Aria in Ice (3 page)

A woman glared at me from across a headstone
that must have been hideous long before it was smashed. Skeletal
images, flames and lost faces peeked through what was left of
marble and granite.

She was dressed in a solid black
Victorian-style gown and sporting what my favorite contemporary
dance teacher at University of Texas had called the
”
Early-Modern-Dancer-I-Have-No-Humor-and-I’m-Constipated-to-Boot
”
look. A look that comes with a hard knot at the back of the neck
hair and honest-to-God knitting needles sticking out from that
bun.

I smiled at the newcomer. She wasn’t having
any.

“Yoong ladee! No! No! Vy iss you in
graveyard? You must leaf now! Go! Go!”

I wrenched my gaze away from the pititful
headstones and the two men then meekly followed the Woman in Black
out of the graveyard. Neither Johnny nor Mr. Lerner followed. The
woman did not talk. I kept my own silence until we arrived at the
giant doorway about half a mile from the cemetery gates.

“Please. Uh, could you wait just a
second?”

She turned. “Yes?”

“I’m truly sorry I was wandering in the
graveyard. I love history and I didn’t realize at first this must
have been a family cemetery or I never would have intruded. I was
just so devastated to see the destruction there and -sad. Since Mr.
Gerard was with me, and he said he knew you, I kind of assumed that
would be okay. Please forgive me?”

A glimmer of softness passed over the grim
face.

“Ach, I deed not realize Meester Gerard had
accompanied you. I wass rude. But eet iss sad, no? Hass been in
family for centuries but last two hundred years people come and
they ruin. Pleeze, do not tell my sisters I haf been here
today—yes? They get most upset when I visit this place. We pretend
no meet?”

I nodded. “That’s fine. And by the way, I
truly I believe descrating graves is one of the sickest things
imaginable. I hope this never happens again near this beautiful
castle.”

She nodded as well, then gestured to a
doorway we’d reached by a route I’d never be able to remember. I
refrained from stating, “
Cool. I’m entering Kastle Kouzlo Noc—a
Gothic novel come to life in 21st Century Prague. Possibly—make
that probably—is home to a flute-playing ghost. Shay Martin is
gonna love it.”
If I was dumb enough to voice that inner
monologue, what little rapport we two had established would be as
wrecked as the grave Corbin Lerner had been using for historical
pursuits.

‘Gothic novel come to life’ truly
was
the best description for what I was about to enter. The first thing
I saw were the three scowling, dragon-headed doorknockers The
creatures were positioned underneath a plaque clearly stating to
visitors that this was an entrance to
Kastle Kouzlo Noc
. Why
three of these guys were needed when one dragon would have been
sufficient to scare the stuffings out of invited guests or
trespassing interlopers was a mystery that could be scary to
solve.

“What does it mean? In English?”

“
Kouzlo Noc
iss Magic Night.” She
actually smiled, before gracefully crossing in front of me to stand
directly under the dragons .

I was right. Even in English,”Magic Night”
sounded like the perfect castle in which to film Shay’s Gothic
musical movie. With any luck, the inside of the castle would have
the same quality of menace indicated by the doorknockers. It had
to. Shay had sounded more than a tad desperate when I’d spoken to
her two hours earlier. “Abby? Please, please perform miracles for
me, okay? It’s vital I get a castle that’s huge, spooky, and
preferably situated close to a mountain. Got that? Vital. With a
capital Vee. But it better have ultra modern heating, beyond modern
bathrooms, and really damn cheap rent. Call as soon as you find
one, so I can take a breath again. I’ll be doing this maid-of-honor
thing for at least another week unless the sweet intended calls it
off again—which, incidentally, she did yesterday—but that’s for
another day’s gossip. Anyway, I’ve got my cell with me, although
roaming charges are killing me, and let’s face it, you’re
definitely roaming. Oh, hell. Hang on a sec.” A pause, then,
“Sorry, Fouchet. Gotta go. Kathy’s mother is yelling something
about togas fitting the groomsmen. I’m hoping I heard that wrong
and she really said ‘yoga’ and keeping the groom ‘fit.’” Another
pause. “Damn. I wish these people would speak English.”

“You’re in Paris, Shay. Remember? French is
the native tongue? The ‘R’ in
croissants
is a ‘W’? Be
careful to whom you say
‘tu’
or you’ll end up engaged—or in
jail- and your own sweet intented Fuji will not be happy.”

I could hear the grin on her face. “Got that
right. I do kind of speak the language, but I swear everyone in
this wedding so-called party rattles off their French faster than
Kathy snagged this idiot Jean-Claude. They do it to annoy me. Along
with sending me to fittings to encase my way too voluptuousness in
orange. Orange! Who the hell wears orange in a wedding? I look like
a fat demented neon pumpkin. Anyway, talk to you later.”

“Shay! Wait. Don’t you want a progress report
on these castles? I’ll talk fast and keep it short. Really. I’ve
seen three that are possibles. The first one is on a hill that
overlooks St. Vitus Cathedral. Gorgeous. Although keeping the
tourists away while we film could get to be a problem. Then there’s
Castle Sykoretvka
, which has twelve turrets but apparently
only outdoor plumbing which I guess messes up your beyond modern
bathroom thingee but it’s also got this really neat …”

“Forget it. If you haven’t immediately fallen
in love with one and declared it perfect for our set, then I don’t
give a flying—uh,
croissant
. I trust you. Really, I do. And
Bambi trusts me. But, keep me posted. It’ll help stabilize what’s
left of my sanity for the next week or so. Oh, Abby? Go for eerie.
Super shadowy. Tons of scary ambience. Lots of towers. And cheap.
Very cheap.”

I heard a final “Kathy, your mother’s making
me crazy! If this wedding doesn’t happen tomorrow, I’m outta here
and taking the Italian crème cake and the Belgian best man with
me,” then a click as the phone went dead.

The woman was seriously deranged. She was
also my best friend, my sort of boss for this location gig, and a
gifted, if occasionally manic, director/choreographer. She knew
that Bambi Bohacek wanted a Gothic Castle. Therefore, Bambi—and
Shay—would
get
a Gothic Castle. Although, with the specifics
they’d given me, there was a good chance I’d have to spend the next
week peering at and poking through every domicile built during 13th
century Prague or Moravia. I was a bit clueless as to exactly what
Shay wanted in terms of “beyond modern heating and bathrooms,” but
I’d jump that hurdle when I found a castle that met all her other
requirements. I was damn certain however, that “port-a-potty” would
not be a good choice for Ms. Martin.

I’d already spent four days traipsing through
the homes of former Czechoslovakian aristocrats deposed by former
Soviet officials. They were now all eager for income. Income that
could easily be forthcoming thanks to an independent film company
looking to rent a nice abode.
Headlights Productions
was
willing to pay a fair price for a castle in Prague where they could
shoot this rock musical version of an old Gothic romance novel,
complete with dancing girls, dancing boys, wild dogs, tame horses,
and a boat chase ending under the Charles Bridge.

As I’d tried to tell Shay, three castles had
been placed on what I was calling my “Possible maybe list.”
Obviously, Ms. Martin didn’t want “maybe”, “possible” or even
“Purty durn close.” She wanted perfect. Fine. I would damn well
find perfect.

With some effort, I pulled my focus back to
the woman standing beside me,whom I assumed was a Duskova
sister—and the scary dragon doorknockers. Before I could lay a hand
on one of the beasts, Ms. Duskova yanked on a cluster of wooden
wind chimes that must serve as the anchor of a long tapestry bell
pull. Saying a silent “thank you” to loom-weavers everywhere, I was
rewarded by hearing the sounds of two measures from Mozart’s
Requiem
. The huge iron doors opened as the last chord died
away.

Two women stood in the foyer just inside.
They were identically dressed in that same ‘Early Modern Dancer’
humorless black with the knitting needles ‘do’ just like my
companion, but unlike her, they were smiling. They also possessed
the most gorgeous complexions I’d seen outside of BoTox
commercials. They beckoned for me to enter. The first Woman in
Black glided serenely past me, then disappeared down a long hall
while I was making a mental note to tell Shay the entire trio would
be terrific as extras for the scene where the Count parades around
in his mask at the gala ball.

The sister pointed in unison at my head and
began to giggle. The taller of the two nudged her shorter
companion. I heard the word
nezraly
. They had to be
discussing why my hair was mixed with green streaks. It wasn’t
something I cared to discuss in any language. I was embarrassed
enough without trying to provide an explanation in Czech.

I forgot about my hair the instant I was
ushered into a room that was one part museum, one part dungeon, and
one part medieval ballroom. Huge round columns served as the
primary support for the arched ceiling. Each monstrous pillar was
decorated with the image of a dragon cozily attempting to chow down
on a knight or two. There was no artwork on the walls. Not even a
single mirror broke the stark, ink-black wallpaper.

My focus was drawn to the corner closest to
the entranceway where a harpsichord, decorated with 15th Century
style Flemish panels, proudly stood. Paperweight busts of Mozart,
Beethoven, Haydn and someone who looked suspiciously like a young
Eric Clapton, held down loose sheets of music.

I nodded to one of the ladies and gestured
toward the instrument. Both women began chattering in Czech. I
couldn’t understand a word, but the gesture made by the shorter
speaker obviously was an indication that I was welcome to provide
some music for us all if I so desired. I didn’t attempt to sit on
the fragile stool. I wasn’t sure it could hold the weight of a cat
and though Johnny teases me for being ‘teensy’ (five-two, a hundred
and two pounds of solid muscle even after a gargantuan Tex-Mex
dinner) that’s still bigger than the majority of felines.

I pressed the keys for a C major chord then
winced in pain. The harpsichord hadn’t been tuned in at least a
century. I do have near-perfect pitch, but even someone with a poor
musical ear would shudder at the discordant sound. I stepped away,
hiding my glee. Shay would declare it ”truly awesome.” Garishly
pitched notes from this sad, neglected piece of musical history
would add the right touch for the scene where the sexy, but scarred
Count Zilania falls in love with his beautiful ward, Honoria.

The ladies led me further into the ballroom.
I stopped when I saw what lay half-hidden behind a beaded screen at
the far end of the room. It appeared to be a black marble coffin. I
turned to ask where this piece of furniture came from (if one could
call a coffin furniture) but was interrupted by the entrance of my
original companion.

She slowly made her way down the gigantic
staircase, lifting her ankle-length gown just high enough so she
wouldn’t trip, then glided across the ballroom to greet me with a
beatific smile and I quickly realized she was serious—our brief
encounter in the graveyard had never happened. Quick improv into
“never seen you before we were at the front door together”
land.

Her eyes bored into mine. “You are girl
promised from real estate agent?”

“Yes. I believe Mr. Zelenka called this
morning? I’m Abby Fouchet. Currently acting as location scout for
Headlights Productions
. Um. Did Mr. Zelenka tell you we’re
looking to rent for about four months?”

She nodded. “He deed. We are most heppy to
meet you. Oh, I am zo sorry. I haf not the introduction myself. I
am Madam Veronika Duskova, owner of
Kouzlo Noc
. These are my
sisters, who lif with me. Marta and Trina.”

The ladies bowed. I bowed. I felt certain
that the siblings, aside from Madam Veronika, only spoke Czech.
Marta, Trina and Veronika. M. T. V. The final lyrics of the old
Dire Straits tune,
Money for Nothing
, came rushing through
my brain.

I pulled my focus back to Madam Duskova.
“Very nice to meet you. All of you. You have a gorgeous home. I
assume the castle has been in your family for years?”

Veronika nodded. “For plenty centuries. We
haf live here through King Karel IV in 14th Century, und ze
Hussites und Hapsburgs und Emperor Jozef through communists.” She
spat. “Pigs. Und now, wid new Czech Republic. Iss better. Zey do
not understand yet aristocracy, but iss better than Soviet rule,
no?”

The woman couldn’t have been over
seventy-five years old, but from the way she stated “we” I had the
impression she and her two nodding sisters had resided in
Kouzlo
Noc
during every one of those centuries. I shivered, hoping I
wasn’t about to have an out-of body experience into the
Seventeen-Hundreds. The last time that happened I experienced a
little exchange of dialogue with Johnny’s father, Kieran, thirty
years into the future. I preferred to stay in my own time. Veronika
saw that little body shake.

“Ah, I haf no manners. You come in and haf
tea now. Iss chilly out, no? You Americans. Never do you dress warm
enough here. I put fire on as well.”

She gestured toward a walk-in fireplace big
enough to roast a large-sized boar. Doubtless more than one pig had
met his doom there courtesy of hungry Duskovas. Tongs with gargoyle
heads rested alongside a poker that had to be at least six feet
tall. The top of the poker featured the unfriendly visage of a
dragon—must be first cousin to the doorknockers. I couldn’t help
wonder how many murders had been committed using that dragon as
weapon of choice. The shorter sister (Marta?) picked up the poker,
presumably to sift through ashes before starting a nice fire.
Veronika and Trina ushered me across the hall into a salon.