Aria in Ice (13 page)

“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.

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.”

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 definitely 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.”