Haunting Melody (23 page)

“How are you planning to get there?”

“Uh, good question. Streetcar, I guess, then
walk.”

Teresa hid a smirk. “Why don’t you take our
truck?”

“What?”

“See the very nice vehicle sitting right
there in the street?”

Briley, Frank and I had all turned from our
spots on the veranda to stare at the gleaming, freshly washed,
sporty-looking vehicle that had been proudly parked in front of the
Flynn house. A Black 1915 Model T pick-up. I hadn’t noticed it
because I hadn’t realized the Flynn’s owned anything other than a
regular automobile. And neither Briley nor I had thought to borrow
said vehicle last night and drive it to roar up to the whorehouse
blaring the “AH-OO-GA!” horn to announce our presence even if we’d
been told the truck belonged to my family.

Teresa glared at Briley. “I use this when I
deliver my paintings to the galleries over in Atlanta. I’d like it
to remain intact. Can you drive, Mr. McShan?”

“Yes, ma’am,.”

“Fine then. It’s yours for the night.” She
smiled. “Try and bring it back unscathed but with - extra
passengers.”

Briley bowed his head. “We shall do our very
best, I promise you.”

The offer of the car had cut the trip by two
hours. We’d first headed downtown to the offices of the
Courier-Appeal in an attempt to find Izzy and rope him into this
rescue enterprise. Mr. Rubens had not been seen typing away at a
borrowed desk, but a young man in an ink-stained apron had
excitedly informed us that the reporter had filed one “terrif”
story about the fire at Madam Anna’s and then gone off to the
Peabody Hotel for a good night’s sleep. We decided spending the
next hour hunting him down was a non-starter. We were brave and
angry and tough and tall. We could take down miscreants with just
our trio. Right. And pigs could fly.

So we’d stopped at Frank’s favorite diner and
devoured plates of bar-b-que and potato salad and beans and fresh
bread and gallons of iced tea before driving to the ultimate
destination. We’d entrusted the Flynn truck to an urchin who
appeared to be about ten years old and more in awe of being allowed
near the sassy 1915 Model T pick-up than with the money Briley had
placed into his eager hands. He sat solidly behind the wheel,
unable to reach the pedals but eagerly imagining trips to far-off
places like Nashville or Atlanta while we walked in silence across
the narrow strip that leads to to Mud Island.

Mud Island in 1919 deserved that name a lot
more than it did when it was the tourist attraction I’d grown up
with. In the 21st Century, Mud Island boasts a museum and
restaurants and funky souvenir stores filled with Elvis memorabilia
and postcards featuring pictures of the river. A monorail zooms
visitors at the whopping speed of seven miles per hour into the
heart of downtown Memphis. In 1919 we were talkin’ shacks and -
depending on weather - real mud.

What I hadn’t expected was the beast that met
our eyes when we first stepped foot onto the island proper. A
pyramid. Well, a tent shaped like a pyramid. A big tent, like those
found at mid-20th Century Southern revivalist meetings. This
triangular shaped monstrosity easily could have offered shelter to
over two hundred good citizens meeting for religious purposes,
picnics - or Egyptian rebirth cult rituals.

Briley had suggested that Frank and I stay
close to the bridge while he scoped out the place. He jogged over
to the tent, keeping a watchful eye for any other visitors, lifted
a back flap, peeked in, then hurried back to where Frank and I
stood silently watching his progress.

“I have good news. And I have bad news.”

“Yes?”

“Good news. There’s not a soul inside that
tent. A few raccoons eating a nice dinner.”

I prompted, “ And the bad news?”

“The critters are dining on a table that
looks like an altar. There are more candles than I’ve seen during
Christmas Midnight Mass at St. Patricks. There are also quite a few
little statues of bulls and lions and some creature I didn’t
recognize fully, but it seemed to resemble a squirrel. Maybe. And
there’s a very exotic fragrance that must be coming from the piles
of some sort of flower I’m not familiar with.”

“Shit!”

Both men stared at me. At first I thought
they were surprised that I knew the word, but Briley merely asked,
“Yes? What just crossed your mind?”

“Lotus blossoms. Remember I told you they
were linked to Ptah and rebirth? And, guys, I was receiving
beaucoup bouquets of them in Manhattan on a daily basis.”

Briley closed his eyes. “Damn. You did say
something about lotus blossoms while we were thick into research
last night. Denise was getting them too. I remember she told me
someone had been sending exotic flowers every day for a week. She
never said what kind they were though. I brushed it off.”

I patted his arm. “How were you supposed to
link some loony with an Egyptian fetish buying out flower shops
catering to the weird with missing girls? And when I got them, I
wrongly assumed one of the Follies fans was trying to stand out
among the stagedoor Johnnys. It’s not like you or I were thinking,
‘Oh boy, a clue to an Egyptian cult with headquarters in Memphis!’
So don’t beat yourself up over not jumping on it, Briley.
Okay?”

He smiled. “Okay.”

Frank tapped his brother on the shoulder.
“Could you tell whether or not there was a place for three people
to hide? I haven’t seen even a single small tent out here, and I’d
prefer not to have to build a trench in the open.”

Briley had then told us about the tables in
the back of the tent that were covered with burlap all the way to
the floor. Our brave trio made our way to what had now served as
our hiding place for an hour. Raccoon Hellhole.

Briley stiffened. He whispered, “Looks like
the action is about to begin.”

The three of us peered through separate holes
in the burlap as a parade of costumed characters came marching into
the tent. Acolyte number one was balancing a metal tray filled with
what appeared to be four cakes. The huge “waiter” was dressed in a
long white robe that dragged over the ground, tripping him every
five steps or so because he wasn’t able to grab on and lift them
without upsetting the tray and depositing sweets on the ground. His
face and hair were hidden behind a bearded mask and skullcap.

Second up was obviously female. Her outfit
was straight out of a Cecil B. Demille production of Ben Hur. The
bra top was fringed with gold tassels and the loincloth that barely
covered her bottom featured a larger gold tassel bouncing across
her crotch. Her right arm boasted at least fifteen bracelets. Her
left held only one – a large flat piece of gold jewelry with an
engraving on the front. I couldn’t tell what that engraving was
meant to portray. Her face and hair were also covered, but with the
mask of a lion’s head and mane. She held a bouquet of lotus
blossoms in her right hand and feathered plumes in the other.

Madam Anna. I had a suspicion the robed klutz
was Geb. Sadly, both appeared unharmed and unsinged from
yesterday’s Melody-set blaze. Briley had been wise not involving
the police because obviously they wouldn't have helped us. The
madam and the butler/pimp were out here in the open air instead of
sharing space with unwashed felons in the Shelby County Jail.

The third figure also wore a long white robe
and carried a metal tray incongruously littered with mugs. His robe
fit better than Geb’s so he managed to walk without stumbling. His
mask was in the shape of a ram’s head but I could see his own beard
poking out from underneath.

The trio would have been an almost comical
sight had it not been for the next group to enter. Two men,
unmasked but wigged in what I dubbed “the Full Cleopatra” black
long bob, and dressed in shorter robes, prodded two familiar
persons with staffs. Denise and Nevin.

I nearly jumped out from under the table to
cry “Battle!” but Briley held me back.

“Wait! Not yet!”

He was right. But that didn’t help ease my
anxiety or impatience. I wasn’t the only one getting itchy. Frank
kept muttering under his breath and flexing his fist.

Finally came the man garbed in a purple robe
as befitted royalty. He wore a full-headed mask that closely
resembled the illustration of the god Ptah I’d seen in the book.
Bald head and beard, but with the face of what I figured
represented the Apis Bull - Ptah’s earthly spokesman. Ptah -
fertility god, lover of artisans and craftsmakers, and
rebirther.

All nice to use in a thesis on Egyptian gods,
but didn’t exactly explain what Ptah Junior wanted with Denise and
Nevin, nor what would happen in the ceremony. I’d seen enough Mummy
movies to suspect that the dude who lurked behind that bull’s head
wanted to be reborn as Ptah because he reasoned it would give him
power. Izzy had brought up the avid interest in reincarnation among
a lot of New Yorkers back when we’d been trying to figure out why
Denise had been kidnapped. What really worried me was that Denise
and her son would either be sacrificed - or become part of the new
family of Ptah by means of un-consensual conjugal consummation.

Imagining either scenario was making me
nauseous and the scent of lotus blossoms wasn’t helping. I needed
air, but I couldn’t push back the burlap drape without revealing
the presence of three rescuers waiting for an opportune moment to
get out and busta move.

I hissed at Briley, “Yo! Rescue? Soon?”

He whispered, “Take a look at the goons.
Notice what they’re carrying.”

I peeked out again then quickly sat down.
Denise and Nevin were being escorted by a big thug wielding a
bigger knife. He kept waving it around his head in a show of deadly
expertise. A second escort only carried a small trunk, but a weapon
resembling a scimitar and of equal size as big thug’s knife could
be seen tucked into the cord wrapped around his robed waist.

Frank shifted and started to open a flap.
Briley grabbed his hand. “Frank!”

Frank growled at him. “I can’t stand this. If
that ape touches Denise Dupre I’ll personally wring his arm out of
its socket and use that knife to cut off anything he uses to
reproduce.”

“Hang on! Briley’s right. We can’t go
charging out there while this parade is still rolling. We’ve gotta
wait ‘til everybody turns their backs. Otherwise we’ll never get
the jump on them.”

“But what we’re waiting for may not arrive
until Denise and Nevin are actually placed on that altar. I’d
prefer not to let these cretins get that far in whatever they’re
planning.”

Briley clutched his brother’s arm.
“Something’s happening. We need to let this play out for the
moment.”

We peeked out toward the front of the tent.
The robed guards were now facing the stone structure that had
recently hosted the raccoons, not the back of the tent where we
were hidden. The trunk had been deposited at the side of the altar.
Denise and Nevin had been placed right on top. Neither mother nor
son was moving much and I felt certain they’d been drugged. They’d
been able to walk with a little help from the guys bearing knives
so I knew they weren’t unconscious but whatever they’d been given
was enough to keep them compliant, woozy, and silent. The 1919
equivalent of roofies?

Anna and the man I’d dubbed Ptah Junior stood
behind the altar. Junior bent down in a reverent attitude, lifted
up a large book with a black leather cover then held it up high.
Anna bowed and waved a plume over the book, then loudly proclaimed,
“We are here to bring our creator to life with the Opening of the
Mouth ritual. Bring forth the cakes and ale as I read from the Book
of the Dead on this, the festival of reanimation. Come ye,
worshippers and behold the living, breathing embodiment of the
Great One, Ptah. We bless this woman as his consort, Sekhmet and
her son Nefertum. We ask for the bounty of all the gods to seal
this union and aid in the rebirthing of Ptah, creator of all.”

The ceremony was about to begin.

Ptah Junior opened the black leather bound
book which I had to assume was Anna’s so-called Book of the Dead,
or at least a nice copy. It looked too new to have been secreted in
a sarcophagus for the last three thousand years.

However old, I didn’t like the sound of the
words issuing forth from the mouth of Madam Anna. Apparently she
was head narrator, spell-caster, priestess and ringmaster for this
circus. Ptah Junior hadn’t spoken at all, which frightened me more
than if he’d started chanting or moaning. Silence behind a mask
held power as well as mystery.

He leaned down, then opened the trunk two of
the white-robed men had carried in. He lifted out a different robe,
made from a fabric that made my nausea so strong I bit my lip to
keep from throwing up. Animal skins. Lion. They looked real.

They smelled real too, even from where Frank,
Briley and I were hiding.

“Excuse me while I lose my lunch,” I
whispered. Both men shushed me and I turned my attention back to
the action by the altar.

Ptah Junior carefully placed Denise into a
sitting position and then began to drape the garments around her.
Francesca Cerrone had been found attired in lion skins; covered in
lotus blossoms. This must be part of the same scheme. A scheme to
bring a dead god to life in the guise of a man insane enough to
believe he could acquire power this way. A man I’d apparently met
in the Follies circle, but a man whose identity was still a
mystery.

Masked and lion-headed Anna kept intoning a
lot of b.s. that was straight out of the book Briley and I had
found in the Flynn library. She went on and on about eating bread
and drinking ale and girding loins and flying like a hawk.
Somewhere in the mix she managed to shut up about the cakes and ale
long enough to help herself to a few swigs. I wasn’t sure if that
was included in the ceremony or if she just needed a drink.