Haunting Melody (7 page)

“Well, I don’t like sneaks and spies either.
Especially those who try to destroy the reputations of good people.
It’s wrong.”

We both grew quiet, watching Nevin dance and
bow to an imaginary crowd.

“Briley? You said you've worked before with
Ziegfeld?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I want to finish college
someday and I need the money so I'm saving up. I’ve done work for
other theatres but Ziegfeld’s shows are the best.”

“What are you planning on majoring in?
Medicine?"

I guess people had majors in the early 20th
Century? I tensed.

He answered like it was nothing startling.
“Not medicine. I think I saw too much blood and gore in that
hospital to want to see more ever again. Besides, I'm really
interested in engineering. I love building and putting things
together.”

I smiled. “Which you’re doing here.”

“Hopefully civil engineering won’t be quite
as crazy. I love it here but the theatrical temperament sometimes
gets to be a bit too much and I long for the peace and quiet of
buildings.” He paused. “If the war had continued I was going to try
and join the 12th Engineers out of St. Louis.”

“Well, at least it stopped before you had to
deal with all that.”

“My brother wasn’t so lucky. But that’s
another story. I’m just glad it’s over and no one else is getting
killed or maimed or - lost. I only pray that it really was the war
to end all wars.”

No way would I tell him that another world
war would devastate the earth in less than a quarter century. Or
that in the 1960’s there would be young men dying in a “police
action” in a tiny Asian country. That insane fanatics would later
blow up buildings in this wonderful city by flying planes into
them. Buildings that hadn’t been imagined in 1919 - even by Briley.
That innocent people would die who hadn’t been born yet.

I stood, walked over to an overflowing trash
receptacle in the alley then deposited the remains of my sandwich.
My appetite was gone. I returned to the stoop and sat down.

“You said your brother was wounded?”

His face looked grim. “I lost him after the
war.”

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry. What
happened?”

“He was shot in the head.”

I gasped.

“It was superficial and he recovered -
physically. But his memory was gone. He was sent to a hospital near
Camp Gordon, Tennessee. He was there about a month when he just
wandered off. No one has yet found him. I even took a train down to
the Camp to see if I could locate him. I spent two months last
summer searching all over Tennessee but there was no trace of his
whereabouts. He’s literally lost.”

I took Briley’s hand and forced him to look
at me. “Briley. If he’s physically okay, he may still be down in
Tennessee. I have family there. Maybe they could help?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I doubt there’s
much chance, but sure, if you want to tell them about Frank, it’s
worth a try.”

“Okay.”

We lapsed into silence again. I was wondering
how to extract my foot from my mouth and make him forget I just
offered assistance in finding his brother. How in blazes was I to
get word to my Dad or my cousins in Memphis to search for a lost
World War I veteran last seen in Camp Gordon, Tennessee in
1919?”

Nevin suddenly plopped himself in my lap.
“Mel-o-dee?”

“Yes, Nevin Michel?”

“Je suis Nevin. Non Michel. I am not that big
now.”

I lifted my brows and tried not to laugh.
“So, what do you want, petit Nevin?”

“Au-to-graph s’il vous plait?”

I laughed. Briley chuckled.

“How did you ever hear about autographs? And
why would you want mine?”

“Les femmes. They write names. I’ve seen
them. I like you. Tu tres jolie! Pretty!”

Briley almost fell off the step he was
laughing so hard. “We have the makings of a young rake here.”

“Oh yeah! Definitely a charmer.”

Nevin started digging through my bag before I
could stop him. He pulled out a pen and the sheet music for "A
Pretty Girl is Like a Melody. I signed, “To Nevin, My best beau.
Love, Melody. June 1919.”

You’d have thought I’d just given him an
ice-cream truck of his very own. He began dancing up and down the
stairs doing high kicks. I held my breath and hoped that Briley
wouldn’t notice the title, composer and date of the music Nevin
held in his hand. That could take some explaining. I had the evil
thought that I should take it to Mr. Berlin and tell him to save
his energy and get some sleep tonight, since the song was already
written.

“Hot diggety! My buddy, Briley McShan and a
very lovely doll. This is my lucky day!” A man emerged from the
entrance of the alleyway, whistling "Alexander’s Ragtime Band" in a
non-existent key.

If the fashion police had existed in 1919,
this guy would have made the Most Wanted for a Felony list. His
brown suit looked as though it had been fished out of the bottom of
a Goodwill bin and his brown fedora reminded me of the Indiana
Jones hat I’d worn until Lucy ate half of it. Curly black hair
peeked out from under the hat.

He was grinning idiotically at me. I grinned
back.

“Let me introduce myself. Izzy Rubens,
reporter and lover of beautiful women. Especially Ziegfeld women. I
keep asking Flo for discards, but he just ignores me.”

“I’m Melody Flynn. Wait. Your name sounds
familiar. Reporter? Are you the infamous muckraker who so annoys
Briley?”

Mr. Rubens bowed. “Guilty. You must be the
new girl Briley suspected of being in cahoots with me. I like the
sound of that. Care to be in cahoots with me? Or in a hammock or
anywhere else on the planet?”

Briley sat stone-faced watching Izzy flirt
with me.

I couldn’t help laughing. Izzy might be
digging up dirt on everyone from Ziegfeld to the janitor of the New
Amsterdam Theatre, but he was funny and charming in an impish
way.

“Ah. A lovely laugh to go with a lovely
lady.”

Briley stood up and brushed a few crumbs off
his trousers. “Izzy. I’d say it’s good to see you, but that would
slide into the realm of falsehoods, so I won’t.”

“And here I was going to compliment you for
being sharp enough to entertain a cute little doll.”

I stood up and wrinkled my nose at the
reporter. “If you’re referring to the child there, he doesn’t
exactly qualify as a doll, although he’s definitely little and
cute. If you’re referring to me, let me point out that I’m six-feet
tall, independent and am neither little or a doll. I, Mr. Rubens,
am a bona fide Ziegfeld Girl.”

Izzy chortled.

Briley applauded. “Watch out for this one,
Izzy. She’s got an answer for every question. Melody, believe it or
not, Izzy was a decent guy back when he was plain Isaac Rubenovitch
from Brooklyn. How he ended up with Clow, I’ll never
understand.”

Izzy winked at me. “Briley doesn’t comprehend
finance. As in; Clow pays well, and the New York World does not.
But now Briley calls me a sneak.”

I smiled at Mr. Rubens. “You’re in good
company. Mr. McShan had that honor reserved for me until he finally
realized that I only came here two days ago and didn’t know anyone
in the big bad city. Plus, I’ve been kept so busy today spinnin’
around the stage and doing step aerobics on those stairs, how could
I have passed any dirt on to anyone? Email Clow during lunch from
my cell?”

Both men stared at me.

“Aerobics? Email? Cell?”

Crap. Two anachronistic comments in the same
conversation.

“Uh. Email’s a new postal service we have
down in Memphis. They use a gadget called a cell. I’m pretty sure
Manhattan doesn’t have it yet.” (And won’t for about eighty
years.)

Izzy was eyeing me with growing interest and
fortunately letting my comments pass right by. Briley was simply
eyeing me.

Izzy whispered. “It’s not too late. Steve is
always on the lookout for information from the inside. Or you can
take over my job if I ever get a big scoop that will land me a
byline on the front page of the Times. For that honor I’d go back
to serious news.”

Briley pulled me up next to him. “Enough,
Izzy. Leave her alone.”

Izzy tipped his wretched hat. “Not on your
life. I love exotic girls. Especially dancers. Speaking of which,
are you going to the party after rehearsal tonight, Miss
Flynn?”

“What party?”

“You mean this cad hasn’t invited you to the
soiree at the Ellingsford’s? Shame, shame.”

Briley scowled. “I had planned to tell her
before you barged into the alley. Melody, there is indeed a huge
party being held tonight out on Long Island. Saree and the Count
are giving me a ride and they'd be happy to pick you up as well.
Interested?”

As invitations go it was not exactly the most
romantic, but I didn’t care. I could use a party right about
now.

“Cool. I’d love to go.”

“Cool?’ Izzy was writing in his notebook.

“Just a southern phrase, Mr. Rubens. Means -
uh - swell.”

An ear-splitting grin crossed his features.
“I like that. See you tonight, Miss Flynn.”

Briley teased, “By the way, Iz, I plan on
filling Melody in on all your evil deeds on the way to the party
before you can get your clutches on her.”

Izzy winked at me.“Cool.”

Saree’s dulcet tones suddenly blasted from
the stage door, interrupting this charming meeting of reporter,
stagehand-electrician-engineer, dancing imp, and me. “Break’s over.
We’re on again!”

Saree had nailed it. Bettina Markham was a
classy dresser and she was also close to my size. I blessed
whichever fashion goddess watched over me. There was a jazzy little
number hanging in the wardrobe that would do nicely for the
Ellingsford’s party.

After rehearsal, I’d taken the subway to 14th
Street then walked the last three blocks to the rooming house. I
chatted for a few minutes with two of the girls from my floor who
were in rehearsals for an operetta, then stood under the shower
until the hot water ran out. I found the dress squeezed between a
loud pink satin slinky gown and a red satin dress that made me look
a streetwalker in drag. But the green chiffon with dropped Vee
waistline, handkerchief hem and tiny beads adorning a sweetheart
neckline had “Melody” stamped all over it.

My fashion goddess had been kind enough to
provide a pair of green ballerina-style slippers that fit my size
nine’s perfectly. I added three more layers of mascara (courtesy
the bottom of my Elvis carry-all) and eye-liner to match the vamp
look I’d seen, then ran down the stairs to wait for Briley, Saree
and the Count.

I wasn’t sure what constituted the proper
etiquette for waiting on transportation provided by royalty, so I
just stood in front of the rooming house until a 1919 town car came
gliding by. A chauffeur who looked liked he’d seen the underside of
numerous boxing rings politely opened the door. I settled into pure
comfort next to Briley. He wasn’t looking happy. For that matter,
neither were Saree or the Count.

“What’s wrong?” I asked tensely.

Briley handed me the New York Times. The
headlines were startling and disturbing.

“Girl’s Body Found!"

"After an intensive search, police today
announced they have discovered the body of Francesca Cerroni, a
seamstress with Florenz Ziegfeld’s Follies. The young woman had
been reported missing for the last three days from the boarding
house where she had resided since 1916.”

I let the paper drop to my lap. Briley gently
took it from me. “Izzy Rubens showed me this today after you and
Saree went back into rehearsal. He didn’t want you upset. But we
all knew Francesca.”

Saree quit trying to hold back tears. “She
was a sweetheart.”

I asked quietly, “Any ideas on what happened?
What else does it say?”

Saree shuddered. “It’s so awful and really
strange. According to the newspaper, she was found up in Inwood
Park with lion skins wrapped around her. And she had flowers all
over her too, like someone had . . .” she gulped, “decorated her.
That doesn’t make any sense. It’s sick. Maybe one of those crazy
new groups that keep cropping up since the war got her.”

“What?”

Briley answered for her. “These kooks may not
have popped up down in Memphis, yet. The last two years there’ve
been some weird religious groups announcing either the end of the
world or a brand new world through magic or alchemy or running
naked through the park. They all claim they’re the only true
religion or way to happiness.”

“Ah. I get it. Listen, Memphis has its share
of cult wackos too. But usually pseudo-religious nuts don’t go
wrapping girls in lion skins - and leaving them to die.”

Saree was still crying. The Count patted her
hand as he offered her his handkerchief.

I hated to ask, but felt compelled. “What was
the cause of death? Does it say?”

Briley’s voice was very low and very grim.
“It’s possible she died accidentally. They say she suffered a head
injury as though she’d fallen on a rock - probably trying to escape
someone.”

He glanced at Saree. “One of the other
stagehands said Flo is talking about hiring the Pinkerton Agency to
look into this. After all, she worked for him. And to Ziegfeld,
anyone connected with Follies is family.”

The Count finally spoke. “Pinkerton? Very
expensive and I have grave doubts about those people unless they’re
working on a bank robbery. I do not believe murdered seamstresses
are part of their everyday duties. I really wonder what they can
find out. Who will even talk to them? Flo needs to hire Mr.
Bongo.”

Briley and I turned simultaneously queried,
“Mr. Bongo?”

The Count answered, “My chauffeur. His real
name is Ludeke Bongchestikovitch. I can barely pronounce it. Hell,
he can barely pronounce it. Ergo, Mr. Bongo.” He whispered, “He
knows everyone. He hears everything. Maids from estates and
mansions talk to him and tell him gossip no one else knows. He’s
also an excellent percussionist. Snares, timpani, and of course,
bongo drums.”