Haunting Melody (8 page)

I wasn’t sure what being a great drummer had
to do with detecting skills, but I wasn’t going to argue with
either the Count or Mr. Bongo. The chauffeur kept nodding. I’d only
glimpsed his face once when he opened the car door for me, but I
now mused that Mr. Bongo looked like he chewed the rims of snare
drums for breakfast. Not a pretty man.

Saree sniffed. “I guess there’s nothing more
to be learned tonight, unless Mr. Bongo cares to grill the maids at
the Ellingsford’s, so let’s just try and have fun this evening. It
won’t help find Francesca if we arrive with sour faces. Not that
anything will help Francesca now anyway. Oh geez. I need . . .” Her
voice caught.

“Need what?”

Saree turned to me. “I need to tell Bettina.
Francesca lived down the hall from her and they were great friends.
Francesca sewed special costumes for her.”

The murdered girl had lived in my building.
Was Francesca my ghost? She didn’t exactly fit the profile Fiona
Belle had provided, unless she’d had been onstage a time or two,
but she had worked for the Follies and seemed to have been loved by
everyone who knew her.

The Count steered the conversation towards
happier topics. We spent the rest of the drive talking about
current shows, the latest New York politics, and lots of baseball
as well. I had to restrain myself from telling everybody that the
biggest scandal in baseball history would occur this October when
the Red Sox would throw the Series.

We made good time to Lynbrook, Long Island.
The car glided up to the gates of a mansion that stood squarely on
at least five acres of land within minutes of leaving the Long
Island parkway exit.

Saree nudged me as we got out of the car.
“Watch out for Lloyd Ellingsford. We call him Mr. Flirt. He’s got a
gorgeous wife and I have no idea if he ever follows through with
any of the girls he eyes, but he’s as smooth as a baby’s rump.”

A man dressed in a white linen suit with
contrasting pink shirt and tie approached the Count’s group. By his
side was a stunning brunette wearing what was clearly one of
Lucille’s designs. Pure white. Pure silk. Pure glamour. Numerous
silkworms had given their all for this outfit and doubtless felt
their sacrifice had been worth it. I considered groveling right
there on the ground for the chance to inspect the workmanship.

The man in the vanilla suit greeted us with,
“Lloyd Ellingsford. My wife, Lili. Swell that you were able to come
tonight. Saree - ravishing! Briley. Good to see you again. Count,
you look like you just took another knockout in the fifth. And who
is this charming young lady you’ve brought to decorate our
party?”

Saree had regained at least a portion of her
normally exuberant humor. She now punched Mr. Ellingsford in the
arm and giggled, “Lloyd. You’re so cute. This is Melody Flynn, from
Memphis, Tennessee and a brand new Follies dancer. Flo himself
picked her. She’s only been in Manhattan a couple of days. But
she’s one of us.”

LLoyd Ellingsford took my right hand. His
wife, Lili, took my left. Lili smiled. “Welcome to Long Island,
Miss Flynn. I must warnt you, though, do watch out for some of our
more exuberant guests or you’ll find yourself married or living in
sin before the night is over.”

My God. How wild was this party likely to
get? And if I found someone who wanted to marry me, should I
mention I might be disappearing right after the ceremony?

Briley growled. “Lili, Miss Flynn is one of
the newest Follies girls and she may shock easily. I don’t think
marriage or sin is in the cards for her ‘til she's at least had a
chance to perform.”

Lili laughed. “Honey, I was a chorus girl for
about three weeks before Lloyd whisked me away but I guess you
girls like to stay independent these days. I won’t try and match
you up with anyone - yet.”

I decided to simply keep quiet. Safer. I
turned around and stepped into opulence and decadence times ten. An
entire ballroom had been set up with food tables too numerous to
count. Paté, caviar, veal in cream sauce, and at least twenty
different cheeses beckoned from one side. Pastries, fruits and
petit fours enticed from the other. I began to search for a place
where I could sit and enjoy the craziness, but kept getting
sidetracked by introductions and waiters. There was an onslaught of
men bowing and asking for my name and giving me theirs. Half of
them were my Dad’s age and very married. I wondered if telling them
sin wasn't on the menu, and consequently neither was I, would
penetrate the gin and rum-soaked brains.

A hand suddenly grabbed my dress. I whirled
around, prepared to slap one of the harassers. Instead I saw Nevin
Dupre. The child grinned as he tugged at my green chiffon hem. His
mother was right behind him. Denise had changed from her working
outfit and was now clad in a gorgeous white beaded dress that had
no waistline and foreshadowed clearly the flapper era that was on
its way. She looked chic and immensely beautiful. Briley was
steering them both through the maze of humanity.

I picked Nevin up and hugged him. He smelled
of chocolate and cinnamon.

“Hi, sweetie. You look very handsome. Your
mama is just gorgeous. And talented. Denise, am I correct in
assuming you were in charge of these goodies?”

Denise nodded. “I did not do zee actual
cooking, n’est pas. I order others.”

“Well, you order beautifully. I am more than
impressed. You should open a restaurant.”

Denise beamed. “You are so kind.
Merci,beaucoup. I do hope to open le restaurante Francaise someday.
I must put together zee capital though and it is tres
difficel.”

I smiled. “I wish I could take you down to
Memphis, where I’m from. New York is loaded with French
restaurants, but Memphis is more into soul food. They could use
some classy French cuisine.”

Briley’s nearly spat out whatever he was
drinking. “Soul food? Cripes! What’s soul food? Fish? You say the
most ridiculous things.”

I’d done it again. How does one explain soul
food? I knew that in later years Harlem would be besieged by
northerners sampling the wonders of southern delicacies - but 1919?
I wasn’t sure if even the trendiest New Yorkers were diving into
cornbread, collard greens, ribs and bread pudding. I started to
give a short history of soul cuisine and soul music, but was
rescued before making another verbal mishap that might reveal all
was not kosher as far as Melody Flynn was concerned.

Lili Ellingsford was “yoo-hoo-ing” from a few
feet away while escorting a hunk dressed in black tails who
obviously was bucking for an intro. Briley grimaced then hauled it
over to a table where snooty Eloise Jenkins stood chugging down
champagne.

Lili grabbed my hand. “Melody. I’d like you
to meet Prince Peter Herzochevskia, from Russia. He’s been begging
for the last half-hour to be introduced to the gorgeous redhead.
His English is a bit lacking, so smile a lot.”

A Russian Prince? Peter Herzochevskia? He
looked like the newest star on a Bolshoi Ballet roster. Absolutely
straight black hair, brown eyes. Tall. Mid-thirties or so. And he
was asking about me? Thinks I’m gorgeous? Excellent. Bring on his
highness. Take that, Briley McShan.

I smiled and tried to appear glamorous and
sophisticated. “Hello, Prince Herzochevskia. Pleasure to meet
you.”

“Und you, Miss Flynn. Pliz. Call me Peter.
Lili says you haf recently up from Southern part of U.S. Da?”

“I’m from Memphis, Tennessee.”

He just stood silently, expectantly. I get
nervous when people don’t talk back to me. I can speak a little
French and a little more Spanish, but I’m not up on Russian lingo.
Maybe I could give him a quick rundown of the sights and sounds of
Memphis and he’d never notice that what I was telling him wouldn’t
be part of the town for at least fifty years.

I smiled. “Um. Memphis is a neat town to grow
up in. Great music, great food, great folks. Beale Street is
awesome. I’m partial to the Elvis Presley stuff, especially
Graceland. Oh yeah, there’s this cool Arena built like a pyramid.
Somebody took the idea from a pyramid-shaped pavilion they built
back durin' the World’s Fair in the 1890’s. Which was actually not
in Memphis but in Nashville. It’s near Mud Island. The Pyramid,
that is. Not Nashville.”

The prince’s eyes were glazing. Whether from
trying to keep up with my English or the speed of my monologue, I
wasn’t sure. I couldn’t blame him for going into shock. Here was a
stranger rambling away, in what was to him a foreign language,
about a town a thousand miles away and characters he’d never heard
of.

“Peer -ramid? El-viss? Maud Island?”

I’d better clarify this in case Memphis was
scheduled for the Royal Tour anytime soon.

“Well, uh, it’s not really finished yet. The
Pyramid. And Mud Island will be like an amusement arcade. Coney
Island, I guess. Ever been there?”

He shook his head.

“Yoou Femeely?”

He must be asking if I had family there.

“Um, yes. My dad and some cousins.” True.

“No. No. Femeely? You are, how you say,
different? Red hair but features no match.”

My turn to be confused. “What do you
mean?”

“How you say, an-says-tree?”

“Oh! Ancestors. Ethnic and cultural
background.” I grinned. “We’re mutts. Like most Americans. A mix.
My Dad is Irish. Mom . . . was . . . Lebanese. That’s why I look
like a cross between Saint Bridget and Cleopatra.”

He smiled. “Nice. Yes?”

I smiled too. “Yes.”

“So, Prince? Peter. Have some champagne?”

Fortunately a waiter bearing a large tray of
bubbly was making his rounds close to us. I grabbed a glass and
handed it to the man. He obviously knew that word. He appeared
grateful.

This business of meeting princes, counts and
rich tycoons was fun. Even when they didn’t speak English. I
started to ask Prince Herzochevskia about Russia and the Revolution
and why and how he came to America, but never got the chance.
Eloise Jenkins, the omnipresent Follies wannabe appeared out of
nowhere, grabbed the man by the arm then steered him towards the
doors leading to the pool, cooing all the way.

I turned. Lloyd Ellingsford stood behind me
with another man who was extending champagne to me. “Melody. May I
introduce Mr. Grady Martel? He’s from your part of the
country.”

Oh hell. I was about to meet a fellow Memphis
resident who knew the town as it was in this year instead of nearly
a century from now.

I’d just stepped in deep doo-doo.

Grady Martel towered over me by at least six
inches. The man was huge. Dark blonde hair, hazel eyes and an
honest-to-goodness cleft chin completed the picture of the ultimate
Hollywood Western hero.

“Where exactly are ya from, Miz Melody?”

“Memphis.” I swallowed. Hard.

Grady roared. The sound nearly broke my
eardrums. “Lloyd, you dumb Yankee, you! I’m from Texas, Hon. Not
exactly next door to Tennessee. But trust folks north of the
Mason-Dixon to believe if you’re from anywhere south of Brooklyn,
you’re next-door neighbors in Dixie.”

I smiled broadly. I was now more than happy
to be neighborly.

“What part of Texas, Mr. Martel?”

“Fort Worth. I’m in cattle. And please. It’s
Grady. Mr. Martel is ma dad.”

A vision of Grady Martel riding a horse
through a ranch while herding Longhorn steers flickered through my
mind. Grady was continuing our conversation in greater than
conversational volume. He shouted, “So, I hear you’re a brand new
Follies chorine? Is that right?”

“Yes. Hired yesterday. Worn out today.”

“You don’t look worn out to me. You look just
fine. Pure applesauce! And from Memphis, Tennessee. A down-home
southern belle.”

I took a chance. “Have you ever been to
Memphis, Mr. Uh, Grady?”

“Well, only passin’ through. We take that
route every now and then to get to Chicago. Sell a lot of beef
there.”

I breathed a bit easier. “Chicago, huh? I’ve
never been there.”

He nudged me. I nearly fell over. Did I
mention -the man was big.

“Chicago ain’t exactly most excitin’ place on
the map, ma’am. It’s gen’raly cold and gen’raly dirty. Decent
bar-b-que and that’s about it. What’s Memphis like? Any hot spots I
should look into sometime? Lloyd and I are takin’ a trip there next
month. We usually do some diggin’ overseas, amateur archeologists,
but I told him it was time to get out of the dirt and give America
a try.”

I smiled sweetly. “My experience is with
Memphis music, Grady. I’m not the best person to recommend wild
dens of iniquity.”

He roared again. “Sugar, I’ll bet you could
turn a church bazaar into a den of iniquity if you put your mind to
it. Yore the prettiest gal I’ve seen since I’ve been up here.”

“How long is that?”

“Oh, ‘bout a month now. Doing some business
with some foreign gentlemen from Persia. They didn’t want to come
to Texas and I knew Lloyd would help me out while I was here so I
agreed to come to New York. I usually get up here once every six
months or so. Wanna help me out?”

“Help you out?”

“Keep me from bein’ bored. You ever get
bored?”

I was at a loss as to how to respond to this
last question. Fortunately, I didn’t have to.

“Grady. Lloyd. I need you.” Lili’s soprano
trilled across the room. She was standing by French doors and
waving vigorously.

“Sorry to leave you, Hon. Looks like duty
calls.”

The Prince had kissed my hand before he’d
taken off with Eloise. But Grady Martel was more direct. He
enveloped me in a hug that nearly broke my ribs and lifted me at
least six inches off the floor.

A voice murmured near my left ear the instant
I was set down. “Come, lovely lady. Forget the prince and the
cattle baron and have a glass of bubbly with me. Make this tired
heart sing.” Izzy Rubens materialized at my side. He was still
wearing the grubby brown ensemble from our meeting in the alley
this afternoon.