Haunting Melody (16 page)

Briley nodded. “Where do you work, Miss
Flynn?”

“Teresa, please. I work at A. Schwab, the
department store.” She beamed at us. “I’m a window dresser. I love
workin’ with the fashions that arrive at the store and love
creatin’ tableaux for each season.”

I smiled broadly. “I design costumes. I guess
artistic talent runs in the family.”

We hugged each other as she whispered,
“Passed from generation to generation. Nice.”

Teresa led us upstairs to rooms separated by
a bathroom in between. She turned to go, then whirled back around.
“Those houses? The ones on Gayoso Avenue. It’s an odd thing, but
here we have men and women engaged in, er, activities that should
be the closest, most familiar, intimate experience in one’s life.
All those men. All those women. Yet so separate from one another. I
swear, that section of Gayoso should be renamed ‘Lonely
Street’.”

She smiled, then strode down the hall to what
I assumed was her bedroom. I stood still and wondered if I’d heard
right. Briley was oblivious. He headed right into his room. He
looked exhausted and it hit me again how deeply he cared for Denise
and her son.

I sank down on the most comfortable mattress
I’d ever felt, but sprang back up again when I heard Briley pacing
next door. I yelled through the space in the bathroom,

“You’ll wear out the rug, Briley. Come on
over and we’ll chat, hows about?”

He rapped politely on the entrance to my
bedroom from the hall, not the bath.

“I can’t rest.”

“Neither can I.”

We stared at each other.

“All right, Mel. We’re here. We’re in
Memphis; we’ve managed to find lodging with your doppelganger aunt.
What’s next? Where is this Heartbroken Hotel? Do we need
transportation?”

I ran to the window, threw open the sash,
leaned out and stared at the streets of Memphis.

“It’s Heartbreak Hotel. And it’s not really a
hotel. I’m pretty sure it becomes part of Graceland in like 1988 or
so.”

“Then where in tarnation are we supposed to
look for Denise? I thought you had this all figured out.”

I sighed. “Briley. The sheet music was a clue
just to get us to Memphis. Now that we’re here, we have to start
thinking metaphorically.”

“Metaphorically?”

“Yeah. Like metaphor? Used to describe
something not literally. Figuratively.”

Briley stared at me with an expression
steadily growing darker than the soul of the man who’d kidnapped
Denise and Nevin. (Metaphorically speaking.) “I know damn well what
a metaphor is. We have them in 1919. Your 21st century brains did
not create them.”

I grinned. At least he was still willing to
entertain the notion that time travel existed. He added, “I’m
merely asking how this particular metaphor relates in our quest to
find Denise and Nevin. Do you have any ideas?”

I nodded. “Yep. Check the bordellos. It’s the
only thing that makes any sense.”

“Nothing makes sense in this entire
endeavor.” He paused, then continued, “But I guess we’ve got to go
on the theory that white slavers grabbed them up, that Francesca
somehow died before she could be taken away from the city, and that
it’s very possible the other two Follies girls who disappeared over
six months ago did not go willingly.”

“My only problem is -where does Nevin fit
into this scenario?” I shuddered. “Unless there’s some sleazy
pedophile involved as well.”

Briley turned white and I hastened to add,
“But I’m sure that’s way off the beam I mean, no one else who went
missing was a child. I didn’t say that right, did I?”

He nodded. “I’m determined to believe Nevin
just got taken along with Denise because he’s always with her.
She’s a wonderful mother, and she’s careful about who babysits him
even backstage when she’s working there. His being taken wasn’t
intentional.”

I nodded.“Sounds logical. I pray you’re
right. It’s horrible enough to imagine of these girls involved in -
what they’re involved in - but a child?”

We both shuddered.

“Okay. I guess we need to get organized.”

Briley smiled. “I’d say so.”

“Well, I’ve got to admit I’m kind of stumped
on how best to proceed. I mean I can’t see us just casually
strolling up to the cathouses on Gayoso Avenue and yelling, ‘Yo!
Denise, Nevin? Y’all in there? Wanna jump out a window and
high-tail back to the train station with us?’”

Briley bit his lip. “Bold, yes. Sensible, no.
Let me think for a second.”

I kept quiet, watching his face and praying
by the end of this trip, if not this night, the worry lines would
smooth out and the pain in his eyes would turn to joy or at least
calm.

“Briley? I have a suggestion. Well, it’s more
a request. Let’s eat.”

“I agree. Both of our brains are quietly
disintegrating while we stand here.”

“Let’s raid the kitchen. I mean, Aunt Teresa
- durn - I’ve got to skip the Aunt before I totally slip up -
anyway, she said the house is ours. And if my great-grandparents
were anything like my grandparents, the larder is full.”

It was. Briley and I found homemade bread and
hunks of cheese and fruit and even leftover bar-b-que in the small
box that had been replenished with ice earlier in the day.

It was cooler in the parlor so we took our
meal there. I was sated, but nervous. I headed for the piano and
began to play show tunes to calm me down.

Nothing helped. Briley kept pacing and I kept
playing and both of us stayed on edge. I felt as if I was waiting
for something to happen. I also felt the presence of whomever I’d
felt had been following us. Someone who’d discoverd in Manhattan we
were going to Memphis. And why.

Briley finished his supper, then immediately
began pacing around the Flynn dining room.

“It’s time I started searching. Now.”

“Excuse me? Did I hear a singular there? As
in one and not both of us searching? What happened to the concept
of togetherness?”

“It’s a good concept. For sipping lemonade,
for dancing, for quiet conversation and for kissing under the
stars. But it’s a lousy idea for nights spent pursuing kidnap
victims. So, you, Miss Mel, will be staying here while I take a
quick tour of the local pleasure establishments and see if I can
determine if Denise is being held in captivity at one. It’s also
not a good concept for an attractive, decent girl to be asking
about those places.”

I started to protest again, but he
interrupted, chuckling, “It’s not really funny, but with your
talent for getting into trouble, you’d probably end up being asked
to go into the employ of an owner of one of those houses of ill
repute. And I’d prefer not to have to fight for your virtue this
evening while I’m in the middle of trying to discover the
whereabouts of Denise and Nevin. So, if you’ll just point me in the
direction of where, the, uh, houses are, I’ll get cleaned up and
wander down that way.”

I started to argue then decided it would be
pointless. In more than one respect. I desperately wanted to join
in the search. But I knew that having one sexy young man knock on
the door of what we knew damn well would be a whorehouse would not
arouse suspicion. A six-foot-tall redheaded woman who was pissed
about the whole endeavor joining him while he trolled the bordellos
might just be one big hint that the objective for his excursion
wasn’t to get laid. Which could land us both in a world of
hurt.

Not that Mr. McShan would be much better at
deception. I glanced at my hero and envisioned a frightening, if
silly scenario. Briley, Mr. I-Hate-Lies-and-Spies would march from
house to house, pounding on doors bellowing, “where have you hidden
the Dupres, you fiends?” Oh yeah, that’d work great.

I had my own plan for how best to track down
the Dupres. A plan that did not involve being overly protected by a
male who didn’t comprehend that a spunky heroine wanted to go it
alone. Teresa had given me a clue. Whether it was inadvertent, or
she was in touch with Fiona Belle in whichever century didn’t
matter. I didn’t care.

Briley hadn’t noticed this particular gem of
clue because Briley hadn’t memorized the lyrics to every Elvis song
ever written, including that infamous Heartbreak Hotel. Simple
lyrics. ‘Down at the end of Lonely Street.’ Lonely Street.

If I was right, the pleasure palace we were
searching for had to be the last house on that particular block of
Gayoso that apparently was still offering entertainment to
gentlemen callers, much to the fury and dismay of the
neighbors.

My plan for becoming a 20th Century snoop was
simple. I have a good ear for dialects, and Agnes’s had been a
juicy one. I was going to present myself to the owner of the last
house on Gayoso Avenue as an Irish immigrant from the Pinch
district looking for work as a maid.

Admittedly, there was a kink or two in this
plan. The first twist was that it was already eight in the evening.
I assumed after-hours was not considered kosher for young ladies
seeking employment even in 1919. I figured I’d get around this with
a sweet smile and a chorus of “but whatsa pur Irish lass from
County Cork be understandin’ of sech things?”

Crimp number two ran right along the lines of
Briley’s own thoughts. We weren’t dealing with kindergarten
teachers here. I had no idea what the standard was for “new talent”
in the whorehouses, but I suspected it was along the lines of ‘any
warm body that happens by.’ A fight for my virtue wasn’t exactly on
the to-do list for the night.

I did not, of course, reveal any of my
misgivings for my secret adventure to Mr. McShan.

Instead, I smiled, and gave Briley directions
for getting to Gayoso Street.

“Briley, I’m going to go up to my room and
rest a bit more. It’s a shame cell phones won’t be invented for
another seventy years or so or you could call me and give me the
latest events.”

“Right. I can just envison dialing you from
the parlor of a brothel telling you Denise is hemming the garment
for one of the residents while Nevin tap dances on a piano.”

“Awesome! I hope that’s exactly what you find
and you can calmly walk them out and back here.”

Smiles left our faces. There was little
chance of that scenario coming true.

I trotted up to my bedroom and pulled out my
suitcase. Tucked away was the black shapeless dress I’d
conveniently discovered in the back of Bettina’s closet. No way
Bettina had ever worn this. Too long, too old-fashioned and too
ugly. The lurking suspicion in my mind involved one Fiona Belle
Donovan dropping the garment off one morning in between delivering
lotus blossoms and cooking cranberry scones. Cackling with glee
over her scheme to get feisty Mel Flynn to take the bait and dress
up like a Victorian governess in a quest to investigate the
whorehouses in Memphis.

A tap sounded outside my door.

“Mel? I’m about to leave. Will you be all
right here?”

“I’m fine. Uh, I’m not exactly decent right
now or I’d open the door and give you a big good luck hug, so
you’ll just have to charge on without it.”

“Do my best.”

Good. He really thought I’d be staying put.
Perhaps in his innocent imagination I’d wander into the kitchen.
Bake some bread. Moon over the stalwart male who was hunting down
missing friends and possible shady criminal types.

Fat flippin’ chance.

He called out, “Say a prayer or two for me
and for Denise and Nevin. With any luck I’ll have back here within
the hour. Or at least by the end of this night.”

For a moment there was silence. Then he
added, “Any other clues would be helpful, by the way. I’m not
exactly in my element playing detective.”

For a second I was ashamed of my upcoming
deception. Briley was only trying to keep me safe. But I’d managed
to ghost hunt, time-travel, and audition for Flo Ziegfeld in the
same day, so pretending to be “Maid for a Night” should be no
sweat.

I had another reason for not revealing my
plan to Briley. If he hated it, I’d have an excuse for not
following through. I didn’t want an excuse. I was scared enough
already and if anyone so much as said, “Dumb idea, Mel, stay home”
that’d be the end. I’d be in that kitchen baking bread and
despising myself as a coward.

So I just called out, “Good luck” and waited
for him to leave. Then I spent fifteen minutes convincing myself
there wasn’t any danger. I was merely going to do some simple
snooping and see if this whole idea of the kidnap victims being
brought to Memphis was the product of a deluded psyche. Mine.

After all, if I ran in trouble I could always
leave. I wasn’t exactly planning on setting the brothel on fire as
a diversion. Of course, if I was right about this particular
bordello being the current residence of Denise and Nevin, I had no
qualms about turning arsonist. I waited another twenty minutes
until I was sure that Briley had gone and was not hanging out in
the kitchen in this house eating another sandwich. Then I crept
downstairs in the horrible, black, shapeless, just-above-the-ankle
dress that reeked exotically of mothballs (with a hint of
cranberries.)

It had been a hot, humid day in Memphis. Nine
in the evening was no different. There weren’t a lot of people on
the street, and not even many sitting on front porches. The Flynn
house was right in the middle of a neighborhood going through
transition. Within a decade it would be almost totally a business
area. The same was true for Gayoso. Large mansions still stood
proudly, but faced competition from small structures that appeared
to be stores.

I glanced down the street to see if Briley
sat on the porch of any of the houses then I started to giggle. Not
all the homes on Gayoso were houses of ill repute. I hoped he
wouldn’t barge in on one of the remaining respectable town elders
demanding to be taken to wherever he was hiding a French seamstress
and her son.