Aria in Ice (9 page)

As I’d informed Franz yesterday, Shay and I
really did meet in dance class before she’d pursuaded me to join
her at the residence on Seventy-Ninth and Amsterdam along with our
other roommate, Cherry Ripe, a former topless dancer at Manhattan
club on Eighth Avenue. Shay and I had become friends in class, then
bonded into true sisterhood through various emotional, physical and
vocational traumas suffered in and around‘Seven-D.” Which Shay
joked was her bra size. She
is
a big girl for a dancer,
which is one reason she turned to choreography and direction. The
other is that she’s damn talented at both and sure as heck making
more money than we lowly players.

She crossed the room in three graceful
strides and enveloped me in an excruciatingly tight bear hug.
“Little Abby! What a damn weird and wonderful room. Does anyone
live here other than dead people?”

I hugged her back and ignored her statement
and question. “Sass-shay! Not that I’m not thrilled to see your
smiling face in Prague, but exactly why are you in Prague? I mean,
now, not in a week, like after the wedding?”

We drew apart. She growled, “Because that
idiot Kathy and her even more idiotic fiancé, Jean-Claude Lafitte
the Nineteenth or whatever, had another huge fight and called off
the wedding for the sixth time in five days. I said,
‘Nuts to
this. I’m not waiting around playing peacemaker until the two of
them decide either to elope or just shoot each other.’
I’m
tellin’ ya, it’ll take a Nobel Prize winning mediator to solve the
war between them!”

She suddenly realized we were not the only
two folks in the room. “Who the hell are the hunks?
Chee –wow
–wah!
Oh wait. Franz! You sexy man, you look even better than
you did at the screen test.”

I squinched my face with a “
damn Shay,
just be rude and embarrass the guys, why doncha?
”
expression.

She shrugged. “What? If these guys don’t get
that they’re foxier than critters at a Virginia hunt, they’re
either blind or too arrogant to own up to it.” She winked at Franz
and asked, “
Vas is los?
” I gathered that was Shay’s German
translation for “what’s up, dude?”

She turned to Corbin and scrutinized him way
too intently. “The historian. Gotta be. No one can get away with
the dashing professor look except for a dashing professor.”

I groaned.

She winked at me, then shook Corbin’s hand.
The man simply looked stunned.

Shay then held her hand out to Johnny. He
took it and immediately pressed her palm to his chest. I coughed.
Shay caught it and remembered in time none of us were supposed to
be friends or lovers of Johnny in a previous life—for whatever
bizarre reasons he had yet to reveal.

“Hmmm. You must be the burglar. You’re way
too sexy to be Abby’s ghost.”

Terrific. She’d just released the ‘G’ word.
As an Abby’s possessive.

I suddenly realized that Franz and Corbin
hadn’t even registered Shay’s comment. They were too busy staring
at the girl who’d followed Shay into the room. I hadn’t seen her
since I’d lifted off the floor by my buddy who had effectively hid
the newcomer now posing prettily by the door.

I started to cross to her to say “Hi,” then
stopped dead. I turned back to Shay and whispered, “Is this Lily
Lowe? Um. She bears a rather startling resemblance to someone from
the ice cream commercial you choreographed and I supposedly starred
in.”

Shay was trying, unsuccessfully, to look
innocent. “She does?”

I narrowed my eyes. “Yes, Shay. She does.
Remember Hannah Hammerstein? Of course you do.”

Shay shrugged. “Well, now that you mention
it, Lily does have a trait or two of Hannah’s.”

Understatement. Lily was a walking clone of
Hannah. Hannah the blonde-haired, blue-eyed dimwit with the
turned-up nose, the perfect red lips, the legs to the neck of her
five-foot-seven-inch frame, and the disposition of Rasputin on PCP,
meth and acid. Hannah had been the bane of my existence from the
day she hijacked the role of a popsicle (not for her dancing, which
was lousy, but those stinkin’ legs made up for it and the director
of the commercial was beyond hetero-male) then tried to steal
Johnny away from me the first time he arrived at the warehouse
shoot to take me to dinner.

I took a breath and prepared to be pleasant
to Lily Lowe. It wasn’t her fault she was Hannah Hammerstein’s
doppelganger. And since Lily did look the part of “Honoria” for the
film, I had to acknowledge that Shay had done a nice job of
casting.

“Hi, Lily. I’m Abby Fou… .”

“Yes. You’re the… scout.” Her tone was sheer
boredom, spiced with a smidgeon of derision.

“Well, that’s one duty. Did Shay tell you I’m
helping with the choreography for two dance sequences since she’s
pretty tied down with directing?”

Lily waved a graceful in the air, dismissing
me. “Yes.” She marched on dainty feet over to Franz and placed that
tiny hand on his arm.

“I can’t wait to dance with you, Franz. I can
tell you’re marvelous just by taking one glance. The perfect Count
Zilania. Kissing will be lovely.”

Whoa. Lily wasted no time. Hannah Hammerstein
all over again. I waited to see what form her feminine wiles would
take as she oozed toward Corbin. Franz remained speechless.

Lily smiled up at Corbin, who loomed with
great panache over her. He leaned down and kissed her hand.
Smooth.

Lily giggled. “Oh my. And who are you,
charming man? Are you playing the villain,” she glanced over her
shoulder at Shay, “what’s the villain’s name, Shay?”

“Harold.”

Lily shuddered. “What a dreadful name for
such a handsome man.”

Corbin shook his head. “And not mine,
Miss…Lily. I’m only a humble professor, here to do a bit of work
for the Duskova family.”

“Oh.” The tone change was barely perceptible,
but I caught it. I couldn’t tell if Corbin had or not. Apparently
he’d missed it, because he bowed to the actress and added, “Just as
well. If I had to perform opposite you on screen I’d be so consumed
by your presence that I doubt I’d be able to remember a single
line.”

Smooth. And had just a hint of sarcasm crept
in?

Sarcasm which sailed right over Ms. Lowe’s
yellow hair. She was about to turn her simpering wiles on Johnny
but I tossed in a question to grab her interest for at least a
second or two and keep me from maiming the leading lady within four
minutes of meeting her.

I turned to Shay. “Got our new movie title
yet?”

She fluttered her lashes. “Quite
possibly.”

Something exceedingly trashy was coming
up.

Have I mentioned that during breaks at
Seven-D, when we weren’t engaged in watching
Endless Time
,
rehearsing for shows, eating ridiculously calorie-laden meals or
discussing our love lives, we’d rediscovered the enthralling world
of the Gothic romances of our youth? I’d learned that both of us
had fallen for the Gothics when we were eleven. Shay in Wisconsin,
me in Texas but the same passion for cheap thrills and dumb
heoines. We’d inhaled Gothics primarily written in the
Nineteen-Sixties and Seventies—the quintessential era for dark
heroes and sweet heroines who found lasting love after initially
fearing, distrusting and almost killing one another—accidentally of
course. Our favorite -and coincidentally a favorite of Bambi
Bohacek—was a two-hundred page drama simply called
“
Honoria.”
It was the reason we were now in the Czech
Republic making this film. The plot was not unique: sweet and
lovely heroine, orphaned after her professor father’s death (mother
died when heroine was toddler) is sent to the scary home of one of
her father’s ex-students, the even scarier, psychologically and
physically scarred, semi-alcoholic, but brilliant, lord of the
manor. What the plot lacked in originality it more than made up for
with character and word skills. The writing was excellent, the
heroine was damn spunky for a Gothic female, the hero sexy, dark
and—heroic, and the setting was—in a word—cool. A large estate
somewhere in the mountains of Bavaria.

Shay had been given free rein by Bambi to
name the movie. We’d been debating titles over the phone for weeks
now. The top contenders were, “
Turret of Dream Shadows
”,
“Damsel in Darkness,”
and
“Nightmares of Count
Zilania.”
Shay refused to go with the simplicity of
“Honoria
”
.
It wasn’t cheesy enough.

I shuddered, wondering which of these would
be flashed across a large screen in about thirteen months.

Shay winked at me. “Don’t look so concerned.
I came up with a wonderful name. Even you will agree it passes the
cheese test.”

I wasn’t sure if that were a good or bad
thing. “Yeah, what?”

She paused for dramatic effect. “
The Naked
Mistress of Dark Silhouette Tower.
”

Franz, Corbin, Lily and I all just stared at
her for a moment. Johnny didn’t stare. He was carefully clutching
his sides and biting his lips. Shay was right. Brie, cheddar, or
Swiss—the cheese smelled strong, but the title grabbed one
nonetheless. It also scared me more than Count Zilania after a
night imbibing whiskey.

I chortled,”Wait! Wait! That sounds like a
porn movie. Since when is Honoria naked? And is Honoria still
Honoria or did she get a name change?”

Shay fluttered her lashes, then sneered. “Be
serious, Abby. Naked sells. Porn, romance, internet. You name it.
If it has no clothes, it’s a winner. Although, for the record,
we’re keeping this PG-rated. Lily will stay in her stays. As for
Honoria? Are you nuts? Of course I’m changing the name. Honoria
sounds like a Victorian venereal disease. Our mistress of the
towers is now Kelsey.”

“Say what?” I exclaimed. “As in ‘Grammar’—as
in
Frasier
reruns?”

Instead of responding, Shay flashed every
tooth she owned in a smile directed at Johnny. “So, Mr. Gerard?
What do
you
do? For a living. That is,” her volume lowered,
“when you’re not casing castles or being a supercop.”

I waited the “art mural for the Duskovas”
response. It never came. Instead, Johnny stated, “Well, in about a
month I’ll be designing the set for
The Magic Flute
for the
South Sarasota Retirees Light Opera Company.”

I coughed. “You have got to be kidding.”

He winked at me. “I am absolutely serious.
It’s a great gig. Fantastic pay.”

“I’m not talking about the pay or the gig.
I’m just reeling from the idea of an opera company composed of the
geriatric denizens residing in the swamps of Florida.”

“Sarasota does not have swamps. And you’d be
amazed at the vocal talent of some of the elder performers.”

I closed my eyes. “The mind staggers.
Actually, I’m sure there are some incredible voices. I just can’t
quite visualize the Queen of the Night as a ninety-plus
great-granny belting out those F’s at the end of the aria where the
wicked Queen tries to get Kathyina to kill Sarastro.”

Johnny chuckled. “Well, a few of the tougher
arias have been transposed down to ease the chords of the aging
divas. But they’re still damn good.”

“I believe you. Heck, keep me in the loop if
they decided to do a nice musical comedy and need a short dancing
alto. After a few months being chilled in Prague, I’ll be ready for
some nice hundred-degree temps. Even if it’s a job wrestling
alligators with any seniors who are doubtless smuggling Viagra in
gator bellies.”

“I’d pay money to see that,” Shay
interjected.

“I’m
sure
there’d be something
artistic about it or Johnny wouldn’t be involved.”

“When the hell did seniors in Sarasota
suddenly start messing with alligators and smuggling?”

I grinned. “They didn’t. I just wanted to
change the topic before my brain turned completely to oatmeal
contemplating naked mistresses in turrets and short, elderly
character actors warbling the Papageno duet.”

Perhaps it was time to shepherd the flock of
actors, directors, and historians downstairs to the parlor in
search of kolaches and tea laced with anything 80 proof or above.
Preferably before our collective presence was noted by the M.T.V.
siblings who were already nervous about visitors in the castle.
Understandably so.

Too late.

“Vat iss all dees people doing here?”

We turned to face the door. Marta, Trina and
Veronika had managed to stand toe-to-toe in the admittedly wide
space. All three ladies were glaring. For some reason, the glare
was directed at me.

My first inclination was to lie. Something on
the order of “I got lost.” A simple lie. A glaringly, patently
false lie—but simple. Then I glanced around the room. Every face
bore an expression of guilt identical to a group of five-year-olds
who’ve been caught naked, with crimson-colored finger-paints, in a
white room,with a copy of
Grey’s Anatomy
open in the
literally red hands of the smallest child.

I couldn’t lie. The next face that flashed
before me was that of Sister Martha Mary Margaret from fourth
grade. The one whose eyes always asked, “You want extra cheese with
that Whopper?” The one with the ruler.
Digressing here, but why
hasn’t a killer nun ever been plopped into a game of Clue? “I win!
I win! The answer is Sister Mary Mendacity—in the classroom—with
the nail-spiked ruler.”

I opened my mouth to state the obvious—the
Duskovas had been invaded by treasure-hunters, curious theatrical
types and the new leasee of
Kouzlo Noc
who put the nose in
nosy.

It was simple. It was direct. It was even
true. Up to a point. Before I could utter a word, Johnny neatly
stated, “Abby got lost. We all came to find her.”