Aria in Ice (29 page)

“Sorry. The first page doesn’t even say,
‘Yo. My name is John Duskova and I killed Ignatz for his flute
but I was too stupid to find out where the bloody thing was before
I conked Ignatz over the head with the dragon poker in the parlor.
Oop! My bad. Now I’m cursed and sharing space with Eduard Duskova,
murderer extraordinaire of the Sixteen-Hundreds and I wish he’d
bathe more often.’
”

“We’re having far too much fun with
this.”

“Better than weeping and wailing, Ms.
Fouchet.”

“True. Plus, I have no great stake in even
finding the flute although I have this nagging suspicion that I’m
supposed to help Ignatz Jezek find peace not on this earth. Why
else would he be serenading me?”

“Uh… he likes your looks? Which is easy since
you’re a cutie. He’s hot for you and would like to take you out but
can’t cross the great divide between worlds so he’s going to
entertain you or drive you insane wondering about him?”

“Hmm. It’s a concept.”

We smiled at one another. Johnny tapped the
book, which he’d closed moments before. “Well, I’m jealous. Since I
also like your looks and would be more than happy to help you cross
any divides that keep you from me.”

We were still on the metro. It was populated
by small children, little old ladies, and mamas with strollers. Not
the time for serious romance.”

I grinned at Johnny. “Save that thought for a
starlit night, would you? Preferably
not
at
Kouzlo
Noc
.”

He grinned too, then gave me a chaste kiss on
my cheek. “It’s a promise. Okay, back to business. Sadly, I’m
positive this is not Ignatz’ journal. For one thing, on page three
there are references to political events happening that seem pretty
obvious the writer is referring to the beginning of the Nazi
invasion of Czechoslovakia and unless Ignatz was adept at spirit
writing, I doubt he was forecasting the future. Now, don’t get
morose. No, there aren’t any startling revelations on the few pages
I’ve managed to decipher, and admittedly I zipped through this in a
hurry, but….”

“Yes?” I tensed.

“You’ll be very pleased to hear there are
references to Jezek on the last page.”

I held my breath. “Really? Anything pertinent
to the investigation? Or just
‘There was another was murder at
my castle this morning and now I have to go buy flour, butter, and
cheese for the next batch of dumplings.’
”

“No clue. My skills aren’t up to this. There
are words I simply can’t translate and let’s face it—this was not
printed out on a laser jet color copier. It’s handwritten and the
penmanship is so bad that your favorite nun, Sister Mary Manuscript
would have had this bad boy in the principal’s office after school
on a daily basis writing,
‘I will learn to loop my O’s and cross
my T’s’ fifty times.’
Anyway, I can’t decipher this enough to
tell just
what
the guy is saying. But I
can
tell you
it seems to have been written by a member of the Duskova family.
Perhaps omeone who did discover a few things about his family’s
often sordid past? And yes, there is that intriguing reference to
Ignatz right at the end.” He inhaled. “Oh my God. It’s more than
intriguing. Abby, this could explain some of the past day’s
events.”

“What do you mean?”

“Trina. And Marta.”

“Okay. You can’t name drop and then clam up.
Give.”

“Unless my Czech is really flat-out wrong,
this guy mentions both Ignatz and the boathouse at the edge of the
Duskova property in the same sentence.”

“And Trina was found in the moat about three
feet away from the boathouse, wasn’t she? At least that’s what
Jozef said last night.”

Johnny nodded. “He’s right. So, that begs a
question.”

I chimed in before he had a chance to beg.
“What was Trina doing that close to the boathouse on a snowy day
and did what she was doing relate to Ignatz Jezek and his flute and
did someone else figure that out and if so, did that someone follow
her, hit her and shove her into the moat?”

“That’s about it. Tangled way of stating
it—no offense, love—but that’s exactly what I surmised.”

“What about Marta? Theories?”

He sat back on the bench of the metro train.
“Let’s pretend that Trina had finished reading this journal.
Looking for clues about Ignatz? Picked it up in a fit of
housecleaning and browsed through it one evening in front of the
fire. Anyway, she reads about the boathouse. Decides to investigate
to see if something is hidden there. Now, why she didn’t just go
out immediately after reading this instead of leaving the book then
waiting a houseful of suspicous people were hanging around to trek
down there, I have no idea, but let’s say that that’s exactly what
she did.”

“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.”

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.”