Haunting Melody

by Flo Fitzpatrick

  For the next two hours, one partner after another swept me around the dance floor. Izzy was followed by the Count and the Count was followed by three gentlemen whose names I never did catch. Prince Peter Herzochevskia danced with me at least six times. Grady Martel told me that he had to duck out early from this particular bash, but still managed to get in a couple of two-steps before he left. Briley hadn’t asked even once. I’d seen him twirl everyone from Saree to Eloise Jenkins but he stayed away from me as if by clear intent. I decided to ignore him. I finished a fast fox trot with the Prince then we headed outside for a little air.

  Peter smiled. “You like being Follies girl, yes?”

  “Sure. I also design costumes, but it’s great parading down that staircase.”

  “You dee-sign?”

  “I’ve been sketching since I can remember. But, please, tell me about yourself, Prince Herzochevskia.”

  “You may call me Peter.”

  Oh I may, may I? Thank God. That last name was a killer. And while the man was a hunk, he needed loosening up. A good English vocabulary book was in order as well.

  “Thanks. Sure. So, Peter. How long have you lived in New York?”

  “Not long. I escape Revolution.”

  Of course. Russia. Nineteen-seventeen had been a time of chaos and turmoil as the aristocracy had been violently replaced by the Communists during the Bolshevik Revolution. I figured I’d better steer clear of that subject. Doubtless too painful.

  “What do you do? I mean, besides being a prince.”

  I smiled. A hint of one flitted across his handsome features.

  “Beesniss. Imports and exports.”

  “Oh.” I paused. “What do you import? Or export?”

  Our stilted conversation was interrupted when Saree came flying by and grabbed my shoulder. “Come on. Toasts are about to be drunk with champagne. And mounds of food just arrived in the ballroom from the restaurant part of this place. It looks super and I’m always famished after a show.”

  Saree was hard to resist. So was the thought of tons of great food. Toasting the Follies on opening night, an opening night in which Melody Flynn had sauntered with the confidence of a seasoned Follies performer down the famous staircase was something I never thought would happen in my lifetime. But then, this wasn’t really my lifetime. The thought depressed me.

  Saree was fighting her way through the now intensely crowded ballroom. Her destination seemed to be the small table where the Count stood with Briley, Izzy, Denise and Nevin. Peter, His Highness, stayed behind me as we inched our way over, but we lost him just before we reached the table.

  I was immediately captured by Nevin. His hand seemed glued to mine.

  Briley inclined his head my way. “Melody. Enjoying the party?”

  Briley’s tone seemed to suggest he hoped I wasn’t. I disappointed him. “I’m having a wonderful time. Flo doesn’t just put on a great musical, he throws one great shebang.”

  “Ee does, does he not. I am so threeled to be included. Everyone has been so kind. I have danced until my feet, they are sore.” Denise was laughing up at Briley. As usual she looked adorable. Her shining black bobbed hair was perfectly in place even after dancing for hours. Just once I’d like my hair to stay anywhere near my head. As curly as it is and as humid as Francy’s had become with the swell of human bodies moving, I was sure I resembled a Brillo pad after a big scouring.

  Briley addressed the pretty Frenchwoman. “You’re a good dancer, Denise. I’m surprised Flo hasn’t tried to get you onstage.”

  She giggled. “No, no. I do not perform la danse. I would be too, what is the word? Shy? Now, Mademoiselle Melodee, she is both the bon dancer on the stage and here on the floor.”

  Briley threw a quick glance my way. “Yes, I’ve noticed she hasn’t stopped all evening. Is there anyone you’ve missed on your little tour around the ballroom?”

  Ooh, that was snide. Fine. I’d reply in kind.

  I fluttered my lashes and gave him my best imitation of a Southern Belle. “Why, Mr. McShan. I do believe the only man who hasn’t filled my dance card is lil’ ol you. How evah did that happen? Are you too scared to waltz with me?”

  Briley shot me a murderous look, then stomped off towards the men’s room. I bit my lip then turned to Denise and Saree. “What did I do to him to make him dislike me so much?”

  Saree and Denise both stared at me in astonishment. Saree hit me on my shoulder with her cigarette holder. Fortunately there was no cigarette currently occupying the space.

  “Melody, are you spoony? Briley has talked of nothing but you to both of us since you arrived backstage the other day. This is a man who’s been surrounded by beautiful women on a daily basis for the last few years and he ignores them. He talks to me because I have a new beau every other week and I don’t chase him, and he adores Denise, but that’s different. He’s intrigued by you and he doesn’t like it one bit.”

  My jaw dropped. “He’s intrigued by me? Well, why can’t he show it?”

  Denise took my hand. Nevin was still clinging to the other while his free hand stuffed cheese bits into his mouth. “Melodee. Briley sees much pain ze last few years. His mama and papa - they die. His brother and my husband his friend is lost. Now we ‘ave this dead girl from my shop. Briley does not want to lose another person in his life.”

  I was silent. She was right. I nodded.“I do understand that. I guess since I have no idea what my future is going to be here so maybe it’s just as well I keep my distance. He doesn’t need to be hurt anymore than he already is, does he?”

  Saree looked sharply at me. “What do you mean? About your future here? Flo loves you. Ned Wayburn loves you. I’ve never seen either of them hop so fast to hire someone. Sweetie, you can make headliner if you stay with the Follies.”

  If I stay. Was there a time limit was for traveling by means of musical dolls, brandy and sheet music. Would I suddenly disappear in the middle of the next Irving Berlin tune? Or worse - if, as I was beginning to suspect, I myself was the ghost haunting Apartment 413, I’d be vanishing by a different means. “A slimy sonovabitch.” I shivered.

  My future was a mystery. I’d best leave Briley McShan alone. I turned my attention back to Saree but she was listening as various toasts were being shouted from every table. Just as well. I didn’t want to have to lie more than was necessary.

  Saree added her own toast. “Here’s to the best Follies ever!”

  I lifted my glass and clinked it against hers, then set it on the nearest table and began searching for a soda. My mouth was very dry.

  A hand grabbed mine. Before I even knew what was happening I was out on the dance floor again. The band had started a tango and I was being partnered by Briley McShan. He pulled me close then began to move across the floor. He steered the pair of us around the ballroom like champion tango dancers. There was no chance to talk, no chance even to worry about stumbling. We moved as one unit. Other dancers stood aside and watched as we dipped and swayed. Briley’s face pressed against my cheek. The muscles in his thighs forced mine to move although my knees were growing progressively weak.

  I glimpsed faces as we toured the floor. Saree’s mouth stretched into a wide, impish grin. Denise was smiling too, but her mouth held a trace of sadness at the corners. Nevin was being held up in the air by Izzy. The child waved his arms gleefully. The Count watched us with a paternal smile. Eloise Jenkins sneered and turned away. I could see various performers, including John Steele, encouraging us with hoots, hollers, and smiles. Prince Peter was frowning. I had no idea whether that was an opinion of our dance or because of something a man wearing the livery of a chauffeur was whispering in his ear.

  There must have been an unwritten law in 1919 that society chauffeurs had to be ugly to get the job. Mr. Bongo looked like a losing boxer and Peter’s buddy needed some serious help from an image consultant – or a good wig maker. Actually, all the chauffeurs who politely stood by a table in the back of Francy’s could have used a nice n
ip and tuck from a good plastic surgeon. I wondered if they were all as talented in the music department as Mr. Bongo to make up for their lack of handsome in the looks department. I also wondered how many titled persons were waltzing around Francy’s. Savanna would never believe this. Mel Flynn surrounded by royalty and the elite of Manhattan society.

  We finished the tango, then immediately started a waltz, a fox trot, another waltz and one more tango. Briley kept silent through them all. He didn’t let me go after one dance ended and another began. I had no idea if he’d had a change of heart or if this was where his heart had been all along - as Saree and Denise had intimated. I didn’t care.

  “Melody? Briley?”

  “Hmm?”

  “The Count and I have just had a tiff and he’s gone off in a huff and left me stranded tonight. I have no money and no way home. Can you believe that scrub?”

  Briley hid a grin. “You two fight at least once a day. You should be used to that by now and carry money for taxis with you. Let me see what I’ve got in my wallet.”

  I grabbed his hand. “Wait. Saree? Wanna come home with me? There are two beds in the room. We can sleep in tomorrow.”

  “Ooh, that’d be nice. Thanks, Mel.”

  Briley took each of us by the arm. “In that case, I’ll escort you both to the rooming house. I’d be afraid to let the two of you loose on an unsuspecting New York after a big night like this.”

  The subway ride and walk to E.12th Street seemed to take only a few minutes. The three of us laughed and argued about the high and low points of the show and talked about nothing serious until we reached the apartment.

  Briley opened the lobby doors. “I’ll come by tomorrow and escort you to the theatre.”

  “You don’t have to do that. We’re big girls. We can make it there,” I told him.

  Briley’s expression turned grim. “Through all the gaiety and mayhem tonight you may have forgotten. Francesca Cerroni is dead. I don’t want another Follies girl sharing that fate.”

  I shivered, remembering that at some point in my trip to the past I might well encounter the ghost of my future. A Follies girl. Francesca? Saree? Or - that nasty suspicon which kept growing stronger - me. I looked up at Briley. “Thanks. We will take you up on that offer. The McShan escort and security service has just opened for business.”

  Chapter 12

  I dreamed I was showing off my high kicks down a staircase while Fiona Belle sang a medley of Irving Berlin tunes in harmony with Bert Williams. At the bottom of the stairs a grandfather clock opened and out popped Savanna, accompanied by three fat fairies wearing Prohibition browns. She pointed to her Mickey Mouse wristwatch, yelling, “Time to come in, Mel!” She held out a bouquet to me and I bowed to the sounds of staccato applause that resembled door-locks clicking more than hands clapping.

  “Melody. Saree. Wake up, girls.”

  I opened a lid. Mrs. Donovan stood in the doorway of my room holding a vase full of some sort of Japanese lotus blossom.

  “What?”

  “They’re for you. Arrived a few minutes ago. I brought 'em right up.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Donovan. Who are they from?”

  She ignored the question, trotted over to the bed and handed the flowers to me. “Ya don’t see a lot of lotus blossoms as gifts.”

  “Damn straight.”

  There was no card. Anonymous lotus blossoms. The disappointment that swept over me was almost tangible. I knew they weren’t from Briley. A few dances do not a love affair make. I should have that one plastered on a T-shirt. Briley had future plans that meant working full and overtime hours. He was serious. He was also surrounded by gorgeous women who received bouquets on a daily basis from multitudes of interested men. Probably thought sending flowers to be insulting.

  I had not convinced myself. I glanced over at Saree. Still out cold. My new roomie was a champion sleeper. I’d tossed most of the night but she’d smiled and snored.

  I sighed, got out of bed, grabbed a robe and headed for the community bathroom. Fifteen minutes later with the stench of smoke gone from my freshly washed hair, face scrubbed clean of the remnants of the night’s make-up I was ready to face the morning. Or afternoon, which I suspected we’d reached an hour or so ago.

  Mrs. Donovan had plopped the lotus flowers squarely on the dresser in their clear crystal vase. My bed had been made. She was still there, fluffing pillows.

  Saree was just opening her eyes and looking around with an expression that said, “How in hell did I end up here?”

  Mrs. Donovan glared at me. “Stinks, don’t it?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “That them flowers aren’t from Briley.”

  “How did you know I even . . . ?”

  I stopped. Stupid question. Of course she knew.

  “Don’t you worry none, Mel. The lad’ll come around. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. Nothin’ to fret about.”

  She tossed the pillow on the bed then left the room, banging the door shut behind her.

  Saree looked suspicously at the flowers. “What are those?”

  “Lotus blossoms.” I handed them to her.

  “Wowie! They’re different.”

  She sniffed. “They smell nice. Much nicer than me. There are at least five distinct cigarette brands on five different areas of my body. From five different men twirling me around the floor if I remember correctly. Are there showers in this joint?”

  “Down the hall. You used the community bathroom last night, remember? The showers are behind the big door next to the sinks.”

  I threw my robe at her and wondered how we were going to squeeze her into one of Bettina’s outfits so she could trash the smoke-filled dress she’d had on from last night. Saree was a good deal shorter than I - and probably Bettina - but she was also good deal more - well - stacked. In a borrowed Bettina shirt she’d look like a hooker on 8th Avenue after a long but successful night.

  Saree was back in twenty minutes, wrapped up in the robe and looking her age - which she’d told me was twenty-two - now that her make-up had been scrubbed off. I’d found her a skirt that probably would fit and a lightweight sweater that would doubtless be a little snug. I tossed them to her.

  “. . .with Bettina’s regards.”

  She preened. “She’s due in next weekend. I’ll just be sure they’re cleaned before them. Oh damn my garters! Look at the time.”

  It was close to noon. I was surprised it wasn’t later.

  “Mel? I gotta go.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the Count will start calling my place and when I’m not there, he’ll start calling every man I’ve ever dated. He gets jealous. I don’t want him to go around Manhattan beating up old boyfriends.” She sighed. “Something tells me this romance will be ending soon. I’m getting very bored with the possessiveness.” She grinned. “But the limo is terrif!”

  I laughed at her. “You, Saree Goldman, remind me so much of my best friend back in Memphis." I didn't tell her she was actually in Manhattan. No way to introduce them. "She dumps guys faster than speeding bullets, loves to party, and thoroughly enjoys the perks that come with dating wealthy men.”

  Saree giggled. “Smart cookie! Maybe I’ll get to meet her sometime and we can exchange war stories about our various flames.”

  I didn’t attempt to explain that meeting Savanna could prove difficult unless Saree made it to the ripe old age of hundred and twenty or so. Shame. They’d adore each other.

  Saree dressed with the speed only a dancer can perfect with quick changes offstage, hugged me and was out the door before I realized I’d wanted to tell her I’d appreciated having a roommate after Briley had brought up the topic of Francesca Cerroni. Since I figured only one ghost haunted #413, if two possibles stuck together we should stay safe.

  I had about seven hours before I had to be at the theatre. It was spitting rain outside so playing tourist didn’t look enticing. I headed down to the lobby to look for Mrs. Donovan. Not there. The gir
l behind the desk introduced herself as Della Lowder, one of the boarders who lived on the first floor of the house. I explained my request and though she seemed surprised she said she’d see about finding me some plain paper to draw on. I’d decided to make use of my free time by sketching some costumes for Frolic. Eyeing the funky outfits at the two parties had inspired me.

  By the end of the day I had six nice sketches done. Whether they ended up on stage in the 21st Century, or even somewhere in the 20th, it didn’t matter. I’d been productive and managed to dodge thinking of ghosts - or Briley McShan. Well, part of the time.

  Briley himself showed up at the rooming house at 6:30 to escort me to the theatre.

  “Hey, Briley. How was your day?”

  “Fine. Yours?”

  I couldn’t resist. “Lovely. Started this morning when lotus blossoms arrived for me.”

  He glowered. “Lotus blossoms? From whom?”

  “Oh, an admirer.”

  One eyebrow lifted. “Don’t get too thrilled. There are more stage-door Johnnys sending junk to every Follies chorine after shows than there are pastrami sandwiches at Katz’s Delicatessen. Peter Herzochevskia always sends the new girls something after opening night. As do Grady Martel, Robert Samson, Lawrence Vassily, Lloyd Ellingsford - shall I go on?”

  “Oh.”

  I felt myself deflate.

  Briley kindly jumped to another subject. “Have you seen the reviews?”

  “No. They’re out?”

  “Yes, indeed, they are. And they’re terrific. I’d say John Steele got the lion’s share of the praise, as did Bert Williams. The Times critic raved about Berlin’s music. On the whole, it was a theatrical triumph.”