Haunting Melody (17 page)

I didn’t see Briley anywhere - at least
outdoors. I walked, head down, toward the very end of the block
toward a large house that looked as though someone had gone berserk
with the architectural mix. Tall columns graced the front porch,
but squiggly shutters with what appeared to be a pattern of
gargoyle figures dancing sans clothing, outlined every window.
Turrets of Turkish design topped the third story of the place. A
widow’s walk straight out of a New England fishing town ran the
length of that third story.

It took me a good two minutes of staring,
blinking and shaking my head before I was able to take a deep
breath and climb that porch. A giant ship’s bell hanging on the
front door had an iron pull that invited one to give it a nice
clang. I clanged..

I’m not sure what I expected for the official
greeter of a Lonely Street brothel. Perhaps a tiny, aging, primly
proper lady with impeccable manners and a forbidding stare? Or a
sleazy, bleached-blonde, overly made-up hussy with an extra thirty
pounds oozing out of a corset and gartered hose?

Naturally, the person who answered the door
was neither.

It was tallest male I’d ever seen in my life.
That included my Dad who stands six-six.

Not only was this man tall, he was big. And
ugly. Big face, big beard, big torso, big legs. The only things not
big were his head, which was bald, and his smile, which was
non-existent. Well, that was to be expected. One answers the door
and instead of potential customers bearing cash, one gets a
terrified woman wearing a ghastly-fitting black dress straight from
Goodwill.

I went for the eyelash flutter thing as my
opener. “We’el, aren’t you the foin strappin’ lad, now? Me name is
Colleen O’Shea and I’m about askin’ fer work. Me brother told me
that some good Gayoso residents were on the lookout for some bright
lasses to be doin’ the cleanin’. I’m a good worker and I work
cheap. I’m shore’ ‘tis a mite late in the day for askin’ but ‘tis a
long way back to Pinch and I’d love to be takin’ good news to me
Ma.”

The giant continued to stare at me. For a
brief second I considered asking about the accent - “too over the
top?” - but figured that’d only land me back on the street or in
jail. When the man smiled at me, I started to wish he was still
staring. Aside from the fact that his front teeth were missing, the
smile was not a smile. It was a leer. For the first time this
evening I wondered if “Colleen O’ Shea” had stepped in it big
time.

He gestured for me to come inside. I really
wanted to turn and haul ass, but the memory of Nevin asking me to
sign the sheet music suddenly blasted through my mind. I followed
the ogre into a parlor straight out of Hollywood’s idea of an Old
West cathouse.

Red velvet wallpaper. Really. Red divan and
red highbacked chairs and a red sofa with red velvet cushions and
pillows. Anything not red was trimmed in gold brocade. Including
the large mirror over a piano that put Teresa’s Baby Grand to
shame.

The only other color I saw was flesh. Lots of
flesh. Female flesh. Flesh poured into red or gold corsets with red
negligees not covering them. Flesh flashing from shoulders and arms
and legs and décolleté. In the first five seconds of viewing the
parlor I saw more female flesh exposed than in an entire night
changing backstage at the Follies. My face turned as red as my hair
and the wallpaper.

Have I mentioned the men? Yes, indeedy, a
nice crop of them all gathered around the piano; arms and legs
entwined with the female flesh. Males and females were singing a
chorus of "It’s a Long Way to Tipperary," played with expertise by
a grinning elderly black lady who, like, my giant guide, appeared
to be missing more than one molar or incisor. At least this seemed
like a harmless enough activity.

Then I inhaled like a coke addict taking a
last snort. I recognized the tall man adding a nice baritone sound
to the choir. Briley. I whirled around to run and found my nose
imbedded in the large chest of the large ugly goon who was stuck to
me like flypaper to one’s thumb.

I quietly said, “We’eel, bless you, sir, for
givin’ me this teeny tour. It appears thar’s a party goin’ on. I’m
not about wantin’ to disturb the festivities, so I’ll be takin’ me
leave, now.”

His mitt-sized palm clamped down on my
shoulder. He growled at me with a heavy accent, “I tink not, Missy.
We haf no need for maid. We haf otter needs. You see Anna.”

Oh, crap. His English stunk but I knew
‘otter’ did not mean the swimming mammal.

I debated yelling, “My Daddy didn’t raise me
to be a hooker, you demented, giant, toothless creep!” I curbed the
impulse. Aside from not wishing to have a fist thrust into my mouth
- leaving me in a state identical to the butler and the piano
player - I didn’t want to do anything that would attract the
attention of Briley McShan and ultimately end up in a battle that
would leave us both toothless and still clueless as to where the
Dupres were stashed.

So I smiled and tried a different tack. “Sure
and I’d be wantin’ ta meet your employer, but perhaps tamorra
twould be a more fittin’ time? I’m not one to be interferin’ with a
party.”

He didn’t bother to respond. He merely
grabbed my arm and forced me to follow him out of the relatively
safe area around the piano and up a staircase that was more twisted
than a spy thriller.

I considered my options while trying not to
get my skirt caught underneath me as I was hauled up the steps.

Option one. Scream, which would bring Briley
to my aid. But it would get us no closer to finding Denise and get
us both kicked out.

Option two. I could act excited that I was
going to be given a job. I dismissed this as a non-starter. The
"employer" might just employ Miss Colleen O’Shea to begin
performing non-cleaning services for some low-life male who
expected a little entertainment for his dollar.

Option three. Pretend ignorance of what “job”
the owners of this house on Lonely Street had in mind for the Irish
idiot. Ask for a real tour of the place. Option number three seemed
the safest and the most hope of having the net result of talking to
one or more of the hookers who might have seen a young Frenchwoman
and her child recently.

All options disappeared when Baldy the Giant
opened the door to a room that was obviously meant for pursuing
amorous activities in privacy and comfort. The bed was a
four-poster that featured lace hanging from each post. An ivory
quilt with a wedding ring design covered the bed up to lacy
pillows. I almost forgot my predicament with the joy of seeing
bedding that was handmade and quite beautiful.

Baldy nodded toward the only chair in the
room. “Sit. Vait. Anna comin’ soon.”

He left. The key turned in the lock.

I had no idea what to do or whom to
expect.

I paced, not wanting to comply with the order
to sit and needing to work off some of the nervous energy that had
engulfed my system. Out of the blue I found myself singing,

“’Memphis has a whorehouse in it - Lord send
Briley to my side!’” in a parody of one of the songs from The Best
Little Whorehouse in Texas.

For a whorehouse I guess it wasn’t bad. Not
that I’ve had experiences in such places but I’d envisioned a nasty
dive straight out of a film noir set. Aside from the gorgeous bed
and the cushioned chair, the room featured a claw-footed tub I
craved to have installed in whatever bathroom I called my own in
either century. The wall opposite the bed featured a painting big
enough to qualify as a Follies set piece.

A small gas stove took up space in a corner.
A hot plate sat squarely on top. I peeked into the paper bag
sitting beside it and discovered a loaf of fresh bread. I’m ashamed
to admit I was instantly hungry. There was a jar of olive oil on
the floor beside the stand, plus a can of coffee and pans for
toasting and heating water. I actually contemplated making a little
toast and downing some caffeine to get me through this night. Then
I decided I didn’t want to consume any foodstuffs left in a room
devoted to - what this one was obviously devoted to.

I turned my attention to the dresser next to
the bed. It was birds-eye maple, as was the bed itself. This suite
would be worth thousands in a few years when not only would it be
considered antique but when true birds-eye maple became almost
obsolete.

I hadn’t worn a watch and there was no clock
standing on the one table in the room, but I knew I’d been waiting
at least fifteen minutes before the knock came at the door. I
wasn’t sure if this polite tapping was a good sign or a bad one. I
got my answer when the key turned and Baldy flung the door open
wide to reveal a small, stunningly beautiful woman, wearing a
bizarre nightgown in a lion print, and sporting a hairdo out of a
1965 Vidal Sassoon design book. It resembled a giant pretzel stuck
through with an arrow.

The interview was about to begin.

She gestured for me to sit, but I stubbornly
remained on my feet until Baldy “helped” me to the chair. I wanted
to stand. I wanted to intimidate the lady with my height, which was
over a foot more than hers.

“You are Miss O’Shea, so Geb tells me.” Her
voice was soft, sultry and commanding. It sounded odd coming from a
mouth overly made up with enough red rouge to achieve those full,
cupid-shaped lips. I guessed her age to be somewhere in her
mid-thirties, yet her air of authority was that of a much older
woman.

“Geb?”

“My manservant. He is not one for
conversation.”

I saw no reason to abandon my Irish maid
pretense. I responded with, “We’ell shore and that’s a foin name it
‘tis and a foin strappin’ lad you’ve got to greet your guests
tonight.”

She nodded, then waved her hand in the air in
a gesture of dismissal for the “foin strappin’” ugly toothless
manservant. (Manservant? What the . . . ? Even in 1919 I was sure
employers did not refer to employees with that term unless they
were part of English royalty.) Geb bowed to the lady and left. I
was not reassured by his absence.

I decided to take the offensive in the
conversation.

“Shore and I’m lovin’ this foin quilt ya got
covering the bed. Lovely needlework, it ‘tis.”

Her expression brightened. “I made it myself.
I’m a great admirer of beautiful crafts. Thank you for noticing.
“She smiled. It was not a friendly smile. “But, please, let’s drop
the pretense now and call you Miss Flynn. Or Melody. Such a pretty
name.”

I started to protest. One look from the lion
queen silenced me.

“You, my dear, are not one of the riff-raff
that haunts the shores of Memphis over in the Pinch district. You
are Melody Flynn, a chorus girl from New York City. There is a very
handsome young gentlemen downstairs who accompanied you from New
York City but who is currently unaware of your presence in my
house.”

I couldn’t speak. My mouth was dry; my
armpits were not. I sat stupidly in the high-backed chair with the
elegant embroidery and waited for sentence to be pronounced.

She nodded regally at me. “I do apologize.
Where are my manners? Let me introduce myself. I am Anna, owner of
this house and sister to the man you and your misguided friend have
come to find.”

Damn. Did she have a GPS tracker aimed at
Briley and me? I looked carefully at her features. They did seem
familiar – well – at least what I could see under the pound of
carefully applied cosmetics. Had she been in New York this past
week? Perhaps at one of the Follies parties? I’d thought Geb looked
familiar too but couldn’t place him.

“Sister,” she’d said. I strained to place
masculine features on this tiny woman’s face but failed.

She smiled, then softly stated, “Melody, when
the handsome gentleman, who is now singing in a lovely baritone by
the piano in my parlor, came to my door earlier, Geb was in the
process of removing a pair of recent guests from New York. Guests
who babbled about their rescue being soon at hand by Briley McShan,
Follies stagehand. Guests who kindly pointed him out to me when I
asked whom they were yammering about.”

“Denise and Nevin.” There was no point in
trying to maintain my fictional Irish maid character. Anna, Geb and
whoever the head of this trio was, were about three steps ahead of
Briley and me. “How did you know about me though? My name?”

“Denise was squealing in delight at seeing
Mr. McShan but you have an ardent admirer yourself in the little
brat, because he kept rattling on about what a great, tall,
beautiful, wonderful dancer his redheaded friend Melody was. He
wondered if you’d accompanied his hero.”

“Cute kid, isn’t he?”

She shrugged. “I’m not fond of children. But
he’s a necessary part of my brother’s ultimate plan, so I tolerated
his presence.”

“And that plan is . . .?”

“None of your affair.” She smiled. “Unless
you become part of it at some point, which is a possibility. A very
strong possibility. I had heard your name before you came waltzing
into my establishment. My brother has mentioned you. He . . . likes
you.”

I stood. I could take this little witch down
in a heartbeat. I was taller, stronger, and had fifteen martial
arts workout DVDs at home. A nice roundhouse kick aimed at her jaw
could shut her up for the next year. I was about to deliver said
kick when she withdrew a small crossbow and arrow from the folds of
her lion costume.

“Don’t tempt me, Miss Flynn. Now, sit back
down like a good girl while I explain your situation in full.”

I sat. I had no desire to discover whether or
not Anna was a crack shot with a weapon straight out of a classical
tale of mythology. I tried to speak without letting my voice go up
a full octave in fear. “There truly is a plan? Can you share, oh,
even a teensy smidgeon of it?”