Aria in Ice by Flo Fitzpatrick Page B

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.

Chapter 9
     
     
    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.”
    There were holes in those two sentences
bigger than the New Jersey Turnpike after five years of blizzards
but Veronika glided right past them.
    “That iss all right then. But everyone now
leave this room. This iss not part of film and bad thing hass
happened here today. Death iss not good. We should be