Aria in Ice

by Flo Fitzpatrick

  “Could be that she thought she’d be safer at the boathouse when she knew she had a houseful of people at the castle. I’ll bet she’s the one who put the different dust jacket on the journal so anyone who casually wandered into the music room in the north wing with sinister motives would just take one look and sneer, ‘oh, great—another book on Mozart—big help.’”

  “Abby, I’ll bet that wasn’t Trina. Probably Veronika. You told me how antsy she was about the north wing, and she was pretty tense when I was painting up there, but I guess she thought even if I wandered into that room I’d look at a textbook about ol’ Wolfie and say ‘not my choice of light reading today.’ So whoever was following the Duskova sisters could easily have thought Trina had it?”

  “Whomever.”

  “Whoever.”

  “Whomever.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Oh, hush.” I smiled, then grew instantly somber. “So, someone kills Trina, but doesn’t find the book since I pinched it and also he or she doesn’t find what Trina was after at the boathouse, I’ll bet. But why conk Marta over the head or push her down the stairs?”

  “Hypothesis number two. Our mysterious killer is in the north wing looking for other clues—like another manuscript with the words, ‘Flute-seekers—read me now!’ Anyway, Marta hears him—or her—and, as she said, thinks there’s a bird trapped in one of the rooms. The killer, not wanting to take a chance at being caught where he –or she- doesn’t really belong, says,‘what the heck, one Duskova out of the way, why not another?’ and gives her a shove.”

  “Sounds probable. Nasty, but probable.”

  We didn’t talk for a minute or two.

  Then Johnny quietly stated, “What scares me is that our killer also knows Abby Fouchet now has this book.”

  I gulped. “Yeah, well, I’m a step ahead. Thought the same thing the instant you mentioned Ignatz’ name in the thing. After all, I found it the day Gustav’s body was discovered on the grounds and all you guys came trooping in just after I’d plopped the book into my bag. Who knows who saw what?”

  “Wish I could help. I was the last one in so I didn’t see who was first and I didn’t notice any major furtive looks cast your way in the room. Damn. I was worried before but now I’m pretty damn terrified. I am now official bodyguard for my girl.” He softly added, “And would like to do a few more bodily things that don’t involve waiting for someone else to sneak in with harmful intent.”

  He leaned down, still holding the book, and gently kissed me on the lips. Nothing that those small children and little old ladies couldn’t see but it quickly turned me into a gulas noodle.

  Just as quietly, he released me, then handed me the book. I swapped the dust jacket that had Mozart’s name on it with the gothic romance dust jacket Jozef had had over the book on Freemasonry he’d lent me. Just in case someone got snoopy. Seduction of Countess Marissa didn’t sound like a book with clues to flute treasures.

  “Sadly, not the time or place for your high-impact sexual aerobics.”

  “Where did you hear…? Oh never mind. I’m sure Shay has teased you as much as she has me about those activies.”

  He nodded. I cleared my throat and got back to business. “So, Gerard, can we go up to Kouzlo Noc after paying tribute to Mozart at the museum and bug Jozef into translating for us?”

  “You want to go back and spend another night there? Honey, can we say ‘risking your life’?”

  The thought of leaving my comfy hotel room for a place that had given shelter to a killer warred with curiosity and the distinct feeling that time was running out. I needed to be around Ignatz’ spirit to prevent another tragedy and perhaps put an end to more pain and disaster for future residents of Kouzlo Noc.

  I bit my lip, then softly responded, “I’m a wimp and I don’t like the idea of life-risking anymore than you do. But, Johnny? If it’ll help stop the doom and gloom and death and destruction? I don’t see that I have a choice.”

  Chapter 31

  Bertramka, the house where Mozart had stayed when he wrote Don Giovanni and parts of the coronation piece he’d been working on just before writing The Magic Flute, started life as an estate on a vineyard but became a summer home for the Duseks, eminent Prague musicians and good buddies of Wolfgang. The lady of the house, one Josepha Dusek (also referred to as Duskova—no direct relation to the Kouzlo Noc sisters) was an amazing singer. Mozart had even written several arias for the lady. Whether or not Constanze Mozart had been jealous of this woman in her spouse’s life was iffy, but I can imagine Connie being just a bit wary of Amadeus staying at the house of a reputed ‘babe’. Then again, Mozart’s kids stayed here at various times after their dad had died, so the relationship between the Duseks and Constanze must have remained pretty solid.

  The museum could have been some stuffy, boxy—well—museum. But it truly was a home. At first glance, it reminded me of an Italian-style villa plunked down into the middle of the Czech Republic, gardens and all. Perhaps that was due to the outside coloring. Gold and cream intermingled into what I’d call “Tuscany” yellow. Seven rooms on the main floor had been converted to a museum.

  I fell in love with Bertramka about ten seconds after entering. The décor was Eighteenth Century. Letters, documents, pictures, and musical scores all written by Wolfgang Amadeus had been carefully preserved for the curious and the rabid fans. Mozart’s bedroom was really impressive, with the wooden ceiling that had been painted with a floral grape design. Not just a bunch of grapes on one teeny rafter. Nope. The whole ceiling was covered with vines and grapes and had me craving a glass of wine within seconds of entering. I read in the little tourist brochure we’d been given that the ceiling had been restored to the glory of its construction from 1700.

  The music room held a huge painting that resembled several scenes akin to the Duskova window seat. Horses fighting. People dying. The usual light-hearted wall décor. A poster for Don Giovanni, dated 1788, was on display on one wall. There were even musical instruments behind glass in the large salon: harps, strings, and an oboe.

  But the room that stole my attention was the one that held documents and posters relating to The Magic Flute and its performances in Prague. Mozart’s keyboard, used by the Maestro himself, sat proudly underneath a wall full of framed letters and pictures. For a moment I nearly went into cardiac arrest as I entertained the loony possibility that Jezek dropped his flute off here in an insane hope it’d be safer than at Kouzlo Noc.

  Johnny nudged me. “Forget it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ignatz’ magic flute. Not here.”

  “How did you know what I was thinking?”

  “Other than our soul-matedness to each other—don’t say it—not a word—I considered the hiding place issue the first time I came here, about two weeks ago.”

  “Ah. Well, it would’ve solved a lot of problems if bright boy Ignatz had just wrapped it in a box and sent it C.O.D. to the Duseks with a courteous note stating, ‘Do not open until Christmas and then be damned careful what you do with it.’ ”

  “Makes sense to me. Ignatz just wasn’t on the ball, was he? Perhaps too busy worrying about murderers lurking and skulking about his presence?”

  We smiled at each other, in perfect ‘soul-matedness’ sync with our inane musings. Then my eyes widened. “Oh my God.”

  “Problem?”

  “Do we have G.P.S. tracking devices installed in our butts or something? Take a look.”

  He turned. A group of five was intently listening to their leader who was reading one of Mozart’s letters and translating into English. Franz Hart, Lily Lowe, Mitchell Romberg, Fritz Herbert and Corbin Lerner. Corbin was the speaker.

  Johnny grimaced. “That particular crowd does seem to show up wherever we go, don’t they?”

  “Well, they have to.”

  “Why?”

  “Jeez, Johnny, get with it! They’re all dubious and questionable. Don’t you read or watch mysteries? Or your own bloody
soap opera? You have to have your suspects in on the same clues your sleuths do and you have to have your suspects all lumped together so no one will guess who the villain is until the climax.”

  “So what about Veronika, Jozef and Shay, who are the other Kouzlo Noc crowd, Ms. Fouchet? I guess we can rule out Marta. At least she should be okay today since this particular crew of dubious questionables is roaming Betramka instead of surrounding her.”

  “Probably rule out all four of that last group. Veronika has no reason to kill her sisters that I can see. And if she wasn’t in the most gut-wrenching grief I’ve ever witnessed from another living soul when Trina’s body was brought in, then the woman should win the Academy Award for Best Actress for the next fifty years. Ms. Shay Martin is definitely not a suspect. Aside from being my closest friend and bosom pal and a woman with an absolute inability to keep a secret, she was clueless about the secrets at Kouzlo Noc until I told her and besides, she’s a total pacifist and she’s currently sleeping like Ignatz has for two hundred years and therefore she’s not part of the suspect pool. Aside from all that, she’s my comic sidekick.”

  Johnny snickered.

  I ignored him.. “Jozef is just a good guy.” Johnny started to say something but I held my hand up and continued. “He is, dammit. I can just tell. He told me all about Ignatz Jezek which he wouldn’t have done if he wanted to go skulking about looking for the flute—which incidentally, he could have been doing for forty years before we all showed up and besides that… .”

  “Yes? Mind—I agree with you on all counts which is what I intended to tell you before you rudely intimated I should stay silent but what’s your last point?”

  “He looks like God.”

  I shouldn’t have said it. Not because, in my opinion, it wasn’t true, but because Johnny Gerard started belly laughing so hard he attracted the attention of the real suspects, along with every one else in the museum. I’m surprised the guards didn’t come over and toss him out for disrespectful behavior. Of course, from everything I’ve read about Mozart, the composer had had a wicked sense of humor and would doubtless have been delighted that his old quarters hadn’t completely turned into a staid old shrine.

  That said, we had indeed caught the eye of our friends and possible enemies. All five trotted outside to the garden to join us at the table that held the bust of Mozart and where Johnny was now trying to contain his merriment.

  “How are you feeling?” asked Fritz.

  “Huh?”

  “You had ride in snow this morning. How are you feeling? You did not catch the cold?”

  I’d almost forgotten. Amazing.

  “No, I’m fine. Warm, dry, somewhat rested and extremely relieved and happy that Marta is going to be okay.”

  Nods all around.

  Johnny asked, “When did y’all leave the castle?”

  Franz answered. “Not long after the police and doctor showed up. One of the polici was a good mechanic and he was able to get our cars started again. Do you want to hear something very strange? The batteries were fine. The distributor cap had been twisted on every vehicle so they wouldn’t start but wouldn’t be permanently disabled.”

  Johnny didn’t even blink, so I tried to keep my face somewhat expressionless except for mild surprise. It wouldn’t do to start screaming, ‘Well of course the cars were sabotaged! Can we say ‘bad slasher movie’? Some rotten scoundrel was terrified for Marta to be seen by a cop or a doctor because that particular suspect wanted her dead. He—or she—just hadn’t counted on the intrepid Abby Fouchet to be loony enough to go charging out into the snow for help.’

  Instead, I played dumb and innocent. “Probably a snowy prank by some smart-ass village kid from the Town With No Name where I found the police station.”

  Lily beamed at me. “I never thought of that. That’s a very good explanation.”

  It was a damn stupid explanation but I was pleased Lily was pleased. Yeah. Right. It appeared that the fact I’d played ‘Vanessa Manilow,’ daytime drama ingenue, had placed me into Lily’s top echelon of folks to fawn over.

  I changed topics. “Did y’all like Mozart’s Museum? Pretty cool, huh?”

  Fritz bobbed his head in agreement. “These keyboard instruments are worth everything.” His tone turned to pure reverence. “Mozart actually sat at these and composed arias for Don Giovanni. They hold special magic for anyone who loves his music, but for a ‘piano tuner’ such as I? I am in heaven.”

  “I like the letters,” said Lily. “They are romantic and truly give one a glimpse into the mind of Mozart and his family.”

  The letters Lily was talking about included epistles from some of Mozart’s sons, especially Karl, who’d stayed at Bertramka for several years of his childhood after his father died. I wondered if any of those letters also mentioned good hidey-holes for mysterious musical instruments Karl or one of the other kids had played with not knowing the magic within, but I discarded that idea almost before it fully appeared in my head. If decent clues were to be found, they would have been found a hundred years ago—or more. Then the thought hit me that just such a thing could have happened. Who knew if Ignatz’ flute had been discovered two days after his death, and all the suspects and sleuths were chasing our respective tails, along with other treasure-seekers over the centuries?

  That idea got tossed out of my brain as well. If the flute had been found, the world would know about it. Also, why would Ignatz Jezek still be hanging out at the castle playing pretty tunes which could hopefully lead someone—not a villain—to find the answers and the treasure?

  I must have been muttering under my breath to myself. Six pairs of eyes were staring at me. Johnny’s were the only pair that twinkled with humor. The others were looking at me as though I was demented.

  “Sorry. Talking to myself. Bad habit. Works great on the subway in Manhattan when one wants others to ignore you because people assume you’re nuts and they go to the next car. But I guess I should learn not to do this in polite society.”

  The polite society smiled all around at crazy Abby Fouchet.

  Johnny took my arm. “Well, it’s been lovely seeing my housemates from last night, but we’re on our way to dinner so you guys have a great time exploring and we’ll see ya later.”

  “Where are you dining?” asked Franz.

  “Not sure.”

  “We’ll go with you. There’s a marvelous restaurant back in downtown Prague that serves Indian food and by now I’m sure all you Americans are tired of nothing but Czech delicacies.”

  I didn’t particularly want to dine with five other people—any of whom could be a killer -and I knew Johnny didn’t either, but I didn’t want to appear rude and, in all honesty, a little curry and chicken briana sounded like a nice change after potato pancakes three days running, so I glanced at Johnny to see if he could come up with an objections that didn’t sound pissy. He shrugged. I nodded yes. Indian it was.

  “I do, however, want Abby to get a chance to buy one of those clocks with the bust of Mozart though. Isn’t there a gift shop right outside the museum?” Johnny asked.

  “There is,” was the response from Corbin. “But that’s a very expensive one. There’s a better souvenir shop that carries museum replicas not far from the bus stop.”

  “Then we’re on.”

  The six of us trooped out of the museum bound for sourvenirs and samosas. I made a mental note to return to Bertramka when I wasn’t accompanied by a crowd and when I could just enjoy the memorabilia of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart without looking for hidden meanings or trying to unearth hidden flutes beneath the strings of two-hundred-fifty-year-old harpsichords.

  Chapter 32

  The café Franz had suggested turned out to serve food as good as places I’ve eaten down on New York’s Sixth Street, which is home to quite a few very authentic Indian restaurants, so I couldn’t stay mad at the Kouzlo Noc crowd for messing up my outing with Mr. Gerard.

  I’d called Shay from my cell while Johnny had bee
n buying one of the Mozart busts complete with a little clock as its base. “ A gift to my lovely Abigail for being heroic this morning,” he’d said. I’d told Shay the name of the café and mentioned they had a rep for really spicy samosas, her favorite Indian appetizer. She’d made one simple statement,”Order before I get there and you die,” then hung up.

  Shay was already waiting at a table when the seven of us marched in. She’d even graciousy been holding that table for us. She’d barely refrained from already ordering for everyone although I did notice that a basket of garlic naan, the flat Indian bread, was suspiciously empty.

  The food was fantastic and a nice change from the heavy, but not spicy-hot Czech dishes we’d been diving into for nearly a week. I inwardly groaned when the vision of a scale flashed through my head considering the amount of high-caloric goodies I’d been consuming during my days in Prague but brightened when I convinced myself the ride through the snowstorm had knocked off a pound or two.

  The conversation stayed general throughout dinner, which was fine with me. Neither Johnny, nor I desired to get into any discussions about the Duskovas, Kouzlo Noc, Mozart, flutes, séances, dead Barons or live curses. Shay, intuitively understanding our reticence, took over.

  Shay told everyone about the Klezmer Volny Rabinband who’d be joining the cast of Silhouette Tower. Apparently she’d neglected to mention this to Mitchell, because he was rather annoyed at having music brought in he hadn’t composed, nor knew anything about, but I assured him that I could choreograph one whale of a wedding number to the Klezmer sound and he’d love it so much he’d immediately want to start composing for the band which they would also love. He wasn’t pleased, but he did settle down and quit arguing.