Haunting Melody (26 page)

Teresa drove us to the train station without
even commenting on the mud-streaked truck Briley hadn’t had a
chance to clean. As Briley and Izzy were hoisting bags and
delivering them to the smiling porter, my aunt motioned for me to
stay by the car. “Take care of yourself, Mel. Take care of Briley.
He’s a good one and he loves you. And take care of my paintings and
piano when you get them – which could be - soon.”

She hugged me, delivered a quick kiss to my
cheek, then started up the truck and roared off before I had a
chance to ask how she knew I wasn’t her cousin. How she knew I was
her Great-great-niece and how she knew I didn’t belong in this
century. Or if I was merely imagining the hints she was tossing
out.

Perhaps I could manage to wrest the truth out
of Fiona Belle Donovan Winthorp when I next saw her. But I doubted
it.

The trip back to New York was long, and hot
and exhausting. Briley and Izzy shared a sleeper car; and I found
myself crammed into a car filled with giggling bridesmaids, the
giggling bride and her giggling maid of honor.

The length, the heat and the exhaustion were
doubtless to blame for the fight Briley and I had about ten hours
into the trip.

He, Izzy and I had all met in the dining car
for a nice dinner. Or what started out as a nice dinner. Izzy was
still excited about the prospect of wooing Saree Goldman. In fact,
that’s all Izzy could talk about.

“Saree thinks I’m cute, right? But aren’t she
and the Count still stepping out?”

“Last I heard, Izzy, it was over. This could
be time to make your move.”

“Well, what should I do? I mean,
exactly?”

Briley snorted. “Izzy, I’m asking this again.
How old are you? You’ve been friends with Saree for two years. Be
brave. Ask her out!”

I laughed. “He’s right. It’s not that big a
deal and if you'd like I’ll say a word or two to smooth the way
before you come waltzing backstage with a dozen roses and an
engagement ring!”

Izzy blushed. I realized that was exactly the
scenario the lovestruck reporter had envisioned. He sighed. “Much
as I love the company, I’m going to retire to the cabin and muse
about how best to woo the charming and funny Miss Goldman. I rather
like the idea of the roses and the ring.”

He rose and scooched his chair away from the
table. “Goodnight, fair Melody. You too, McShan. Enjoy the rest of
your meal.”

Briley and I began chatting about Memphis
music and about Memphis bar-b-que. He asked me about the
differences in 1919 song and cuisine as compared to my experience
growing up in the 21st Century, a question that surprised me since
I knew he was still skeptical about the time-travel story. Hell. I
was still skeptical and I was living it.

We talked about Elvis and Broadway music from
the 1920s on, and he told me how much he’d liked the songs I’d sung
and played on the piano at The Ellingsford’s and Ronnie Reds. He
wanted to hear Elton and Elvis on, “What did you call them?
Seedys?”

“C.D.s. Compact Discs. Tiny Victrola
recordings that don’t wear out.”

“Hmmm. I’ll bet Frank would love to hear
about these.” He paused. “But I guess he won’t, will he? He’s
staying in Memphis and it could be years before I get the chance to
see him again. I can’t believe this. After more than two years of
wondering what the hell happened to him I find him and he simply
decides to get married and live happily ever after a thousand miles
away from his only family?”

“Briley, y’all will see each other. And,
while cell phones and wireless stuff doesn’t exist, live telephone
operators are really better because they love connecting brothers
to brothers.”

“Oh yeah, wireless phones. Another marvel.
I’m amazed you’ve managed to survive in this primitive era of 1919.
So sorry to have inconvenienced you with our barbaric ways.”

I tried to keep it light. “Hey, every century
has good and bad. I have to admit, I have missed the technological
foo-faws I take for granted in my time. Heck, with internet access
we could have discovered Frank’s whereabouts sooner, and probably
figured out the Ptah plot too.” I paused. “Although, with all the
grand technology of the 21st Century, is it even possible for me to
get back home? I mean my little trip here wasn’t exactly computer
generated. It was more music, brandy, and weird-witch
propelled.”

He shut his eyes for a second. “My God. I’m
right. You want to leave me, don’t you? You want to go flying
through time on Fiona Belle's broomstick or doll and forget all
this ever happened. I’ve been blind and stupid.”

“No! That’s not what I’m saying! I’m just
speculating on the how of this time-travel business. Briley, I want
. . .“

I didn’t get a chance to tell him I wanted to
stay in this time period forever if I could figure out how to get
my Dad and Savanna here - or if any flying back to the 21st Century
occurred I wanted Briley coming with me. He didn’t wait to hear
this. He rose, tossed his napkin on the table, and muttered, “Well,
I’m so sorry we’re so provincial and medieval for the future girl.
Forgive me for getting in the way of your eagerly anticipated
return to your own life.”

He left before I had a chance to swallow and
tell him he was nuts. I chased him out of the dining car but Mr.
Six-Foot Four was moving fast and not stopping no matter how many
times I called after him.

Fine. I yelled, “So just be a jerk,
McShan!”

Briley had closed the door leading back to
his end of the train, so he didn’t hear that last statement. The
one I didn’t mean.

It wasn’t like him to jump to conclusions,
but I knew he was hurting over what he saw as Frank and Denise’s
desertion, so he wasn’t thinking clearly. We’d talk once we reached
Manhattan and he had a day or two to calm down. I’d tell him that I
hadn’t expected - hadn’t really wanted - to fall for someone out of
my time but it had happened and it was something we had to deal
with.

I also had to tell him I was terrified that
if I stayed in 1919 we wouldn’t be together anyway. I’d never even
make it to 1920 because I was pretty damned certain I’d end up up
as the ghost who’d been haunting Apartment 413. Ghost as in
dead.

I fretted about my argument with Briley the
rest of the way back to Manhattan while being forced to listen to
my new cabinmates gush over satin lace and garters and who’d
provide hooch for the reception.

I tried to knock on his door but got no
answer. Either he or Izzy were champion sleepers or Izzy was off
planning his courting of Saree and Briley was faking buzzsaw level
snoring.

I bring all this up to explain why I got no
sleep for the two-and-a-half day trip back to New York. And I
explain the lack of sleep as a defense for why I wasn’t on my
guard. I add to that the fact that I didn’t bother to go to the
dining car again and consequently was famished when we reached
Manhattan. I wanted food. Which is why I didn’t even notice the
Geb-lookalike who nabbed me while I was handing over coins for a
hot dog with sauerkraut from the vendor right outside Grand Central
Station.

I snuggled next to my sleeping companion.

“Lucy? Is that you? Where’s the ghost, puppy?
Huh? Where’s the ghost?”

No answer. No yips or growls. No slurping
tongue bathing my cheek with canine caresses. Something heavier,
and without the fur, lay on my neck. I opened my eyes and promptly
screamed as I pushed a hand away from me. I sat up, fully awake
now, and glared beside me.

“Oh geez! A friggin’ mannequin! Can this get
any more clichéd? Kidnapped, brought to a factory, and dumped in
with naked mannequins. I am now immensely ticked-off.”

I was even less happy when I discovered my
attire had changed. I’d been wearing my black gaucho pants and
shirt earlier. Now I was dressed in a costume straight out of a
Tarzan movie. Lion skins. Terrific. Ptah Junior, must be behind
this. Guess I was cast as Jane. One of my shoulders was bare, while
the other held up the outfit that barely reached my knees.

I was awake but still a bit unsteady, so I
used the wall behind me to support myself while I eased into a
standing position – the better to explore my surroundings. Five
minutes later I was ready to plop back on the floor with the
mannequin I’d named, ‘Lionel’. A male mannequin - although not
exactly anatomically correct. I deemed it male when I discovered
non-existent boobs.

I was in a warehouse covered with boxes,
other mannequins, objets d’art, funky little rugs and curtains,
vases, lamps and a strange array of telephones. A durn dark
warehouse. Two dimly lit bulbs in ugly chandeliers swung about
twenty-five feet above me. The two windows within my reach were
covered with thick burlap and iron bars that would more than keep
any would-be burglars or rescuers at bay. Or in the bay.

There was definitely water below. I could
tell, when I stripped off as much of the burlap as my bare hands
could manage without ripping those hands to shreds, that I must be
close to the Brooklyn Bridge. It was light outside. I had no idea
whether it was the same day as when Geb Two had nabbed me or
whether I’d spent the night in drugged slumber while some creep
removed my clothes and dressed me up in the lion skins.

At least the outfit was clean. It wasn’t as
though some poor lion had been stripped naked and his skin hastily
stitched up into a garment. The thought flashed that someone who
deals with furriers has pretty good access to wherever skins are
prepared. Someone like Lloyd Ellingsford. Then again, a rich
cattleman might easily exchange a bit of beef hide for lion. Grady
Martel. I was in a warehouse, which suggested imports and exports,
which was Prince Peter’s occupation. I sighed. No use speculating.
Ptah Junior could be any one of the three, or any other Follies
fan. The Count wasn’t off my list yet, nor was Lawrence
Vassily.

I patted Lionel on his bare waxed butt, then
picked up my bag the kidnapper had politely left with me and
searched inside for a nail file or bobby pin or something smart
heroines use to jimmy locks when they get pinched. I found my cell
and about fifteen sheets of music plus the notebook I use for
sketching costumes. Lip balm, mascara and blush were at the bottom
and for one insane moment I considered using the mascara wand as a
weapon. One poke in Geb’s eye could give me the time needed to
haul. Any Geb. One, Two or Three. Didn’t matter which.

For the first time since I’d awakened, fear
washed over me as coldly as the water in that bay. No chance to
escape. Stupid. I was contemplating maiming by make-up. I picked up
a piece of sheet music. Perhaps I could sing my way out of
captivity? Keep my abductors so enamored of my vocal skills they’d
release me just like that.

I suddenly remembered I’d been singing at
Grand Central before a needle poked into me, rendering me totally
oblivious and mute. Geb Whichever had muttered “warehouse” and my
drugged-fogged brain had started warbling the words to the old
Commodores hit "Brick House." Loudly. I had no idea if I’d been
smart enough to substitute “ware” for the brick. Not that anyone
would figure out my meaning anyway. I did seem to recall a couple
of tourists tossing coins my way so I guess I’d been on pitch for
the impromptu concert.

I put the sheet music back inside my bag. I
somehow knew "Heartbreak Hotel" - whether by Elvis or the Memphis
Beales - would not win me any points with the Gebs or their boss
once they began the ceremony.

I started to cry. Big, ugly, nasty tears that
washed away what little make-up I’d retained from the train trip
and however many hours on a warehouse floor. I sobbed until I
choked and coughed. It had not been a good week. Nearly getting
raped in a bordello, committing arson, getting slapped around,
diving into dirt and dust and mud and engaging in fights with
small, nasty women was not what I imagined doing when I first heard
I was going to be a Ziegfeld Follies girl.

I wondered if I’d ever get the chance to tell
Briley I’d fallen in love with him.

Envisioning his face in my mind did the
trick. I quit sniveling and sniffing and decided it was time to put
to use one of the less-than-legal techniques for burglary that
Savanna’s youngest brother had taught me when I was eight and he
was ten.

I dug back into my Elvis bag, found a wad of
moderately lipstick-stained tissues, blew my nose then began
searching for something that would allow me to sneak out of this
prison. I found my handy-dandy combination flashlight, screwdriver
and knife. Then I heard a sound from what had to be the front of
this giant room.

I returned the all-purpose weapon to my bag,
slung the bag over my shoulder and waited. Soft streams of daylight
still floated through the window where I’d torn the burlap so I
knew it was nowhere near midnight yet. And midnight seemed to be
the hour for reincarnation rituals.

Geb Two strode across the cluttered, giant,
room bearing a tray in his massive hands. I sniffed. Bagels. Fresh
bagels. I wasn’t exactly crazy about the current accommodations and
situation but I was so hungry I was ready to devour anything set
before me in any prison. And these bagels smelled wonderful. Geb
Two motioned for me to take a step back then set the tray on a
table.

“Wait ‘til I haf leef.”

“Sure.” I tried to identify the man’s accent.
German? Yikes. The war was over but these fellows weren’t happy
with the outcome, and I was well aware that they’d start another in
Europe in less than twenty years. I instinctively knew this guy was
no sad émigré fleeing the Kaiser for freedom in America. In twenty
years he’d be in tall black boots proudly sporting a swastika. I
had no desire to tangle with him.

He turned then shut the huge sliding doors at
the end of the room. Even if I’d had my lethal wand of mascara
ready, there’d been no time to stop him long enough to jab him or
watch as he laughed himself blind over my feeble attempt to
escape.