ghosts?”
“I will for now, but you’ve got to fill me in on all juicy details of your talk with Jozef and your brilliant insights into The Magic Flute. Girl talk. Midnight. Tonight. Your room.”
“Why my room?”
“Because I checked in without an advance reservation and my crappy room doesn’t have a mini-bar. It barely has sheets on the bed and running water in the bathroom. I want comfort and booze when I hear ghost tales.”
I nodded. “Midnight.”
Seven pairs of eyes stared at us. Lily spoke first, mouth set in an oh-so-pretty pout. “What is so interesting that the two of you must be rude and exclude us?”
Shay smiled. “Just making snide remarks about people. So we thought we’d keep the noise level down.”
There was no good response to that. Shay added, “Speaking of possibly snide comments, any takers on assessing our lovely hostesses at the castle? The sisters Duskova?”
Lily stated with a touch of acid in her tone, “They are perfect for the movie. I mean, they’re already in costume. Hasn’t anyone told them it’s the Twenty-First Century?”
Johnny looked directly at Lily. “They’re more than aware of that. But those ‘costumes’ are about the only clothes left after a half-century of Soviet rule where our aristocratic ladies weren’t allowed to zip off to high-end boutiques in Paris for mini-skirts and black leather boots.”
Lily turned as white as her flowered name. “I was very lucky to not be in Prague during much of the Soviet domination of my country. I was too young. But it did not occur to me that the the Duskovas must have had a bad time for many years.”
He smiled. “I’m sure it didn’t. That’s why I told you. The Duskovas are good people. Veronika can be a bit…”
“Testy?” I interjected. “Gruff? Frightening?”
“Serious. I was going to say ‘serious.’ But she has good reasons. She’s held that family together through sheer hell. And managed to maintain a solid grip on the ancestral home, which is pretty amazing.”
He had everyone’s solid attention. Especially mine.
“So, Johnny, how did she hold on? Sheer luck? So many other castles were razed during World War Two or abandoned during Soviet occupation.”
“She’s a smart woman. Her grandfather was a practical man and Veronika took after him. When the Russians descended on Czechoslovakia after the Germans finally gave it up, Mr. Duskova offered the use of the castle as a headquarters and home for various high-ranking Soviet officials. He was fortunate that these particular gentlemen were more interested in comfort than destruction. Kouzlo Noc was not burned. Kouzlo Noc was not vandalized. Kouzlo Noc was a nice haven from Prague with nice members of the Duskova family to act as servants for the Communists who invaded their country. Marta, Trina and Veronika grew up in the house of their ancestors in the role of underaged maids. Pleasant, huh?”
Mitchell nodded at him. “I had a chat with Veronika this afternoon when she was explaining the history of that marvelous harpsichord.” He turned to Shay, “Off topic, but can we get that repaired and tuned? It really would put the polish on the scene in the ballroom where Zilania and Honoria are singing the love duet while his stepmother and Harold are sword-fighting outside.”
“Sure. Abby already gave me the scoop on the harpischord and I’ve budgeted all repairs in.” She shook her head, “Of course, we have to find a tuner—I can’t believe the one Veronika hired died on his first day out there. Sad and creepy.”
Silence all around. For no reason I suddenly felt sick to my stomach. Out of focus. I closed my eyes as the vision of a man falling from the north tower at Kouzlo Noc pushed into my mind. I’d never seen him but I knew—Gustav. I shivered, then tried to pull my focus back to Shay who was addressing Mitchell. “So, back to topic, what all did the lovely Madam D have to say during your get-to-know-one-another chat?”
“She told me about all the Duskovas who’d gone before. It’s quite a bunch. Knights in shining armor centuries ago. Members of court for various kings. Members of another kind of court with various barristers and judges. A musician or two.”
I sat up and forced my vision away. “Really? Musicians? What did she say about that branch of the Duskova tree?”
I must have sounded too eager. All eyes were now focused on me. “What?” I growled. “I’m just curious since we’re doing a musical there. That’s all.”
I’m not a great liar. And it wasn’t a great lie. It was really pretty stinkin’ bad. Fortunately, my old friends and new acquaintances were more interested in Mitchell’s remarks on the subject than my obvious desire to delve into the mysterious pasts of Duskova musicians.
Mitchell was answering. “She didn’t get terribly specific. She did say that a couple of family members had played with some of the best orchestras across the country—and in Austria as well.”
“Did she mention…Ow!” I howled when my leg was kicked under the table. The kick had to have been aimed by Johnny who was sitting opposite me. It confirmed what I already knew. He knew about Ignatz Jezek. But since he’d been needling Franz about Mozart I found it somewhat unnecessary to kick me to keep me from talking about Ignatz. I was sure everyone knew anyway.
I smiled at the startled faces. “Sorry. Cramp in my foot. Sitting too long at the opera. You were saying, Mitchell?”
“I wasn’t saying. You were asking.”
“Oh. Yeah, I guess I was. I just wondered if she mentioned who, er, uh, played the, er, uh, harpsichord and when it arrived at the castle?”
Mitchell shook his head. “No. She didn’t. But she did say that a cousin or in-law or something of the family from the late Seventeen Hundreds knew—was even friends—with Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. How’s that for a name dropper?”
Chapter 11
“Girl talk!”
I groaned. Midnight, and true to her word (Shay is always punctual) my best friend stood at the door of my hotel room laden with two boxes of pastries and three bags of potato chips.
Against all wisdom, better judgment, and several years of history with the woman, I let her in. “My God, Shay. You’re holding at least sixty thousand calories in one hand there. Didn’t we just part company less than an hour ago at the café after swigging down a few stiff drinks and inhaling three portions of dumplings and potato pancakes?”
“Oh, shove it. We’ve had an hour to let everything settle and I can’t abide girl talk without munchies. Besides, you got to work off those dumplings and potato pancakes with your little walk home with Johnny.”
I paused in the act of opening the mini-bar to bring out non-alcoholic sodas. “Are we ‘drink’ drinking—or since we’re playing tourist tomorrow, which actually happens to be today since the hour of midnight is upon us, would we prefer to see Prague without an hangover? And just what do you mean, I ‘got to work them off?’ We didn’t go jogging through Old Town or skateboard through Letna Park, Miss Smart-Ass.”
Shay snickered. “Alcohol. Preferably bourbon. The potato chips will soak up all the lethal effects. And as to my comment, you did indeed walk back to the hotel with the divine Mr. Gerard, correct?”
“Yes I did. But since the hotel was a grand total of twelve blocks from the café and I was in four-inch-tall granny boots I had no business being in with an ankle still healing, I wouldn’t exactly say that qualifies for high-impact aerobics.”
Shay chortled, “Ooh, little girl—with Johnny Gerard I would expect any activity to be high-impact aerobics. And you looked like you were more than will
ing to partake of some sort of activity that involved heavy breathing.”
She had that right. I hadn’t completely lied, though. The stroll to the hotel had been exactly that—a stroll. After I’d eaten a third helping of potato pancakes, Johnny and I had taken leave of our tablemates. Just in time to greet Corbin Lerner entering the restaurant. We’d smiled, pointed him toward what was now the movie cast table, then departed.
Johnny hadn’t wasted any time in upping the conversation ante once we were alone. “Interesting that Madam D told Mitchell about the musician who knew Mozart, isn’t it?”
“Is it? Mitchell didn’t say ‘flautist.’ Shoot. This ‘buddy of Amadeus’ could have played slide trombone in a marching band.”
He chuckled. “Could be. Perhaps for Coronation Balls for big name Emperors?”
“Yeah. Exactly.”
“Then again, she could have been talking about your favorite ghost.”
I glared at him. “Out with it, Johnny. Has Veronika confided in you?”
“About? Subjects such as your own cryptic statements about hearing music coming from the north wing? Flute music?”
“That’s answering a question with a question.”
“It is, isn’t it?”
“Are we going to do this routine again? Just tell me if she’s said anything else. I mean, you’ve been muraling at the castle, right, for a couple of weeks?”
“There’s that word again. Muraling.”
I shrugged as we passed what I’d just noticed was Jozef’s Bookstore. “I’m sure it’s a good word. If it’s not in the dictionary, it damn well should be. Don’t avoid the question. What has Veronika told you?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh yeah, like I believe that.”
He smiled. “Veronika has not given up the ghost, so to speak. However you did not ask what I picked up independent of the divine Ms. D. There are other sources of information on the subject close at hand.”
My ears perked up. “Yes?”
“I believe you’re acquainted with one of them. We just passed his shop and you turned a lovely shade of red which clashed rather badly with your green streaks.”
“Well, Jozef did come to the castle bearing gifts this afternoon.”
“Now who’s fencing?”
I assumed a look of innocence. He didn’t buy it. I sighed. “Fine. Yes. I spent a lovely hour or so with Mr. Jezek in his shop—a very nice shop by the way—clean, well-stacked—where was I? Oh, his shop. Jozef regaled me with a few very entertaining tales about a certain musical ancestor of his—one Ignatz Jezek, contemporary of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.”
“And Mr. Jezek told you about the magical flute.”
“Yes. Although he was very honest about being stumped as to just what that magical flute did. The magic of it, so to speak.”
Johnny nodded. “So we have a mystery to solve.”
“Several. Was Ignatz murdered? Is the flute really magical? If so, what exactly are those powers? And the biggie—where is the flute hidden?”
“You left out where is Ignatz’ body hidden.” He paused, then plunged on with a surprising statement. “Or the rather sickening quesiton as to whether Gustav’s very recent death has anything to do with this latest quest or even who all knows about the legend and who out of the Kouzlo Noc crowd is about to jump into the hunt.”
My eyes had opened on the first part of his statement. “Wait. Gustav’s death? I thought the old man had a heart attack? What are you talking about?”
“Old man? Who told you Gustav was an old man?”
“Oh hell—now that you ask—no one. I kind of assumed it when Veronika said he’d had a heart attack. I pictured this sweet, elderly piano tuner keeling over as he left the castle.”
Johnny winced. “Ah, Jeez. I wish that were the case. Unfortuately, there are several wrong assumptions.”
“Like?”
“Like Gustav was probably in his early thirties. Not generally the age for heart problems. Not only that, but did Veronika happen to mention where on the grounds he was found?”
“No.”
“Try just under the window of that infamous north wing tower.”
I nearly sank to the ground. “Oh my God. That’s what I saw. I mean who I saw. Gustav. I had a vision of someone falling from the north turret window. I didn’t get the connection because I really thought Gustav was an old man who’d died of natural causes. Johnny, do you think he was pushed?”
He quietly stated, “I don’t know. I didn’t see his body. Veronika, Corbin and Franz were the first on the scene. I’m going by what Veronika told me, which was that he was—and I’m paraphrasing—‘awfully banged-up, like every bone had been smashed.’ Not the norm for a heart attack victim.”
I stared at him. “So you’re theorizing Gustav did not simply fall. I mean, I didn’t see the beginning of this event, just the middle. Thankfully, not even the end when he was on the ground. But you believe he had help doing a Louganis out that window?”
“Bingo.” He spoke quietly. “ Why do you think I haven’t let on that you and I are more than ‘met one afternoon by the cemetery’ friends? I truly think evil is surrounding that castle and since folks know I’ve been hanging out there for more than a day, I can see it headed my way, so I’d prefer it didn’t touch you. Honestly? I wish you guys would fly back to the States tomorrow—much as I’d miss you—before anything else happens. I realize you’ve got a job to do here so I’m not going to be a noodge—yet. Especially since I have no proof of anything concerning the death of Gustav the piano tuner. Plus, you do have a talent for getting into trouble with villainous types so I’d feel better if you were safely ensconsed in Seven-D whipping up brownies with Cherry and Guido.”
He held my hand and swung it in his like we were first graders wandering through a carnival. We continued to walk. “So, lovely Abby, give me the scoop on you hearing ghosts. This just sort of sprang up?”
“It’s the Dumas genes. I can’t help it if there are latent little gifties no one talks about. Mind you, I haven’t had any ghostly encounters other than the one with Great-Grandpa I told you about the other day. But I have to confess there are some durn strange folks on the Dumas side of the family. My cousin, Julien, for example, who became enthralled with the idea that the Fouchet children were one-quarter Indian as well as a quarter Irish and half French, and now goes on spirit quests twice a year with his shaman guide. A shaman guide Julien claims died back in the earliest days of the American acquisition of the West. Julien calls him Bubba for no good reason I can see. The guide isn’t even remotely from the South or Texas. He died somewhere in California.”
Johnny howled. “Bubba? Well, he sounds friendly.”
I chuckled. “Oh he is. A cozy ghost guide. I have to admit that Cousin Julien is pushing the ‘give me a break b.s. meter’ with that one. Let’s see. Then I have another cousin, Remy, who’s sort of savant. He does mathematical equations faster than a computer. And now he’s practicing trying to move stuff with his mind. Kinesis.”
“Kinetic movement?” Johnny repeated.
“Yeah. Tossing items around a room. Sort of like a benign, wimpy poltergeist. I told him four Thanksgivings ago it’d be really cool if he could actually succeed and then do something useful like set the dining table for the mass of Dumas and Fouchets arriving.”
“How big are the movable objects he plans to toss? Is this dangerous? Can I borrow him for tossing paint onto a wall?”
“So far no huge objects. And remember, he hasn’t actually managed this one yet so no Sci-Fi reality shows are asking for his services yet. Paints? Sounds easier than a lamp—but sadly, Remy has no aesthetic taste so you wouldn’t want his help with muraling—ooh, there’s that word again—although give him a year or so to start decorating apartments needing renovations.”
“I’ll keep in my mind for my next move. Which—if all goes well—will be with you.”
We grinned at each other. “From your lips, Gerard. Anyway, we
must top the list with Mother Minette and her sneaky ability to call me when I’m in the middle of something either romantic or sinsister, although that seems to have lessened since I took over the business of premonitions in the family. She’s now turning to other occult interests.”
“Oh crap.”
“Oh yeah.” I took a deep breath. “ She’s getting up close and personal with the departed. Swears she has whole conversations with them. Helps the troubled pass to the next realm. Father Gonalez, our parish priest, says he’s not sure whether she should be up for sainthood—or burned at the stake.”
Johnny stared at me. “Interesting. But she does seem at several steps further down the line than you do.”
“Good point. But, I swear, if we can’t figure out where Ignatz Jezek hid that flute using the little clues I believe he’s dropping for my beneft, I’m calling Minette and asking her to zip over for a séance.”
He kept his voice and expression deadpan. “There’s always our old buddy, Jane Doe aka Madam Euphoria. Unless she’s too busy driving her brother’s cab to help.”
“I miss her. She and I were getting together at least once a month in Manhattan in that great soul food place she introduced us to. We’d discuss life, death, channeling spirits and where to find the best clothing and cosmetic bargains around. The wench moved to New Orleans two months ago. Said the vibes for contacting the departed are much better there.”
I repeated much of the conversation I’d had with Johnny to Shay in between bouts of devouring some sort of gooey, cream-laden pastry and spicy potato chips, but did not tell her how the evening ended. The fact that once we reached the hotel Johnny had discovered what can best be termed a secluded corner of the lobby behind an atrociously large fichus tree, had calmly, firmly and most definitely planted several high-impact aerobic kiss on my lips, then sauntered back outside with not a single backward glance.
I didn’t need to tell Shay. The sneak had been watching our arrival from a barstool diagonally placed across from the atrocious tree. She’d seen it all—including moonstruck Abby swaying in her shoes and staring off at the departing gorgeousness of Mr. Gerard for at least two minutes. Even if she hadn’t, she’d witnessed plenty of those actitivies back in Apt. Seven-D when she’d burst in on us without bothering to knock first.
Aria in Ice Page 9
