Haunting Melody (11 page)

“Melody? Briley?”

“Hmm?”

“The Count and I have just had a tiff and
he’s gone off in a huff and left me stranded tonight. I have no
money and no way home. Can you believe that scrub?”

Briley hid a grin. “You two fight at least
once a day. You should be used to that by now and carry money for
taxis with you. Let me see what I’ve got in my wallet.”

I grabbed his hand. “Wait. Saree? Wanna come
home with me? There are two beds in the room. We can sleep in
tomorrow.”

“Ooh, that’d be nice. Thanks, Mel.”

Briley took each of us by the arm. “In that
case, I’ll escort you both to the rooming house. I’d be afraid to
let the two of you loose on an unsuspecting New York after a big
night like this.”

The subway ride and walk to E.12th Street
seemed to take only a few minutes. The three of us laughed and
argued about the high and low points of the show and talked about
nothing serious until we reached the apartment.

Briley opened the lobby doors. “I’ll come by
tomorrow and escort you to the theatre.”

“You don’t have to do that. We’re big girls.
We can make it there,” I told him.

Briley’s expression turned grim. “Through all
the gaiety and mayhem tonight you may have forgotten. Francesca
Cerroni is dead. I don’t want another Follies girl sharing that
fate.”

I shivered, remembering that at some point in
my trip to the past I might well encounter the ghost of my future.
A Follies girl. Francesca? Saree? Or - that nasty suspicon which
kept growing stronger - me. I looked up at Briley. “Thanks. We will
take you up on that offer. The McShan escort and security service
has just opened for business.”

I dreamed I was showing off my high kicks
down a staircase while Fiona Belle sang a medley of Irving Berlin
tunes in harmony with Bert Williams. At the bottom of the stairs a
grandfather clock opened and out popped Savanna, accompanied by
three fat fairies wearing Prohibition browns. She pointed to her
Mickey Mouse wristwatch, yelling, “Time to come in, Mel!” She held
out a bouquet to me and I bowed to the sounds of staccato applause
that resembled door-locks clicking more than hands clapping.

“Melody. Saree. Wake up, girls.”

I opened a lid. Mrs. Donovan stood in the
doorway of my room holding a vase full of some sort of Japanese
lotus blossom.

“What?”

“They’re for you. Arrived a few minutes ago.
I brought 'em right up.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Donovan. Who are they
from?”

She ignored the question, trotted over to the
bed and handed the flowers to me. “Ya don’t see a lot of lotus
blossoms as gifts.”

“Damn straight.”

There was no card. Anonymous lotus blossoms.
The disappointment that swept over me was almost tangible. I knew
they weren’t from Briley. A few dances do not a love affair make. I
should have that one plastered on a T-shirt. Briley had future
plans that meant working full and overtime hours. He was serious.
He was also surrounded by gorgeous women who received bouquets on a
daily basis from multitudes of interested men. Probably thought
sending flowers to be insulting.

I had not convinced myself. I glanced over at
Saree. Still out cold. My new roomie was a champion sleeper. I’d
tossed most of the night but she’d smiled and snored.

I sighed, got out of bed, grabbed a robe and
headed for the community bathroom. Fifteen minutes later with the
stench of smoke gone from my freshly washed hair, face scrubbed
clean of the remnants of the night’s make-up I was ready to face
the morning. Or afternoon, which I suspected we’d reached an hour
or so ago.

Mrs. Donovan had plopped the lotus flowers
squarely on the dresser in their clear crystal vase. My bed had
been made. She was still there, fluffing pillows.

Saree was just opening her eyes and looking
around with an expression that said, “How in hell did I end up
here?”

Mrs. Donovan glared at me. “Stinks, don’t
it?”

“Pardon me?”

“That them flowers aren’t from Briley.”

“How did you know I even . . . ?”

I stopped. Stupid question. Of course she
knew.

“Don’t you worry none, Mel. The lad’ll come
around. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. Nothin’ to fret
about.”

She tossed the pillow on the bed then left
the room, banging the door shut behind her.

Saree looked suspicously at the flowers.
“What are those?”

“Lotus blossoms.” I handed them to her.

“Wowie! They’re different.”

She sniffed. “They smell nice. Much nicer
than me. There are at least five distinct cigarette brands on five
different areas of my body. From five different men twirling me
around the floor if I remember correctly. Are there showers in this
joint?”

“Down the hall. You used the community
bathroom last night, remember? The showers are behind the big door
next to the sinks.”

I threw my robe at her and wondered how we
were going to squeeze her into one of Bettina’s outfits so she
could trash the smoke-filled dress she’d had on from last night.
Saree was a good deal shorter than I - and probably Bettina - but
she was also good deal more - well - stacked. In a borrowed Bettina
shirt she’d look like a hooker on 8th Avenue after a long but
successful night.

Saree was back in twenty minutes, wrapped up
in the robe and looking her age - which she’d told me was
twenty-two - now that her make-up had been scrubbed off. I’d found
her a skirt that probably would fit and a lightweight sweater that
would doubtless be a little snug. I tossed them to her.

“. . .with Bettina’s regards.”

She preened. “She’s due in next weekend. I’ll
just be sure they’re cleaned before them. Oh damn my garters! Look
at the time.”

It was close to noon. I was surprised it
wasn’t later.

“Mel? I gotta go.”

“Why?”

“Because the Count will start calling my
place and when I’m not there, he’ll start calling every man I’ve
ever dated. He gets jealous. I don’t want him to go around
Manhattan beating up old boyfriends.” She sighed. “Something tells
me this romance will be ending soon. I’m getting very bored with
the possessiveness.” She grinned. “But the limo is terrif!”

I laughed at her. “You, Saree Goldman, remind
me so much of my best friend back in Memphis." I didn't tell her
she was actually in Manhattan. No way to introduce them. "She dumps
guys faster than speeding bullets, loves to party, and thoroughly
enjoys the perks that come with dating wealthy men.”

Saree giggled. “Smart cookie! Maybe I’ll get
to meet her sometime and we can exchange war stories about our
various flames.”

I didn’t attempt to explain that meeting
Savanna could prove difficult unless Saree made it to the ripe old
age of hundred and twenty or so. Shame. They’d adore each
other.

Saree dressed with the speed only a dancer
can perfect with quick changes offstage, hugged me and was out the
door before I realized I’d wanted to tell her I’d appreciated
having a roommate after Briley had brought up the topic of
Francesca Cerroni. Since I figured only one ghost haunted #413, if
two possibles stuck together we should stay safe.

I had about seven hours before I had to be at
the theatre. It was spitting rain outside so playing tourist didn’t
look enticing. I headed down to the lobby to look for Mrs. Donovan.
Not there. The girl behind the desk introduced herself as Della
Lowder, one of the boarders who lived on the first floor of the
house. I explained my request and though she seemed surprised she
said she’d see about finding me some plain paper to draw on. I’d
decided to make use of my free time by sketching some costumes for
Frolic. Eyeing the funky outfits at the two parties had inspired
me.

By the end of the day I had six nice sketches
done. Whether they ended up on stage in the 21st Century, or even
somewhere in the 20th, it didn’t matter. I’d been productive and
managed to dodge thinking of ghosts - or Briley McShan. Well, part
of the time.

Briley himself showed up at the rooming house
at 6:30 to escort me to the theatre.

“Hey, Briley. How was your day?”

“Fine. Yours?”

I couldn’t resist. “Lovely. Started this
morning when lotus blossoms arrived for me.”

He glowered. “Lotus blossoms? From whom?”

“Oh, an admirer.”

One eyebrow lifted. “Don’t get too thrilled.
There are more stage-door Johnnys sending junk to every Follies
chorine after shows than there are pastrami sandwiches at Katz’s
Delicatessen. Peter Herzochevskia always sends the new girls
something after opening night. As do Grady Martel, Robert Samson,
Lawrence Vassily, Lloyd Ellingsford - shall I go on?”

“Oh.”

I felt myself deflate.

Briley kindly jumped to another subject.
“Have you seen the reviews?”

“No. They’re out?”

“Yes, indeed, they are. And they’re terrific.
I’d say John Steele got the lion’s share of the praise, as did Bert
Williams. The Times critic raved about Berlin’s music. On the
whole, it was a theatrical triumph.”

“And did that redhead with all that talent
get a mention?”

“You mean Jessie Reed?” he chortled.

I lightly tapped him on his chest. “No! I
mean Mel Flynn from Memphis, Tennessee.”

“Sorry. After all, you did come in too late
to make the program, much less catch the eyes of the critics.”

I gave a mock sigh. “I suppose I shall just
have to bear the disappointment of not being an instant star.”

He laughed then grew serious. “Is that what
you want? To be a star in the Ziegfeld Follies? Then go on to the
moving pictures?”

I shook my head. “Nope. I’ve never had
aspirations to be on camera. Or even on stage. I’m much more
comfortable designin' costumes than wearing them. I needed this job
and I’m lovin' it but my goal has always been to design for
Broadway. Win a Tony someday.”

“A Tony?”

I hadn’t had an anachronistic slip for at
least twenty-four hours. This was major. The Antoinette Perry
Awards would not become a fixture of American Theatre until
sometime in the mid-Nineteen-Forties. I frantically began to come
up with a really good whopper to cover.

Briley took my elbow and guided me across a
busy intersection that had remained waterlogged from the day’s
rain. “Never mind. I can see your brain churning to fabricate some
some ridiculous answer. I don’t want to force you to lie.”

I rapidly changed the subject while I had the
chance. “So, is there another party scheduled for tonight? Seems
like frivolity is the password for the Follies group.”

“I believe tonight there’s a smaller soiree.
Just the cast and crew and a few dates of either back at Francy’s.
No press, no money people; only the extended Ziegfeld family.”

“Sounds nice.”

I held my breath wondering if he’d ask if I
were planning on going. Of course, since I’d been the one to bring
it up in the first place, he probably hadn’t intended to tell me
anything.

“Do you think you’ll be going, Mel?”

The comment was slightly off-handed and
definitely formal, but he seemed to be looking a bit too intently
at the sidewalk. I wasn’t so delicate that I couldn’t step into a
puddle without it causing injury and I’m sure he was well aware of
that fact.

“I’m considering it. If no one notices my
clothes which apparently aren’t the norm.”

I was wearing the gaucho pants again.

Briley smiled. “I like them. They show off
your, um, figure, without being obvious.”

I’d just been given a compliment. I had to
accept it lightly or I’d never see another one.

“Thanks. I predict in the future this type of
pant/dress will become all the rage. Women will buy them along with
cuffed cargo pants at funky stores called The Gap and Old
Navy.”

“Ah! You can foretell the future?”

“Of course.”

“Great! Want to tell me who’ll win the World
Series this October so I can bet properly?”

I smiled. “No, no. No predictions for evil
monetary gain. There’ll be enough trouble with this Series without
my help. How about I just tell you that in 1969 men will walk on
the moon?”

He roared. Five people on Broadway buying
food from a vendor turned to stare.

“You’re too funny! And we have only fifty
years to wait to see if you’re correct.”

“Okay, wise guy. How about if I tell you that
the Follies will be forced to close down for a couple of weeks this
comin' August?”

He exhaled. “What?”

“Yep. Actors Equity Strike.”

I couldn’t believe I’d remembered that. But
the TV program about Irving Berlin had mentioned that fact and I
have an audio graphic memory- especially for ridiculous bits of
trivia.

Briley’s face held a mixture of suspicion and
humor. “Why would you say that?”

“Because I can foresee the future.”

“Or you’re making a big guess since you’ve
doubtless heard about the various shows going on strike since this
past spring.”

I winked at him. “Or that.”

We’d reached the theatre by this time and I
was glad to put an end to this conversation about my psychic
abilities before I really got into trouble.

I plopped down into my chair in the dressing
room and began applying stage make-up.

Saree tapped me on the shoulder. “So?”

“So, what?”

“Briley. He walked you to the theatre
tonight, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“So?”

“Jeez, Saree, you’re nosy! So - nothing. We
walked. We talked. Nothing.”

“He likes you.”

“He tolerates me. I mean, we’ve been talkin'
but there’s too much hurt in his past to let me into his life as
anything more than a friend.”

She took my powder puff and playfully
thwapped me in the face with it. Powder sailed everywhere. “He
likes you.”