Haunting Melody

by Flo Fitzpatrick

  I tried to close my mouth before the drool gathering in the corners could slide down my chin. My jaw was currently resting somewhere near my collarbone.

  Fiona shook her head. “Don’t gawk. It’s not pretty. Speak.”

  I nearly said “woof,” but managed to form real words while trying to dodge total embarrassment.

  I addressed my response to “Animanaic” Dot Warner on the woman’s T-shirt. It seemed less intimidating than talking directly to the tiny woman scowling up at me.

  “Where should I start? Wait. Don’t say it. I got it. The beginning. If I just knew what that was. Or when. Anyway. Someone keeps checkin’ the door locks. The lamp keeps comin’ on. The window in the main room keeps openin’. And, uh, the plants are wet.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  I fought for words to explain the rest of the ghostly events. Couldn’t find them.

  “Yeah? What else? You’re skipping the good stuff. Get on with it, child.”

  “I . . . I mean It . . . That is. She’s. . . singing what sounds like old show tunes.”

  “Irving Berlin.”

  My eyes opened wide to match my gaping mouth. “How the hell . . . ? Are you psychic or what?”

  She glowered at me.

  I blushed. “Oh, crap. Gee, I’m so sorry, where are my manners? I’m Mel Flynn – Apartment 413.”

  The elderly munchkin snorted, then gestured inside Apartment 313 to a table where an elegant brunch had been prepared, presumably for me. My hostess was undeniably a witch. A stupidly-short witch.

  “Sit down, dammit. You’re way too tall to suit me.”

  I sat. Lucy plopped at my feet and promptly went to sleep, indulging in a well-deserved nap. I numbly nodded thanks when cranberry scones (my favorite) were thrust under my nose. I hyperventilated, gulped tea then stared at my mug, which proudly displayed a picture of Elvis Presley singing into a microphone. The mike lit up when hot liquid filled the mug.

  Fiona Belle reached over and gently took the sheet music from my hands. She held it out reverently, then clutched it to her tiny chest and sighed. She seemed completely oblivious to my presence.

  I took another swallow of tea as I glanced around Fiona Belle’s apartment, intrigued and nearly distracted from my own ghost story by her eclectic taste. Antique furniture vied with post-modern sectionals and chrome tables. Busts of Egyptian pharaohs and Hindu deities perched on top of a pearl-handled telephone stand from the Phillipines. I knew it was from the Phillipines because my great-grandfather brought an identical piece back from World War Two and I inherited it.

  I squinted at the Rembrandts and Degas dancers mounted beside Andy Warhol’s famous portrait of Marilyn Monroe. All artwork looked original. Not prints. A poster advertising the “The Threepenny Opera” starring Lotte Lenya had been taped alongside a poster for “Our American Cousin” starring Edwin Booth. Next to Mr. Booth was an elegant tapestry from a medieval period. A Native American tribal peace pipe had been stuck to the fabric by means of a staple gun.

  My scan of the room halted when I saw the Colonial roll-top desk that held a beyond-state-of-the-art computer surrounded by six different pieces of Elvis memorabilia. The two most striking were the table lamp depicting images of Elvis on the shade, with blue suede shoes as its base, and a Hound Dog clock portraying the King singing to a basset. A Scottish brooch had been pinned to one shoe like a buckle.

  The cream pitcher on the table was made in the shape of a small television. A neon sign reading Heartbreak Hotel flashed in the corner of the ‘set’. I waved the pitcher at Fiona Belle.

  “I have this! I love Elvis. My mother was a total fan. Growing up, she’d take me to Graceland the way other kids get taken to the mall.” My eyes misted. “I miss her. She died two years ago.”

  Fiona Belle nodded but stayed silent.

  “I have every record Elvis ever made and I can play all the early pieces on piano. What am I saying? That’s not really relevant right now, is it? Where was I? Oh yeah, being haunted by a singin' ghost. Not Elvis. I’m so sorry, I’m ramblin’, aren’t I? I tend to get a little stupid when I’m sleep deprived and entertainin’ spectral visitors.”

  Fiona Belle Donovan daintily sipped her tea, slapped marmalade on her scone, grunted, and wisely ignored the majority of my monologue. She carefully placed her own Elvis mug (the King standing on a record; guitar slung across his hips) on the table as she caressed the sheet music with unabashed affection.

  “'A Pretty Girl is Like a Melody.' Irving Berlin created it especially for the '13th Edition Ziegfeld Follies.' 1919. Catchy tune. Became the Follies theme. Irving wrote it after the dress rehearsal. Flo Ziegfeld needed a number for the staircase parade.”

  Fiona Belle broke off a piece of her scone and fed it to Lucy, now awake and waiting patiently for a treat. “Follies girl. Exotic looking.” Fiona Belle hissed, “Slimy son-of-a-bitch stalked her. 1919 – vanished.”

  I was completely mesmerized. “A Pretty Girl . . . That’s what I heard.”

  I frowned at my brusque-toned narrator. “Wait. How did . . .? Nineteen-nineteen? No way you were even born then. Did you reincarnate yourself with a built-in memory? Or are you just an incredible bee-ess-er.” I paused. My parents had taught me to address my elders with a bit more respect. “’scuse me, that was rude. But, where’s all this info coming from?”

  “I hafta nap now. Go home, Mel.”

  Fiona Belle politely opened the door and pushed me into the hall.

  “But.”

  The door snapped shut then was promptly flung open.

  “A knock-out. Loved to dance. Loved to sing. Loved kids. Loved animals. Loved Briley. ‘course they all did. Couldn’t blame ‘em. A fox.”

  A heavy shoebox and sheet music were thrust into my hands. The door slammed. Flung open again.

  “I’m keeping your dog for the day.”

  “What! You can’t have her. She’s mine. Give her back!”

  Fiona Belle’s tone softened. “Mel. Honey, you have things to do. Yes, she’s your baby. But believe me, she’ll be safer here. Trust me.”

  Lucy was now sitting next to Fiona Belle and the table. Her tail was wagging maniacally, but I wasn’t sure if she was excited about her new dog-sitter or the rasher of bacon ten inches from her nose.

  Fiona Belle didn’t linger to hear my response to the abduction of my dog. Not that I had one to give. “Safer?” I wasn’t thrilled hearing the word but I sure didn’t want to be trying to save Lucy at the same time I was trying to save myself. I would leave my pup with her since apparently I was about to embark on a mission with the ghost.

  The door closed, firmly. It stayed shut. A bolt bolted. I stood in the hall holding a shoebox and sheet music. I was filled with questions about a chorus girl. Not to mention my enigmatic, dognapping, downstairs neighbor.

  I inched my way back up the stairs to my apartment. My body ached. I was nauseous. Had Fiona Belle poured brandy into my tea? No wonder I felt sick. I closed my eyes hoping to regain some equilibrium and immediately envisioned a large stage in another time. I could almost hear the chorus girls belting out wonderful songs.

  Had this particular Follies girl married, moved to Jersey, sung lullabies to exotic-looking babies? Had she hidden in her apartment, lights blazing, checking locks – terrified? Had a pursuing admirer found her? Had she fled one rainy night?

  The whole experience suddenly took on a frightening air of reality. Assuming of course, that I was really awake and I’d actually met an ageless, shrimpy Follies enthusiast with a penchant for cartoon clothing, short skirts and shorter sentences.

  I frowned. “Probably chats with Irving Berlin and Elvis daily over tea and scones.”

  I eased open the apartment door and gave the space a quick perusal before entering. I missed Lucy even though she wasn’t any help in catching ghosts. I wondered if other manifestations had occurred in the time I’d been breaking bread – well – scones, with Ms. Donovan Winthorp who hated Mr. Winthorp.

  A
ll seemed calm within. I placed the shoebox on the hall table, walked over to the piano, and plopped the sheet music on the stand. There was a stain at the top of the title page. It looked like blood.

  “I don’t even want to know.”

  That wasn’t true. I couldn’t stand it a minute longer. I picked up the music at a clean edge to examine the stain. It was new and it was wet. Further inspection revealed the scent of cranberries. I kept the sheet music in my hand and headed over to the drawing table. I began doodling on my neglected designs, trying to sketch out fairy costumes. Hopeless. I’d just drawn eight caricatures of winged basset hounds holding guitars.

  I crammed the destroyed costume designs, plus a few that seemed to hold some promise, into my Elvis carryall bag, then threw the bag onto the window seat. Elvis. I’d gotten a two CD set only a couple of days ago. "Elvis’ Greatest Hits Volume Three." Maybe his voice would banish the other voices from my apartment. Hey! Elvis himself could just enter the building.

  The King sang for about ten minutes. I didn’t hear a note. I glanced at the shoebox. It drew me the way espresso draws a caffeine addict.

  The shoebox was still on the hall table. As I passed by the piano, the Irving Berlin sheet music floated up. I grabbed it.

  The shoebox was wrapped in twine, but it untied easily enough without having to resort to scissors. After tossing aside wads of wrapping paper, I lifted out an antique porcelain doll.

  I was instantly drawn to this lady whose dark hair was tightly bound by a cloche hat strewn with feathers. Her head rested on a heavy black stick connecting to a circular base. Around her neck was a silver lace ruff edged in gold trim.

  I picked up the sheet music. I looked at the cover. I looked at the doll. Same face.

  I carried her over to the window seat, shoved my bag onto my lap, then plopped down in comfort on the padded seat. There was a key at the base of the doll. No way to ignore it. I wound it. The room grew dim as tinkly sounds began playing –– what else? "A Pretty Girl is Like a Melody."

  Chapter 4

  “Hey! Wake up! Wake up.”

  “Ouch. Don’t yell in my ear. I’m awake. I’m awake.”

  “You don’t look so good. Were you really asleep?”

  My head hurt. Hadn’t I just had this conversation earlier? Was this a bad case of Déjà vu?

  “Savanna?”

  “No, sweetie, this is New York –– not Georgia.”

  I sat up too quickly and looked into a face I’d never seen before. Then I sank back down and tried not to scream.

  The piano was gone. The window seat was gone. My drawing board was gone. The entire living room was gone.

  What I saw instead looked like the dressing room set for the burlesque scene in a cheesy production of Gypsy. The attractive blonde hovering over me was obviously playing one of the three strippers. If I had to hazard a guess from her raspy alto voice, I’d say Miss Mazeppa, the trumpet player.

  Kimonos, boas, gloves and corsets were draped over doors, over chairs, over screens. I was sitting at a makeup table that showed remnants of powder and rouge stains from at least twenty shows. The mirror was gilt edged with harshly lit bulbs.

  The music box doll was still in my hand. The sheet music and my Elvis carryall were in my lap. I slowly got up and tried to get my bearings and my balance.

  The blonde gasped. “Glory be, you’re tall. You’ve got to be six-feet tall. Did Flo hire you for the Midnight Frolic? The Spanish number with Johnny?”

  “Flo. Is she the new director for Frolic? Is this the set? Doesn’t look Egyptian to me.”

  “What?”

  “I asked if Flo is the new director. Did she replace Jason? And where’s Savanna?”

  The blonde’s eyebrows shot into her bangs. “What are you talking about? She who? Jason? Say, who are you? Where are you from? What are you doing backstage?”

  I sat down again. My head was throbbing. “I must’ve hit my head. Could you just tell me where I am? And do you have any ibuprofen?”

  The blonde was eyeing me with a combination of suspicion and incredulity. Then she laughed. “What’s eyebooprofin? Some new drink? Say, did Bobby put you up to this? He’s such a kidder. Okay. I’ll play along”

  She spoke slowly and distinctly, separating her words as though she were talking to a young child. “You’re backstage of the New Amsterdam Theatre. And Flo, like you’ve never heard before, is Mister Florenz Ziegfeld. We’re in rehearsals for Follies. I’m Saree Goldman.” Her speech resumed a normal tempo. “So, are you playing a joke or looking for work? We’re opening in days, but they need a couple of girls as understudies. Flo and Ned Wayburn are seeing people this afternoon. Can you believe it? We have dress rehearsal tomorrow night.”

  Ibuprofen wasn’t going to help. I felt an anxiety attack coming on that could only be staved off through something closer to mega-doses of Prozac. crack cocaine or any hallocinogen.

  “I’m sure this’ll sound crazy, but could you tell me the month - and the year?”

  The blonde let loose with a strong belly laugh. “You’re good! Straight face and all. We should put you in the sketches with Bert Williams. But sure, sweetie. It’s June 13th. 1919.”

  I must have blacked out again. My last conscious thought was “Fiona Belle, what did you put in the tea?”

  When I woke up again, I decided the prudent course of action would be to keep my eyes closed, my mouth shut, my body on the floor, and pretend to stay in a coma. Someone outside the dressing room was yelling about a party at Lloyd’s. Female. Someone else was singing. Male. Definitely not my ghost.

  My breath was coming in spurts and my heart rate had soared to high-impact aerobic proportions. But I faced the facts head on. I had died. Or time-traveled. Maybe both. No problem. I would handle either scenario with grace, calm and dignity.

  I tasted blood. I’d just bitten through my lower lip to keep from screaming. I was absolutely terrified.

  I felt wet heat on my face and heard the sounds of panting. I cautiously opened one eye. Same tacky backstage set. Same peroxided-blonde looking a bit anxious. But two elements had been added. One was a grinning golden retriever pup enthusiastically licking my nose. (Which explained the wet heat and the panting.) The other element was a pair of brilliant blue eyes that gazed at me as though I was an unusual form of plant life. The eyes belonged to a male. A male who scooped me up in his arms while unsuccessfully trying to push the dog away from my now decidedly damp face.

  The man spoke. “Duffy, you stupid dog. Leave her alone. Miss? Wake up. Here, drink a little of this.”

  A glass was placed to my lips. There was a yellow hair – canine - clinging to the bottom of it. I drank the contents of the glass while drinking in those eyes. Then it hit.

  “Holy Ga-Ga! Is this brandy?”

  Surprise and amusement warred on the two faces above me. Amusement won out. The man smiled. White teeth; perfectly straight. Again, I wondered if I had died. Been awarded the leading rusher of the Angel front line as my official greeter.

  “I assure you it’s medicinal.” He chuckled. “I have to assure you of that; otherwise the Prohibitionists will come in and flog us with their temperance signs. And yes, it’s brandy.”

  He put his hand behind my back and helped me sit up, all the while encouraging me to take another sip. I pushed his hand away. “Brandy. Damn. That’s probably what got me into this mess in the first place.”

  The blonde shook her head. “If you’re drunk, kiddo, you’re in big trouble. Ned Wayburn won’t even bother to audition you. The rule around here is what you do on your own time is your own business. At the theatre? Sober, sober and more sober. Besides, the Prohibition gals really were here last night screaming that we can’t open the Midnight Frolic ‘cause we’re still serving hooch. They’re threatening to close the place down and put us all out of work.”

  I shook my own head, then instantly wished I hadn’t. “I’m not drunk. It’s just that I hadn’t eaten today, then a friend gave me some
tea after a – uh- bad experience, and must have put some brandy in it. I drank it too fast, that’s all, before I realized what it was.”

  The blonde giggled. “Sweetie, I know just what you mean. I’ve got a few ‘friends’ like that too. That damned Count did the same thing to me last night. Men. Can’t trust ‘em at all. They just want one thing and if they can’t get it while you’re sober, they’ll slip you somethin’ and get it while you’re blotto.”

  Mr. Blue Eyes took the opportunity to wink at the blonde. “Thank you, Saree, for that generous vilification of the entire male gender. I can’t tell you how much I enjoy being maligned.”

  Saree’s giggle became a belly laugh. “Oh, Briley, I never meant you. Why, you’re a sweetheart. A pussycat. And an honest-to-Pete gentleman who would never take advantage of a lady. Besides, men don’t turn totally rancid until they’ve hit at least thirty. You still have a couple of years.”

  I barely registered any of this. Briley? I’d heard someone say that recently. Where?

  When I remembered I nearly jolted out of his arms. Fiona Belle had said something about a Follies girl being in love with Briley. Not just any Follies girl. The Follies ghost haunting Apartment 413. I immediately glanced at Saree, the chorus girl who seemed so at ease with the stagehand. But Saree didn’t seem to fit the description of my ghost. That was good. I liked her.

  Saree was still laughing. She winked, blew Briley a kiss then swayed seductively as she exited the dressing room. “You’re in good hands now, kiddo. I’m gonna go wander down the hall and see if Billie’s here tonight. I heard a song today she’d really like.”

  I looked at her. “Billie?”

  “Burke. Billie Burke? Mrs. Flo Ziegfeld? What? You gonna pretend she’s some stranger too?”

  “Oh! Billie Burke! Sure. Glinda the Good Witch.”

  Two faces stared with one expression of astonishment. Saree spoke first. “What are you talking about? Billie’s a sweetheart. She’s no witch.”

  Oops. 1919. I was pretty sure the movie of "The Wizard of Oz" wouldn’t be made for another twenty years. I needed to blend in and not cause suspicion. One more goof like that one about Billie Burke, and these two were going to forget the brandy and nice ministering and send for men in white with straitjackets and a free one-way pass to Bellevue.