Haunting Melody (21 page)

“Anything else?”

I smiled. “Well, the only good news is that
it looks like if one wants to enjoy a really wang/bang ceremony
that cakes and ale are supposed to be brought to an altar. That
sounds less violent than crossbows and lions. Possibly even
tasty.”

I gasped.

“What?”

“Lotus blossoms!”

“What about them?”

“It says lotus blossoms symbolize rebirth and
are associated with Ptah and Sekhmet.”

“So?”

“So guess what got delivered daily to my
room?”

“Ah. Do you remember the first time they
showed up?”

“Day after the Ellingsford party.” I said.
“Super. Our Ptah wannabe could be any of the men who were there
that night.”

“I guess it’s useless to speculate tonight on
who’s behind this. It’s more important to get Denise and Nevin back
– and keep you safe as well. Let’s get some sleep. We’ll find a way
to get to Mud Island in the morning, long before these cretins set
up for their ceremony.”

“I totally agree.”

I kept the book in my hands as we made our
way upstairs to our separate rooms. We parted company at his door.
Briley did not try to kiss me good night and I didn’t try to
initiate any physical contact. It was as if we’d made a silent pact
to shelve any romance or relationship stuff until Denise and Nevin
were safe.

“‘Night, Briley.”

“Good night, Mel.”

I opened the door to my room, donned the gown
I’d borrowed from Bettina’s extensive wardrobe, then I lay on the
bed for thirty minutes staring at the ceiling. Sleep was further
away than the 21st Century.

I jumped up and pulled on my basic black top
and gaucho pants. This was my town. It was unfamiliar in many ways
because of the time period, but it was still Memphis. Same city
where Savanna and I used to hit the downtown area for music any
time of year and hour of night. Beale Street club patrons might be
surprised to see an unattended girl, but this was also the
suffragette era and I felt sure my great-aunt had broken more than
one tradition in this city. I should be able to get in somewhere
and listen to some blues and honky-tonk piano.

I tiptoed down the stairs and let myself out
the front door. The bars of Beale were easy walking distance. I set
out at a moderate pace.

Someone was following me. I could feel it. I
walked faster. They walked faster.

Fine. I’d burned down a whorehouse this
night. I could face a would-be mugger. I had my boots on and I
wasn’t afraid to deliver a kick where it would hurt most. I whirled
around and looked directly up into Briley McShan’s blue eyes.

“Damn! You just scared me into another
century! What are you doing, stalking me?”

“I wasn’t stalking you. Well, not at first. I
couldn’t sleep, so I came out for some fresh air. Next thing I
knew, I was watching you trotting down the street by yourself as
though you hadn’t a care that girls have been grabbed the last few
months and you’re next on the list.”

I snorted. “That’s in New York. This is my
hometown and I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit up in a room and
stew and fret all night when I can go out and hear some jazz and
get all this stress worked out of my system.”

“Well then, since arguing with you is a
completely useless enterprise, I’m going with you.”

Briley matched the rhythm of my stride as we
headed toward the bright lights of Beale. I could hear the wail of
saxophones and sense the vibrations of drums already.

We stopped at the first saloon we came to
that had its doors flung wide and welcoming for the patrons. We
stepped inside and were hit by the most deafening silence I’d ever
heard in my life. Not a sound came from any of the customers. All
of whom were African-American. I’d totally forgotten that at this
point in Memphis history, Beale Street bars were owned by whites,
but the patrons and the musicians were black. I suddenly understood
how alone Bert Williams, the phenomenal entertainer whose
performances I’d enjoyed so much at the Follies, must feel every
night he came to work among none but white faces.

Thinking of Mr. Williams gave me the courage
I never would have thought I could dredge out of my body. It would
be fifty stinkin' years before any real integration swept my
hometown, but I decided then and there I was going to make a
start.

Briley nodded cordially to the gentleman who
was seating customers. The man nodded back, then politely asked if
we cared to have a table up front or in the back.

“Front,” was Briley’s response. He smiled.
“The young lady is quite a musician herself and I’ll bet she’d
appreciate sitting close to the band.”

Our maitre d’ escorted us past silent mouths
and shocked faces to a small table facing the band. We’d
interrupted a break. Only the clarinet player was seated.

Our host looked embarrassed. “We don’t serve
hooch, here, y’all know? But we got set-ups. Cokes mostly.”

Briley nodded. “Something cold will be fine.
Ginger ale?”

The man continued to stare at Briley. He
seemed amazed. I felt confused. I couldn’t believe we were the only
white customers to ever wander through Beale Street in search of
good music. The maitre d’ didn’t appear concerned about any
possible violence. He almost seemed amused. But he took the order
for the ginger ales, left, then quickly came back with the
drinks.

“Welcome, y’all to Ronnie Reds, finest
establishment on Beale Street featurin' the best music in the
South.”

We smiled and said thanks. Briley paid. We
sat quietly, sipping our drinks while wondering if any of Ronnie
Reds patrons were going to challenge our presence.

Apparently not. All the customers had
returned to the business of talking, laughing, calling greetings
and pouring what had to be whiskey from flasks into “set-up”
bevarages of cola or ginger ale.

I looked around Ronnie Reds. It basically it
was the same atmosphere as any Beale Street club Savanna and I had
enjoyed for years. Crowded, small tables, noisy with the strong
scents of sweat and perfume eminating from all sides. There was
however one major difference. Smoke. It had been bad enough at
Francy’s. This was lethal.

I coughed as I tried not to inhale. My lungs
rebelled all the same. “Briley, yes, you’re skeptical and yes, you
don’t want to hear about time travel but I’m going to open my big
mouth because I must say that a huge thing I miss about my era is
the ban on smoking. I’ll probably get emphysemia simply from this
night alone. I wonder when the band will be back?”

Briley grinned. “I’m not sure it
matters.”

He pointed to a man sitting at a table in the
middle of the bar. He’d just pulled out a harmonica and had started
to play, of all things, "Nobody." Everyone began to sing, Briley
and I included. I knew every word. Briley knew every word. Within
minutes patrons were on their feet and the harmonica man started
playing tunes more appropriate for impromptu fox trots and Castle
walks. Briley extended his hand.

“Care to take a turn around the floor, Miss
Flynn?”

“Love to.”

It was even better than dancing with Briley
back at Francy’s. No stares, no jealous females or males glaring at
our backs and no gossip swirling as to the relationship between the
new Follies chorine and the stagehand.

Briley held me close as Mr. Harmonica played
"After You’ve Gone." Other couples were in similar clinches. I
hoped they were as happy with their partners as I was with mine.
Just to have Briley’s arms around me and inhale a scent that was
his and his alone made my head spin more than the smoky room.

The musician switched to "Til We Meet Again,"
and I felt oddly comforted. This wasn’t my time, but this was my
guy. If I had to stay in 1919 ‘til it turned 1920 and beyond, I
could live without my cell, CDs and DVDs. I was more and more
certain I couldn’t live without Briley McShan.

Applause broke out. I turned. The band was
back from their break. The sax player who apparently doubled on
clarinet made room for the drummer to get back to his trap set
while the bass player plucked a string or two to see if it had
stayed in tune during his absence.

Briley gestured to our table and began to
escort me back. I sat down on the chair he’d politely pulled out
for me, then looked up to say “thanks.” Briley stood, frozen, with
both hands still gripping the back of my chair. His jaw literally
had dropped. He was staring at the band.

I peered around him since he was now blocking
all musicians from my sight. I half expected to see Mr. Bongo or
Izzy or Ziegfeld or even Geb. But the man my escort was staring at
wasn’t anyone I’d met before, although his looks were startling in
their resemblance to one Briley McShan.

I stood too. “Briley?”

“Dear God! It’s Frank! It’s my brother,
Frank!”

The man Briley had just referred to sat at
the piano. He appeared oblivious to anything but caressing the
keys.

No wonder we’d been stared at when we’d first
entered Ronnie Reds. Everyone in the place must be able to see
these two were brothers even with what had to be an eight-year age
difference. Briley didn’t wait for the band to start. He strode the
seven feet it took to reach their makeshift platform then stopped
right next to the man seated on the narrow piano stool. The
musician turned to look up at this customer who dared invade his
space.

I barely heard Briley whisper, “Frank. It’s
me. It’s Briley.” The emotion coming from Briley was so raw, so
intense, and so powerful that for the second time since we’d
arrived, total silence filled the club.

Frank McShan stared up into his brother’s
eyes. He stood. He was not as tall as Briley, the hair had some
gray flecks strewn among the black, but the two were obviously
closely related.

For a moment neither man said a word. Then
Frank began to sob. Not cry. Sob. And Briley reached out and held
him as all around loud cheers and salutations rang out.

Briley turned and faced the audience. He
didn’t need to gesture for silence. There was an immediate quiet as
every person there waited to hear what he had to say.

“Ladies and gentlemen. I’ve been in your
marvelous city only one day. And it’s been pretty momentous; one of
the more unusual I’ve spent in my life. I won’t take up your time
but I did want to tell all of you that this is my brother, Frank
McShan, a war hero and a good man who has been lost for over two
years. And now, and now . . . ” Briley choked.

Cheers and congratulations rang out again as
the brothers embraced.

The clarinet player, an elderly gentleman who
was clearly the leader of the band, signaled to the bass player and
the drummer and the three began to play "I Found the End of a
Rainbow." Then Briley and Frank stepped down and Ronnie Reds’
patrons politely returned to the business of chatting, smooching,
smoking and drinking.

“Mel. Uh, I’d like to introduce you to my
brother, Frank MacIntrye.”

I grinned. “Hi, Frank. I’ve heard wonderful
things about you from little brother Briley here. I can’t tell you
how very, very glad I am to meet you.”

He smiled. Though he and Briley had similar
looks, the smiles were different. Frank’s held a sadness I hoped to
never see appear on Briley’s face. But there was also a sweetness
that instantly made me like him for himself, as well as for being
the brother of the man I’d fallen in love with a week ago when I
landed in this century.

“Melody. What a delightful name. I’m very
pleased to meet you as well.” Frank sank down into Briley’s chair.
“I don’t know what just happened. I must tell you both, I haven’t
been aware of much of anything but my music for a very long
time.”

Briley grabbed a chair from a nearby table
and pulled it over next to Frank’s. The customers did not protest.
Hugh grins accompanied assenting nods as they watched the brothers,
who continued to stare at one another in amazement.

“You were at Camp Gordon, Frank. Do you
remember that?”

He shook his head. “Vaguely. I was in a
hospital there. But I kind of lost touch with who I was. I recall
wandering away one afternoon when we were taking exercise around
the camp. I hitched a ride with a businessman from Nashville. He
brought me to Memphis. I seem to remember telling him I was a
musician and he said Memphis was the place to go. Before that, I do
know I was in the hospital in France. You were there, I think, and
there was a beautiful, sweet, sad French girl who’d lost her
husband only days before. She told me I had a head wound.”

Briley shook his head. “I can’t believe you
recall that.” He glanced at me. “It was Denise. She helped me take
care of Frank after Michel passed away. Must have spent a good
month sitting with big brother and telling him stories.”

Frank straightened. “Denise. Yes. That’s it.
Denise Dupre. She was like my guardian angel. I felt as though as
long as she was there I’d be okay. It’s funny. I got to Memphis and
I don’t recall anything about the Camp or even about the war. But
I’d always see her face in my dreams, even if her name had become a
blur.”

Briley opened his mouth to speak and I shook
my head and silently mouthed “not yet.” We couldn’t tell this man
that a woman he’d thought about for over two years was missing and
about to be involved in some sick ritual in less than a day.

Frank looked at Briley, then at me. “I’m so
astonished about seeing you and remembering who I was and who you
are, I forgot to ask what in blazes my brother and a pretty young
lady are doing in a Memphis saloon on this night?”

“It’s a long story. And we’ve had a long
day.” He suddenly laughed. “Mel here burned down a local whorehouse
this afternoon so any other stories seem tame in comparison.”