Shay waved a chip at me. Onion dip flew across my shoulder. “Yo! Earth to Abby. How was the perfect kiss? Perfect? After—what—three or four months of no Johnny-smooching?”
“I knew you saw us.”
“Well, duh. Mind you, I was not trying to spy. I merely wanted one last brandy before heading upstairs to unpack and prepare for girl talk. It was not my fault that Johnny chose that particular portion of the room to lay one on you.”
“Right. And how far did you have to lean for a really good view?”
“Far enough to need a masseuse for my entire torso for the next month. But it was worth it. Enough aerobics in that kiss to qualify for ESPN any night of the week.”
I sighed. “Gerard is a man of many, many talents. Kissing is one of his best. I just wish he’d quit pretending around the film cast that we’re pretty much strangers. He’s gone all ‘Gregory Noble’ on me in some sort of dumb macho ‘keep the little woman safe’ bit.”
She nodded, opened up the last bag of chips, then held it out to me.
About two bites in, I stopped. “You know what just hit me?”
“A flying crispy potato?” was the chewy response.
I ignored the dumb answer. “We know that Johnny knows about the flautist. Veronika knows and she knows that I know. Oh lordy, did I just say that? I wonder if she knows that Johnny knows? Anyway, she knew when she was so wonky about my snooping in the north wing and hearing music that did not come from any ‘see-dee’ anywhere in the room. I’m sure her sisters know. I’d imagine this is a tale told to the Duskova family since Ignatz Jezek first went missing. You with me?”
“I don’t know, “she snickered.
“Stop that! Okay. Franz’ eyebrows twitch when Mozart is mentioned which is not a normal reaction. Corbin Lerner is helping Veronika dig up graves in the cemetery that’s supposed to hold the dear-departed from the seventeen hundreds, so I’ll betcha he’s in for a slice of the treasure and he’s been damn silent about anything to do with his doins’. I can’t tell yet about Lily or Mitchell although both seem a bit jumpy -heck—could just be their normal personalities. But at this point we have a majority of treasure seekers at Kouzlo Noc. And a real live ghost!” I sobered immediately. “Plus a possible murderer as well.”
Shay managed to swallow her last overly large mouthful without choking. “Murderer?”
“Oh yeah. Did I mention that Johnny said that Gustav the piano tuner, who was not the elderly gent I thought he was, was very banged up when discovered on the grounds near the north—let me repeat -north—tower?”
“Don’t tell me. Johnny Gerard claims he was pitched?”
“Yep. And I think he’s right. Assuming he’s the man in my vision, and I now have to admit that’s a yes. Good grief, Shay. Headlights Productions has just become involved in a race to uncover a few truths, possibly a body or two, and one of the world’s greatest find in centuries. Folks have been killed in the last two hundred years over this flute. And very likely in the last couple of days. It’s possible that half the cast is in danger and the other half are dangerous. And we have no idea who the really bad guys are.”
Shay cackled in sheer delight. “This is why I love being on location.”
Chapter 12
Shay and I made it out of the hotel for our day of touristy activities by ten the next morning. Whether it was the excitement of seeing the sights of Prague which had banished the dregs of alcohol from our heads or we’d eaten so many chips and pastries that the bourbon hadn’t had a chance to soak through, the reason didn’t matter. We were hale, hearty and ready to dive into historic buildings and ‘ooh’ and ‘ah’ over statues erected by Emperors from centuries ago, then stop now and again to partake in more gastronomical delights.
First up on the agenda was the area closest to our hotel. Our hotel was smack in the middle of part of Prague called Old Town, with its attractions of Gothic cellars, a Gothic chapel and my favorite—the Astronomical Clock. I love clocks. I have a cheap cuckoo clock from a tiny store in Munich. I have a replica of Big Ben I found in a museum shop in London. An embarassing armadillo clock from Juarez. But this was a timepiece to end all time. There are really two clocks, one on top of the other. A statue of Death pops out on the hour and pulls a cord that starts bells ringing and cocks crowing and little statues dancing all over the place. Even Jesus and his apostles make an appearance.
I immediately decided I had to find the nearest tourist-gouging souvenir stand and buy a miniature for my collection. Shay is used to this particular obsession of mine so she patiently followed me to three different stores before I found the right clock and only made one snide comment to the harried shopkeeper who pulled out five different examples before I was satisfied. “My friend was scarred by a metronome at an early age. You have to excuse her.”
The clerk didn’t care. He made a good profit from Ms. Fouchet, who chose the most expensive of the clocks he displayed for her perusal.
I was happy. Shay was happy I was happy. And we’d managed not only to see the Astronomical Clock but to buy its tiny facsimile all in the space of twenty minutes.
Which left us plenty of time to wander through cathedrals before lunch. Well, one cathedral. St. Vitus Cathedral, to be exact. St. Vitus is one of those places you can roam through for days and still only get a taste. Just the statues of saints outside are enough for a Gilligan’s Island “three-hour tour.” A bronze door depicting scenes from the castle’s history is almost the first thing one sees when entering from the doorway that gazes upon the Second and Third Courtyards of Prague Castle. The choir loft, with a big mama pipe organ, looks down on—what else—a royal crypt. But the ”Oh, Mildred! If you go to Prague you must see” attraction is the stain glass Rose Window in what is called the “Neo-Gothic” area of the cathedral that boasts smaller chapels.
That was where Shay got what I call her “Contestant” expression. Generally, when this look crosses her face, a light shines in her eyes and she straightens her shoulders, puffs out her expansive chest, then makes an announcement rather on the order of a beauty contestant answering that all important “What do you wish for?” question. Only with Shay the answer is never “Peace on earth.” Ever since she started directing films last year, her answers run closer to “Let’s stick that actor in a burning building for the next scene. Stunt men? What stunt men? Are you serious? We can’t afford stunt men. John Smith, the actor I hired at a reduced rate from Bayonne, New Jersey, can handle it. Yo! Abby? Do we own a fire extinguisher?’
Under the Rose Window, I watched, with no small amount of trepidation as Shay’s expression skipped the preliminaries and round two, jumping directly to Final Contestant mode.
“What now?” I asked.
“I”m ruminating on my own genius. This would be a marvelous place for Kelsey to hide from Harold. Our very evil villain, who hasn’t been hired yet, by the way. So—picture this. She could sneak into the choir loft for a few hours but then get so drawn to the Rose Window that she kind of forgets she’s on the run from Harold the Horrific. But she’ll hear someone playing the pipe organ and then she can swing out using a rope, crash through the window, and of course, Harold will find her and there’ll be a massive fight.”
“Under the Rose Window, a damn old masterpiece Shay Martin’s leading lady has just shattered.”
“Sure.”
“Well, I’ll bring you dumplings in your jail cell after the Czech government slaps you in irons for even suggesting such an affront on the Cathedral.”
“Oh. Well, I guess there are certain considerations to …“
“Consider?”
She ignored me.
After three hours of that obligatory ‘oohing’ and “ahhing” over oodles of patron saints staring down at us while we stared up and admired more centuries-old stain glass windows, my stomach was growling and I needed sustenance.
The timepiece chimed in with a tiny birdie that popped out, cuckooed to announce it was two in the afternoon and definite
ly time for lunch. We obeyed the summons. We pulled out our handy guidebook and chose a kavarny that promised homemade gulas and pastries more disgusting than anything served by the Duskovas on their best cooking day.
“This is nice, Shay. Sitting. Eating. Not running around worrying about castles and ghosts and storylines and killers and creepy graveyards. That cemetery, by the way is a place which makes ‘dismal’ look like a party.”
“That whole castle is kind of gruesome, Abby. Even if you hadn’t heard your ghost fluting or tooting or whatever the heck he was doing in the north wing, I’d’ve assumed the place was haunted on nothing more than the general eeriness of ambience. It’s so creepily perfect. The very fact that more than one Duskova has either dispatched an enemy from those towers or been tossed himself screams ‘Ghosts Live Here—Get Your Tickets Now!’”
We both fell silent remembering the probable newest member of unearthly spirits, the unknown (to us) musician, Gustav, who’d met his Maker only a few days ago.
I was about to start a discussion about murders most foul, when I was distracted by a small tourist bus in front of the café. Passengers were popping out one after the other and the outfits were, typically, a plethora of bad taste. I sat up straight.
“Oh. My. Sweet. Sainted. Granny.”
“What?”
“Johnny Gerard, in the flesh. At the bus.”
She squinted, since the sun was partially obscuring the bus and the man. “Ah. Yes. It is indeed the dashing soap-star muralist.”
“Is that anywhere in Websters?’
“Muralist? Of course. Hey, we’ve all been using it. Athough Daddy would not approve.”
Shay’s father is Chair of the English Department at a large university in Wisconsin. Both Shay and I take great delight in creating words to make Daddy Martin shudder even though I’m rather fond of the man.
Johnny had spotted Shay’s waving arm and was making his way through the crowds lined up for a table until he could lean on ours. He grabbed Shay’s palm and kissed it, then calmly used those lips to directly kiss mine. Lips—not palm.
“Well, golly gee! A real kiss from Gerard in public! Are we out of the closet now?”
“Only in front of Japanese tourists. So, how y’all doin’ today?”
“We’re good, “ Shay responded. “Wandering through Old Town seeing historical sights and planning to do the lunch and dinner excursion of Prague that we’re making up as we go along, and I’m watching Abby spend too much money on clocks and we’re trying to decide if we want to hit a museum or the Jewish cemetery or see the ghost of the Mad Barber who haunts Karlova Street. How ‘bout you? You look like you were shepherding a flock of tourists over there by the bus.”
“I sort of got caught in their group instead of the one I was supposed to be in this morning. And, naturally, they all watch Endless Time and are thrilled that Gregory Noble has joined the tour. They elected me to be guide.”
“Guide as in ‘this is the cathedral where Saint Agnes dyed her hair red and don’t get lost and meet me at the bus at two o’clock?’’”
“That about covers it. I look upon this as research for the next four hundred nutty occupations Yolanda sticks Super Detective Noble into before next year’s ratings.”
“Which reminds me,” I interrupted. “What wacky device did Yolanda use to get you off the show for the time you’re in Prague, then traisping down to Florida to design for the seniors? Please tell me not another coma?”
Johnny began to whistle. “Nope. No more comas. For at least a year.”
“Go on.”
“I’ve disappeared.”
“Disappeared? As in Gregory Noble got eaten by a large lion while on safari and we’re waiting for the cowardly beast to cough him up whole in a few months?”
Johnny loved it. “I wish. Nah, this is almost realism. During the last safari episode, Greg Noble takes off after the Communist spy—Cade Kern—remember him, Abby? He played Letitia’s brother last year?”
I nodded. “So Letitia’s brother is now an agent for the former KGB?”
“Oh yeah. Except Cade is doing the National Tour of Wicked, so he needed a way out of the show.”
“With you.”
“Precisely. When last seen, Gregory Noble is chasing the man he’s learned is ‘Vladimir Borodin -agent’ into the jungle. Of course, I’ll come out unscathed and heroic in a couple of months once my gig with the Sarasota bunch is over. Cade will be in ‘Oz’ singing his little heart out. His body will not be found in case the producers decide to bring him back after his tour is done.”
I couldn’t help lift my eyes to the heavens. Pointless to comment since I was secretly still pissed—and jealous the soap had dumped my part a couple of months before Johnny headed off to Africa.
Shay teased him with, “So—Noble—where else should we expect to see you during your stay in Prague? Will you be presiding at the courthouse later today? Perhaps preaching at Mass this Sunday at the Church of Our Lady Victorious? Uh …?
I joined in, “Waiting on tables at Pravda? Cooking the goulash and potato pancakes at the Café Kafka? Driving a riverboat up the Vltava? Wrangling the miniature przewalski? ‘Working at the car wash, yeah,’?”
“Don’t knock the ability to multi-task, ladies. I have incredible life experiences stored within under this charming exterior. Feel free to partake at any time.” He winked at me. “And, you’ll be thrilled to hear that as Gregory Noble I spent two weeks at the Prague Zoo caring for the przewalski before arresting their trainer for diamond smuggling. Just wish Endless Time had taken longer for those episodes. I really enjoyed that gig.”
Shay screamed. Softly. “Stop it you two! What the heck is a pretezalitskytitsky? Pretzels with special sauce?”
Johnny was finishing a swig of coffee, so I answered. “Miniature horsies. Remember? I told you about them when we were doing the guide book thing this morning at breakfast?”
“Well, yeah, you told me about teensy horsey-doos but you didn’t start blathering in Czech. Most annoying.” She hopped to her feet. “I’m dying to see them. Sometime after lunch?”
“We’ll see the horses, Shay. I have to admit the admittedly awesome culture of this day is beginning to wear. Nice, cute, cuddly little animals sound like a welcome relief.”
Johnny glanced at his watch. “Oh nuts. Sorry, ladies. Have to haul it even though I’d love to stay and eat strudel and drink coffee and personally escort you to the zoo but I’m subbing at the National Marionette Theatre in an hour. They normally don’t perform weekdays, but this is special event. If you’re up for just a bit more culture, drop on by. We’ll be performing the Verdi version of Macbeth. With really eerie and scary witches. You’ll love it.”
Chapter 13
The invitation had been too good to refuse. Johnny Gerard at the puppet show. He hadn’t said whether he was subbing for the ticket-taker, the popcorn-seller, or the guy who dangles strings for dancing puppets on high. Either way this took precendence over tiny horses, no matter how cute they were.
I didn’t see him when Shay and I took our seats, but I quickly heard him. The man was bloody well singing. And singing bloody well—Johnny’s an amazing baritone. He was dangling a puppet and singing the role of Macduff, who is really the hero in the play and the opera.
I nudged Shay. “Thank God it’s Verdi and they’re singing Italian. I love Mozart but if I’d had to hear Die Zauberflote or even Cosi Fan Tutte in German or something today, I’d’ve gone and jumped back into the Vlatava River to catch the next boat.”
“Ssshh. You’ll get us thrown out of here. Especially if you say anything derogatory about Wolfgang.”
I whispered,”Never. I just said I adore the man. But everyone needs a rest from symbolism and magic now and again. I’ll bet Mozart would’ve watched bad Slasher flicks if he’d had a DVD player. So, a nice murdering, flat-out greedy Scottish king is quite refreshing.”
We stayed silent after that, enjoying the music and the really intri
cate movement of the puppets. The artistry of all the performances erased thoughts of the Austrian composer. In fact, the name of Mozart didn’t even float across my mind until long after Birnam Wood had come to Dunsinane and Macbeth had met his well-deserved fate.
The witches, as promised, were marvelous. I wished Minette had been there since she’s also now big into Wiccan magic (which she smoothly juggles with Catholic theology without incurring the wrath of any of the priests in Texas. A minor feat of magic in itself.) These “Wyrd” sisters reminded me of my initial introduction to the Duskovas, which isn’t the nicest thing to say, but in my defense, it was the costuming that made the comparison so sharp. This version of Macbeth was set in the Victorian era, so the black-garbed-governess-with-buns-for-hairdos-look had been chosen for the three puppets singing about toils and troubles.
The curtain call was for puppets only. No humans allowed. The wooden actors danced back onstage and bowed and curtseyed to an enthusiastic crowd. Johnny’s face wasn’t seen, but his hands still worked Macduff. He got a standing ovation from the crowd. No great surprise.
We waited for him outside on a bench where we could watch the citizens of Prague along with the tourists buying sausages and potato pancakes. The performance had been scaled down to last only about ninety minutes, so it was just now five in the afternoon and the sun was still shining. Shay and I soaked up the warmth and talked about the various performers we’d just heard, especially the witches and how good they’d been.
Johnny found us at the bench not more than ten minutes after he’d finished the show.
“Well?”
“I loved it,” I told him. “I’ve never really thought about puppetry before—especially with opera, but this was fantastic. Some of the puppets were more real than some singers I’ve heard at the Met. And all the voices were really, really good. Even that chap who played Macduff. I’m impressed.”
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