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 been 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.
Shay told everyone about the new names for characters in Silhouette Tower. Since Franz and Lily had been put wise to this yesterday, and the others didn’t really care, there was no great angst over that particular topic.
Shay told everyone she was indeed going to find a way to use Club Krev in one of the scenes. (Anyone getting the picture that this had become Shay’s pre-production meeting?) Lily was thrilled. Visions of vampires sucking her neck while loud music played were definitely dancing through her head. Mitchell was glad to hear this gave him another number to compose in a really heavy metal sound. Fritz asked if he could play an old pipe organ for part of that scene, to give it the feeling of a 1920s black and white horror film and Shay agreed. She didn’t ask where the pipe organ was coming from or how much it would cost to rent—or buy. It was clear that he could ask for the renowned instrument from St. Stephan’s Cathedral in Passau, Bavaria (the world’s largest pipe organ) and she’d have it delivered to his room gift-wrapped.
Shay finally told everyone she was tired of tossing the conversation ball and she was going to just shut up and enjoy her samosas and curry.
After that people broke into duos and trios and talked about whatever the heck they wanted to. I stayed quiet (I don’t like talking with my mouth full) Shay stayed quiet because she was eating so much and so fast she didn’t have a chance to talk with her mouth full, and Johnny stayed quiet because he was busy with inner thoughts. I didn’t ask. I had a pretty fair idea what those thoughts were since they were identical to mine: translate that journal, find out what the boathouse had to do with Ignatz Jezek—if anything—and determine the identity of someone—sitting with us right now—who happened to be a killer.
My appetite fled the instant that concept tapped into my brain. A killer. It wasn’t Shay. It wasn’t Johnny.
If one discounted Veronika and Jozef—and while I was pretty sure neither had gone into a murderous rage and dumped Trina in the moat—I hadn’t taken a final faithfilled jeté all the way their direction, although I really did have to rule out Jozef since one cannot be suspicious of God—that narrowed killer down to Franz, Fritz, Mitchell, Corbin and Lily. My dinner companions.
I’d stopped eating but hadn’t stopped drinking the excellent beer which cooled down the curry, so I took another sip and pondered the possibilities.
Franz. From Vienna, spoke German and Czech. Displayed more interest in Mozart than one would have imagined coming from a good-looking actor primarily concerned about his latest movie project. Did he know about the flute that was rumored to possess magic powers? Did he have the temperament to coldly shove an elderly woman who had kindness oozing from her very person into a frozen moat of dirty water? Then push another frail lady down a set of stairs? Had he snuck into Kouzlo Noc before meeting me the other day and dispatched Fritz’s brother?
Fritz. From East Germany; spoke German and Czech. Loved music, so not surprising he’d be interested in Mozart and had heard the rumors about Ignatz flute through various musicians over the years. After all, it’s a great legend. He had that “nerdy” appearance that captivated Shay, and Shay is normally a surprisingly good judge of character so that was a plus for Fritz. Again, did he possess the traits of a killer? And would he have killed his own sibling over a legend?
Mitchell. From the U.S. Could he speak anything other than English? Probably. As a composer who had degrees in music cluttering his garret in Soho, he was bound to have studied German, Italian, French, and who knows what else as part of his studies in classical music. So, was it out of the realm of possibilities that he’d picked up a little Czech along the way? And, like Fritz, since he traveled in musical circles he could have heard the stories about the flute anywhere at anytime. He had a temper and he was argumentative, but that didn’t mean he would ever dispatch another human being to the next plane of existence.
Corbin. From everywhere. A linguist. Veronika had told him about the flute so he could search. Or, was that wrong? Had Veronika let him dig through St. John’s cemetery without giving him the correct information? He had occasional flashes of humor which endeared me to him but was also pretty damn stuffy at times. Which had nothing to do with murder. He had that scholarly air that exuded professionalism and “I’m above all this” but there are plenty of college professors who’ve gotten rid of rival academics through lethal means.
Lily. I really wished it were Lily. Charge her with murder, clap her in irons and cart her off to a women’s prison where she could perform Lady Macbeth for inmates every night at chowtime. But I was charitable and realistic enough to know that I felt this way because she was the spitting image of Hannah Hammerstein. Plus, I hadn’t liked her slander of Johnny that shifted to drooling over him when she found out he had a “name” in theatrical circles. I went through my very short list of reasons to label Lily the killer. She spoke Czech like a native. Duh. She was a native. She was a good actress so all her weeping and wailing over Trina could have simply been one whale of a good performance. She might have wheedled the story of Ignatz Jezek out of any of the male suspects and non-suspects (except Johnny. Mr. Gerard was not normally susceptible to wheedling—even from me.) The last question—was Lily capable of murder—netted the same answer as I’d determined from the others. Anything was possible.
I forced myself to perk up again and join the light-hearted conversation. Dessert had been served. That helped. It was a rice pudding with unidentifiable spices and I mentally added it to my list of “where can I get this when I’m back in Manhattan” food choices. So I ate, I had coffee, I chatted about tourist attractions throughout Europe. Once dinner was over, Johnny, Shay and I said our goodbyes and walked back to the hotel together.
“Abby, I’ll wait for you to pack a few things,” Johnny stated.
“Pack?” Shay’s jaw dropped.
“Yes, Ms. Martin,” I responded, “the man said pack. I told Johnny we’er going back to Kouzlo Noc tonight. This time I’m bringing at least two changes of clothes, a coat, a ton of make-up, boots—and dust jackets from Gothic romances I can substitute for any other ‘aha! the truth’ journals I find lying around.”
“Well, I’m coming, too. And while all that shifting of dust jackets and journals and packing of boots and cosmetics is well and good,” she stated, “Hell. The way this script is headed, what we really need to pack is one damn big gun.”
Trust Shay the pacifist to suggest it.