Haunting Melody

by Flo Fitzpatrick

  A stab of longing hit hard when I realized how much I missed my dad. He was actually here, in this geographic location, but removed by almost a century of time. I wanted to share all my adventures with him. I wanted to tell him how I’d vanquished George of the Jungle by means of olive oil and a well-placed kick. My dad, a lawyer, would be itchin’ to hear everything about transportation and politics in this era. He’d be fascinated with Teresa’s women’s rights meetings and proud that his daughter had broken a race barrier in a Beale Street bar.

  Teresa greeted us at the door as though she’d been expecting her relative, the fiancé and an extra visitor. “I don’t have another guest room made up just now, and I’m in a rush to get going, so if you gentlemen don’t mind sharing?”

  Briley grinned. “You are a glorious example of Southern hospitality, Miss Flynn. My brother and I will never be able to repay you for your kindness.”

  She smiled. “Accomplish your mission. That’s all I ask. The thought that someone would use my town to perform evil deeds - well - my blood boils. Excuse me, y’all. I’m off to set up at the store.”

  The McShan brothers wished me good night at my bedroom door. Each of them bestowed a friendly kiss on my cheek. It wasn’t exactly what I’d hoped for my next kiss from Briley, but I was too tired to care. I needed sleep if I was to be sharp and prepared for hunting down lunatic Egyptian cultists seventeen hours away from destroying Denise and Nevin’s lives.

  I managed to drag myself out of bed around two in the afternoon. I could hear sounds of food preparation coming from the kitchen downstairs and male voices accompanying clanging pots and pans so I surmised that Briley and Frank were up and cooking. After a quick shower I joined the pair, happy to see I’d been correct in my assessment of breakfast. Or lunch. Or brunch. Whatever one calls a meal eaten long after the noon bell has rung.

  “Cool. Omelets. Bless whichever’s hand whipped up these eggs. Yummer!”

  Briley grinned.“Ready for this? Big brother Frank is not only a superb musician he’s also a darn good chef. Well, as regards one dish. Eggs and bacon. Alone, in omelets, as a sandwich, you name it, he can crack them and cook them and do marvelous things.”

  I laughed, happy that Briley was in a good mood, even though this day could easily turn out to be a total disaster. “These are wonderful, Frank. You have a gift. I’m not sure I’d equate it with your talent on the ivories, but I’d come to breakfast at your house anytime.”

  Frank bowed. “You’re exceptionally good on the ivories yourself. I have no idea what your cooking skills are like.”

  I sighed. “Lousy. I’m a firm believer in Chinese take-out and pizza.”

  Briley assumed a look of innocence. “You’re quite talented with a hot plate and olive oil, though!”

  I winked at him, stuck a huge forkful of bacon into my mouth and chewed to keep quiet about last evening’s escapade that could lead into a discussion of the rescue of Denise and Nevin.

  Saint Blaise, Blesser of throats, must have been looking out for me because I nearly choked when Frank asked, “So, what time should we leave so we can get to Mud Island and these left-over pyramids without being seen? Midnight is probably is the hour these miscreants will attempt to do – whatever they plan to do – with Denise so we need to be there in advance.”

  I raised my eyebrows at Briley.

  He looked only slightly defensive. “I told him, Mel. I had to. We need his help. I dislike the odds of only one able-bodied man against what could be very formidable foes.”

  I sputtered. “Well, thank you so much. I mean I’m not exactly a shrinking violet type here. Remember the fire? Plus, I took down George of the Jungle, so I more than deserve some respect and the chance to be in on busting up – uh - whatever we’re going to bust up.”

  Briley shook his head and poured coffee into a cup for me.

  Frank smiled. “She doesn’t always make sense, Briley, but she is right about one thing. From what you told me, she’s very good at improvising in dangerous situations.”

  I beamed. The McShan brothers laughed. Then Briley grew serious again.

  “I hate to admit it, but you’re both right. We can use all the help we can muster. From any source - even a bratty impulsive girl like you.”

  I ignored the last comment. “That reminds me, what happened to Izzy? Do we need him involved? Do we want him involved? Do we need to track him down?”

  Briley shrugged. “I’ll bet he’s sleeping on the floor of the Memphis paper . . . “

  “Courier Appeal,” both Frank and I offered.

  “Courier-Appeal. Thank you. He’s doubtless trying to persuade the publisher that he is indeed a real journalist and that his eye-witness version of the burning of Madam Anna’s yesterday is the one the paper needs to print even though, in Izzy Rubens style, I’m certain he’s embellishing. His last two years with Clow have skewed his objectivity in reporting.”

  “I’ll bet you he comes creeping around here just in time to follow us. He has this instinct for ferreting out stories and I’m sure he’d love to be part of it.”

  Briley nodded. “Don’t tell him I said this, but I honestly wouldn’t mind having him join us. Izzy’s a character, but he’s a good man to have in a pinch. We grew up in a tough neighborhood.”

  I stayed quiet.

  Briley glanced at me. “What’s going on in that brain of yours?”

  “I’m wondering what Izzy’s game is. He went tearing out of here yesterday to file a story with an editor he just met, while you and I were compiling clues as to where Denise and Nevin were taken - and who’s behind their kidnapping.”

  Briley pursed his lips. “Izzy might have an ulterior motive, like staying out of the actual action so he can get a big scoop for a paper, but he’d never be involved in anything that might bring harm to someone else.”

  I took a sip of coffee, grimaced and added about three teaspoons of sugar and half a cup of cream. My stomach felt sour and I was afraid it was anticipation of what could become a scary night. I focused on Izzy and his motives. “I agree. He’s no Ptah wannabe But - could he be so keen to get a story, he’d keep information to himself so whatever needed to play out - did? Don’t get me wrong, I like the man, but his explanation for being in Memphis seemed a bit fishy. Why would he follow us and assume we knew what we were doing?”

  A trace of irony brushed across Briley’s features. “As if we didn’t have a rather unusual explanation for traveling to your hometown?”

  I grinned. “Good point.”

  Frank looked puzzled. “Is there more to this story than you’ve told me, little brother?”

  Briley flashed me a warning look. It wasn’t needed. I had no intention of telling a man who’d very recently recovered from amnesia that he was breaking bread - and eggs - with a girl from the future.

  Briley stated. “Nothing other than Melody’s strong hunch and a tip from her eccentric landlady. That’s all.”

  Frank accepted this. He poured more coffee all around, then asked, “What is our strategy? Do we have a plan?”

  Briley answered him, “If we’re right, and these fiends want to perform some sort of ceremony near the ruins of Egyptian exhibits from a previous World’s Fair then our plan is to sneak over to Mud Island this evening. When we see Anna and this Ptah fellow bring Denise and Nevin to some makeshift pyramid, we spring out and rescue them.” His voice hardened. “With any luck I get to smash my fist into the face of the man responsible for the kidnapping - and for Francesca Cerroni’s death.”

  Frank grimaced. “I hate to say this, but that’s not much of a plan. What about bringing the police into this?”

  I spoke first. “We can’t do much more, since we’re going on guesswork only. I mean, do we summon a squad of cops only to have it turn out we’re dead wrong and the only folks on Mud Island are fisherman and kids picnicking?”

  Briley added, “The police could be a help or a hindrance. Izzy told me last night he’d discovered they’ve been letti
ng Madam Anna run her little enterprise for a good five years. I gather prostitution is ignored because of worse crimes in the city. Or else Madam Anna pays off someone to look the other way.”

  Frank nodded. “Then I vote we rest, eat a good supper and prepare for a rescue.”

  Briley lifted his coffee cup high in the air as we all stood. He spoke quietly and with determination. “A toast to bringing back our friends unharmed.”

  We clanked cups together then each took a last swig of caffeine and let that sentiment sink into our hearts, along with the other equally strong emotions swirling around the kitchen.

  Seeing the brothers reunited equaled elation. Worrying about Denise and Nevin chilled the soul. Fear for my own safety clouded my courage. And my newly realized love for Briley was a source of conflicting emotions. The thought of staying in this time with Briley was beyond sweet. But I loved my Dad and my friends too. The thought of never seeing them again was beyond painful.

  And we now had less than eight hours until midnight.

  Chapter 25

  “Why can’t master criminals find nice, air-conditioned studios stocked with goodies in the fridge and soothing music playing all around as background for their nefarious deeds?”

  “Mel. Quit grumbling. Mud Island was your idea, remember?”

  I glanced at Briley from the spot I was now silently calling ‘Raccoon Hellhole.’ “Briley, Mud Island was their idea, not mine. The bad guys. Hiding under a draped table in a hot, tent so we could lie in wait. . . .”

  “Was my idea,” added Frank. “Behave, Miss Flynn or we’ll send you home.”

  “Hmm. Not much incentive to be good, is it? Crap. What time is it anyway?” I asked.

  Briley pulled out a pocket watch and angled it so the dials could be seen in the moonlight seeping through the closest flap to our table. “Eleven-thirty. If we’re right about this being the spot where Anna and Geb will bring Denise and Nevin, we shouldn’t have much longer to wait.”

  I nodded. Frank nodded. Briley replaced the watch and nodded. We were an agreeable group of conspirators, albeit a cramped one.

  We’d set out for Mud Island over two hours ago. It would have been four hours, but Aunt Teresa had stopped us as we were heading out the door.

  “So you figured out where your friends are being held?” she’d asked.

  “Well, smushing together several teensy clues, we came up with Mud Island,” I’d answered.

  “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 hidi
ng 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.