Chapter 9
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.”
I wasn’t sure what being a great drummer had to do with detecting skills, but I wasn’t going to argue with either the Count or Mr. Bongo. The chauffeur kept nodding. I’d only glimpsed his face once when he opened the car door for me, but I now mused that Mr. Bongo looked like he chewed the rims of snare drums for breakfast. Not a pretty man.
Saree sniffed. “I guess there’s nothing more to be learned tonight, unless Mr. Bongo cares to grill the maids at the Ellingsford’s, so let’s just try and have fun this evening. It won’t help find Francesca if we arrive with sour faces. Not that anything will help Francesca now anyway. Oh geez. I need . . .” Her voice caught.
“Need what?”
Saree turned to me. “I need to tell Bettina. Francesca lived down the hall from her and they were great friends. Francesca sewed special costumes for her.”
The murdered girl had lived in my building. Was Francesca my ghost? She didn’t exactly fit the profile Fiona Belle had provided, unless she’d had been onstage a time or two, but she had worked for the Follies and seemed to have been loved by everyone who knew her.
The Count steered the conversation towards happier topics. We spent the rest of the drive talking about current shows, the latest New York politics, and lots of baseball as well. I had to restrain myself from telling everybody that the biggest scandal in baseball history would occur this October when the Red Sox would throw the Series.
We made good time to Lynbrook, Long Island. The car glided up to the gates of a mansion that stood squarely on at least five acres of land within minutes of leaving the Long Island parkway exit.
Saree nudged me as we got out of the car. “Watch out for Lloyd Ellingsford. We call him Mr. Flirt. He’s got a gorgeous wife and I have no idea if he ever follows through with any of the girls he eyes, but he’s as smooth as a baby’s rump.”
A man dressed in a white linen suit with contrasting pink shirt and tie approached the Count’s group. By his side was a stunning brunette wearing what was clearly one of Lucille’s designs. Pure white. Pure silk. Pure glamour. Numerous silkworms had given their all for this outfit and doubtless felt their sacrifice had been worth it. I considered groveling right there on the ground for the chance to inspect the workmanship.
The man in the vanilla suit greeted us with, “Lloyd Ellingsford. My wife, Lili. Swell that you were able to come tonight. Saree - ravishing! Briley. Good to see you again. Count, you look like you just took another knockout in the fifth. And who is this charming young lady you’ve brought to decorate our party?”
Saree had regained at least a portion of her normally exuberant humor. She now punched Mr. Ellingsford in the arm and giggled, “Lloyd. You’re so cute. This is Melody Flynn, from Memphis, Tennessee and a brand new Follies dancer. Flo himself picked her. She’s only been in Manhattan a couple of days. But she’s one of us.”
LLoyd Ellingsford took my right hand. His wife, Lili, took my left. Lili smiled. “Welcome to Long Island, Miss Flynn. I must warnt you, though, do watch out for some of our more exuberant guests or you’ll find yourself married or living in sin before the night is over.”
My God. How wild was this party likely to get? And if I found someone who wanted to marry me, should I mention I might be disappearing right after the ceremony?
Briley growled. “Lili, Miss Flynn is one of the newest Follies girls and she may shock easily. I don’t think marriage or sin is in the cards for her ‘til she's at least had a chance to perform.”
Lili laughed. “Honey, I was a chorus girl for about three weeks
before Lloyd whisked me away but I guess you girls like to stay independent these days. I won’t try and match you up with anyone - yet.”
I decided to simply keep quiet. Safer. I turned around and stepped into opulence and decadence times ten. An entire ballroom had been set up with food tables too numerous to count. Paté, caviar, veal in cream sauce, and at least twenty different cheeses beckoned from one side. Pastries, fruits and petit fours enticed from the other. I began to search for a place where I could sit and enjoy the craziness, but kept getting sidetracked by introductions and waiters. There was an onslaught of men bowing and asking for my name and giving me theirs. Half of them were my Dad’s age and very married. I wondered if telling them sin wasn't on the menu, and consequently neither was I, would penetrate the gin and rum-soaked brains.
A hand suddenly grabbed my dress. I whirled around, prepared to slap one of the harassers. Instead I saw Nevin Dupre. The child grinned as he tugged at my green chiffon hem. His mother was right behind him. Denise had changed from her working outfit and was now clad in a gorgeous white beaded dress that had no waistline and foreshadowed clearly the flapper era that was on its way. She looked chic and immensely beautiful. Briley was steering them both through the maze of humanity.
I picked Nevin up and hugged him. He smelled of chocolate and cinnamon.
“Hi, sweetie. You look very handsome. Your mama is just gorgeous. And talented. Denise, am I correct in assuming you were in charge of these goodies?”
Denise nodded. “I did not do zee actual cooking, n’est pas. I order others.”
“Well, you order beautifully. I am more than impressed. You should open a restaurant.”
Denise beamed. “You are so kind. Merci,beaucoup. I do hope to open le restaurante Francaise someday. I must put together zee capital though and it is tres difficel.”
I smiled. “I wish I could take you down to Memphis, where I’m from. New York is loaded with French restaurants, but Memphis is more into soul food. They could use some classy French cuisine.”
Briley’s nearly spat out whatever he was drinking. “Soul food? Cripes! What’s soul food? Fish? You say the most ridiculous things.”
I’d done it again. How does one explain soul food? I knew that in later years Harlem would be besieged by northerners sampling the wonders of southern delicacies - but 1919? I wasn’t sure if even the trendiest New Yorkers were diving into cornbread, collard greens, ribs and bread pudding. I started to give a short history of soul cuisine and soul music, but was rescued before making another verbal mishap that might reveal all was not kosher as far as Melody Flynn was concerned.
Lili Ellingsford was “yoo-hoo-ing” from a few feet away while escorting a hunk dressed in black tails who obviously was bucking for an intro. Briley grimaced then hauled it over to a table where snooty Eloise Jenkins stood chugging down champagne.
Lili grabbed my hand. “Melody. I’d like you to meet Prince Peter Herzochevskia, from Russia. He’s been begging for the last half-hour to be introduced to the gorgeous redhead. His English is a bit lacking, so smile a lot.”
A Russian Prince? Peter Herzochevskia? He looked like the newest star on a Bolshoi Ballet roster. Absolutely straight black hair, brown eyes. Tall. Mid-thirties or so. And he was asking about me? Thinks I’m gorgeous? Excellent. Bring on his highness. Take that, Briley McShan.
I smiled and tried to appear glamorous and sophisticated. “Hello, Prince Herzochevskia. Pleasure to meet you.”
“Und you, Miss Flynn. Pliz. Call me Peter. Lili says you haf recently up from Southern part of U.S. Da?”
“I’m from Memphis, Tennessee.”
He just stood silently, expectantly. I get nervous when people don’t talk back to me. I can speak a little French and a little more Spanish, but I’m not up on Russian lingo. Maybe I could give him a quick rundown of the sights and sounds of Memphis and he’d never notice that what I was telling him wouldn’t be part of the town for at least fifty years.
I smiled. “Um. Memphis is a neat town to grow up in. Great music, great food, great folks. Beale Street is awesome. I’m partial to the Elvis Presley stuff, especially Graceland. Oh yeah, there’s this cool Arena built like a pyramid. Somebody took the idea from a pyramid-shaped pavilion they built back durin' the World’s Fair in the 1890’s. Which was actually not in Memphis but in Nashville. It’s near Mud Island. The Pyramid, that is. Not Nashville.”
The prince’s eyes were glazing. Whether from trying to keep up with my English or the speed of my monologue, I wasn’t sure. I couldn’t blame him for going into shock. Here was a stranger rambling away, in what was to him a foreign language, about a town a thousand miles away and characters he’d never heard of.
“Peer -ramid? El-viss? Maud Island?”
I’d better clarify this in case Memphis was scheduled for the Royal Tour anytime soon.
“Well, uh, it’s not really finished yet. The Pyramid. And Mud Island will be like an amusement arcade. Coney Island, I guess. Ever been there?”
He shook his head.
“Yoou Femeely?”
He must be asking if I had family there.
“Um, yes. My dad and some cousins.” True.
“No. No. Femeely? You are, how you say, different? Red hair but features no match.”
My turn to be confused. “What do you mean?”
“How you say, an-says-tree?”
“Oh! Ancestors. Ethnic and cultural background.” I grinned. “We’re mutts. Like most Americans. A mix. My Dad is Irish. Mom . . . was . . . Lebanese. That’s why I look like a cross between Saint Bridget and Cleopatra.”
He smiled. “Nice. Yes?”
I smiled too. “Yes.”
“So, Prince? Peter. Have some champagne?”
Fortunately a waiter bearing a large tray of bubbly was making his rounds close to us. I grabbed a glass and handed it to the man. He obviously knew that word. He appeared grateful.
This business of meeting princes, counts and rich tycoons was fun. Even when they didn’t speak English. I started to ask Prince Herzochevskia about Russia and the Revolution and why and how he came to America, but never got the chance. Eloise Jenkins, the omnipresent Follies wannabe appeared out of nowhere, grabbed the man by the arm then steered him towards the doors leading to the pool, cooing all the way.
I turned. Lloyd Ellingsford stood behind me with another man who was extending champagne to me. “Melody. May I introduce Mr. Grady Martel? He’s from your part of the country.”
Oh hell. I was about to meet a fellow Memphis resident who knew the town as it was in this year instead of nearly a century from now.
I’d just stepped in deep doo-doo.
Chapter 10
Grady Martel towered over me by at least six inches. The man was huge. Dark blonde hair, hazel eyes and an honest-to-goodness cleft chin completed the picture of the ultimate Hollywood Western hero.
“Where exactly are ya from, Miz Melody?”
“Memphis.” I swallowed. Hard.
Grady roared. The sound nearly broke my eardrums. “Lloyd, you dumb Yankee, you! I’m from Texas, Hon. Not exactly next door to Tennessee. But trust folks north of the Mason-Dixon to believe if you’re from anywhere south of Brooklyn, you’re next-door neighbors in Dixie.”
I smiled broadly. I was now more than happy to be neighborly.
“What part of Texas, Mr. Martel?”
“Fort Worth. I’m in cattle. And please. It’s Grady. Mr. Martel is ma dad.”
A vision of Grady Martel riding a horse through a ranch while herding Longhorn steers flickered through my mind. Grady was continuing our conversation in greater than conversational volume. He shouted, “So, I hear you’re a brand new Follies chorine? Is that right?”
“Yes. Hired yesterday. Worn out today.”
“You don’t look worn out to me. You look just fine. Pure applesauce! And from Memphis, Tennessee. A down-home southern belle.”
I took a chance. “Have you ever been to Memphis, Mr. Uh, Grady?”
“Well, only passin’ through. We take that route every now and then to get to Chicago. Sell a lot of beef there.”
I breathed a bit easier. “Chicago, huh? I’ve never been there.”
He nudged me. I nearly fell over. Did I mention -the man was big.
“Chicago ain’t exactly most excitin’ place on the map, ma’am. It’s gen’raly cold and gen’raly dirty. Decent bar-b-que and that’s about it. What’s Memphis like? Any hot spots I should look into sometime? Lloyd and I are takin’ a trip there next month. We usually do some diggin’ overseas, amateur archeologists, but I told him it was time to get out of the dirt and give America a try.”
I smiled sweetly. “My experience is with Memphis music, Grady. I’m not the best person to recommend wild dens of iniquity.”
He roared again. “Sugar, I’ll bet you could turn a church bazaar into a den of iniquity if you put your mind to it. Yore the prettiest gal I’ve seen since I’ve been up here.”
“How long is that?”
“Oh, ‘bout a month now. Doing some business with some foreign gentlemen from Persia. They didn’t want to come to Texas and I knew Lloyd would help me out while I was here so I agreed to come to New York. I usually get up here once every six months or so. Wanna help me out?”
“Help you out?”
“Keep me from bein’ bored. You ever get bored?”
I was at a loss as to how to respond to this last question. Fortunately, I didn’t have to.
“Grady. Lloyd. I need you.” Lili’s soprano trilled across the room. She was standing by French doors and waving vigorously.
“Sorry to leave you, Hon. Looks like duty calls.”
The Prince had kissed my hand before he’d taken off with Eloise. But Grady Martel was more direct. He enveloped me in a hug that nearly broke my ribs and lifted me at least six inches off the floor.
Haunting Melody Page 6