“Briley, y’all will see each other. And, while cell phones and wireless stuff doesn’t exist, live telephone operators are really better because they love connecting brothers to brothers.”
“Oh yeah, wireless phones. Another marvel. I’m amazed you’ve managed to survive in this primitive era of 1919. So sorry to have inconvenienced you with our barbaric ways.”
I tried to keep it light. “Hey, every century has good and bad. I have to admit, I have missed the technological foo-faws I take for granted in my time. Heck, with internet access we could have discovered Frank’s whereabouts sooner, and probably figured out the Ptah plot too.” I paused. “Although, with all the grand technology of the 21st Century, is it even possible for me to get back home? I mean my little trip here wasn’t exactly computer generated. It was more music, brandy, and weird-witch propelled.”
He shut his eyes for a second. “My God. I’m right. You want to leave me, don’t you? You want to go flying through time on Fiona Belle's broomstick or doll and forget all this ever happened. I’ve been blind and stupid.”
“No! That’s not what I’m saying! I’m just speculating on the how of this time-travel business. Briley, I want . . .“
I didn’t get a chance to tell him I wanted to stay in this time period forever if I could figure out how to get my Dad and Savanna here - or if any flying back to the 21st Century occurred I wanted Briley coming with me. He didn’t wait to hear this. He rose, tossed his napkin on the table, and muttered, “Well, I’m so sorry we’re so provincial and medieval for the future girl. Forgive me for getting in the way of your eagerly anticipated return to your own life.”
He left before I had a chance to swallow and tell him he was nuts. I chased him out of the dining car but Mr. Six-Foot Four was moving fast and not stopping no matter how many times I called after him.
Fine. I yelled, “So just be a jerk, McShan!”
Briley had closed the door leading back to his end of the train, so he didn’t hear that last statement. The one I didn’t mean.
It wasn’t like him to jump to conclusions, but I knew he was hurting over what he saw as Frank and Denise’s desertion, so he wasn’t thinking clearly. We’d talk once we reached Manhattan and he had a day or two to calm down. I’d tell him that I hadn’t expected - hadn’t really wanted - to fall for someone out of my time but it had happened and it was something we had to deal with.
I also had to tell him I was terrified that if I stayed in 1919 we wouldn’t be together anyway. I’d never even make it to 1920 because I was pretty damned certain I’d end up up as the ghost who’d been haunting Apartment 413. Ghost as in dead.
I fretted about my argument with Briley the rest of the way back to Manhattan while being forced to listen to my new cabinmates gush over satin lace and garters and who’d provide hooch for the reception.
I tried to knock on his door but got no answer. Either he or Izzy were champion sleepers or Izzy was off planning his courting of Saree and Briley was faking buzzsaw level snoring.
I bring all this up to explain why I got no sleep for the two-and-a-half day trip back to New York. And I explain the lack of sleep as a defense for why I wasn’t on my guard. I add to that the fact that I didn’t bother to go to the dining car again and consequently was famished when we reached Manhattan. I wanted food. Which is why I didn’t even notice the Geb-lookalike who nabbed me while I was handing over coins for a hot dog with sauerkraut from the vendor right outside Grand Central Station.
Chapter 29
I snuggled next to my sleeping companion.
“Lucy? Is that you? Where’s the ghost, puppy? Huh? Where’s the ghost?”
No answer. No yips or growls. No slurping tongue bathing my cheek with canine caresses. Something heavier, and without the fur, lay on my neck. I opened my eyes and promptly screamed as I pushed a hand away from me. I sat up, fully awake now, and glared beside me.
“Oh geez! A friggin’ mannequin! Can this get any more clichéd? Kidnapped, brought to a factory, and dumped in with naked mannequins. I am now immensely ticked-off.”
I was even less happy when I discovered my attire had changed. I’d been wearing my black gaucho pants and shirt earlier. Now I was dressed in a costume straight out of a Tarzan movie. Lion skins. Terrific. Ptah Junior, must be behind this. Guess I was cast as Jane. One of my shoulders was bare, while the other held up the outfit that barely reached my knees.
I was awake but still a bit unsteady, so I used the wall behind me to support myself while I eased into a standing position – the better to explore my surroundings. Five minutes later I was ready to plop back on the floor with the mannequin I’d named, ‘Lionel’. A male mannequin - although not exactly anatomically correct. I deemed it male when I discovered non-existent boobs.
I was in a warehouse covered with boxes, other mannequins, objets d’art, funky little rugs and curtains, vases, lamps and a strange array of telephones. A durn dark warehouse. Two dimly lit bulbs in ugly chandeliers swung about twenty-five feet above me. The two windows within my reach were covered with thick burlap and iron bars that would more than keep any would-be burglars or rescuers at bay. Or in the bay.
There was definitely water below. I could tell, when I stripped off as much of the burlap as my bare hands could manage without ripping those hands to shreds, that I must be close to the Brooklyn Bridge. It was light outside. I had no idea whether it was the same day as when Geb Two had nabbed me or whether I’d spent the night in drugged slumber while some creep removed my clothes and dressed me up in the lion skins.
At least the outfit was clean. It wasn’t as though some poor lion had been stripped naked and his skin hastily stitched up into a garment. The thought flashed that someone who deals with furriers has pretty good access to wherever skins are prepared. Someone like Lloyd Ellingsford. Then again, a rich cattleman might easily exchange a bit of beef hide for lion. Grady Martel. I was in a warehouse, which suggested imports and exports, which was Prince Peter’s occupation. I sighed. No use speculating. Ptah Junior could be any one of the three, or any other Follies fan. The Count wasn’t off my list yet, nor was Lawrence Vassily.
I patted Lionel on his bare waxed butt, then picked up my bag the kidnapper had politely left with me and searched inside for a nail file or bobby pin or something smart heroines use to jimmy locks when they get pinched. I found my cell and about fifteen sheets of music plus the notebook I use for sketching costumes. Lip balm, mascara and blush were at the bottom and for one insane moment I considered using the mascara wand as a weapon. One poke in Geb’s eye could give me the time needed to haul. Any Geb. One, Two or Three. Didn’t matter which.
For the first time since I’d awakened, fear washed over me as coldly as the water in that bay. No chance to escape. Stupid. I was contemplating maiming by make-up. I picked up a piece of sheet music. Perhaps I could sing my way out of captivity? Keep my abductors so enamored of my vocal skills they’d release me just like that.
I suddenly remembered I’d been singing at Grand Central before a needle poked into me, rendering me totally oblivious and mute. Geb Whichever had muttered “warehouse” and my drugged-fogged brain had started warbling the words to the old Commodores hit "Brick House." Loudly. I had no idea if I’d been smart enough to substitute “ware” for the brick. Not that anyone would figure out my meaning anyway. I did seem to recall a couple of tourists tossing coins my way so I guess I’d been on pitch for the impromptu concert.
I put the sheet music back inside my bag. I somehow knew "Heartbreak Hotel" - whether by Elvis or the Memphis Beales - would not win me any points with the Gebs or their boss once they began the ceremony.
I started to cry. Big, ugly, nasty tears that washed away what little make-up I’d retained from the train trip and however many hours on a warehouse floor. I sobbed until I choked and coughed. It had not been a good week. Nearly getting raped in a bordello, committing arson, getting slapped around, diving into dirt and dust and mud and engaging in fights with s
mall, nasty women was not what I imagined doing when I first heard I was going to be a Ziegfeld Follies girl.
I wondered if I’d ever get the chance to tell Briley I’d fallen in love with him.
Envisioning his face in my mind did the trick. I quit sniveling and sniffing and decided it was time to put to use one of the less-than-legal techniques for burglary that Savanna’s youngest brother had taught me when I was eight and he was ten.
I dug back into my Elvis bag, found a wad of moderately lipstick-stained tissues, blew my nose then began searching for something that would allow me to sneak out of this prison. I found my handy-dandy combination flashlight, screwdriver and knife. Then I heard a sound from what had to be the front of this giant room.
I returned the all-purpose weapon to my bag, slung the bag over my shoulder and waited. Soft streams of daylight still floated through the window where I’d torn the burlap so I knew it was nowhere near midnight yet. And midnight seemed to be the hour for reincarnation rituals.
Geb Two strode across the cluttered, giant, room bearing a tray in his massive hands. I sniffed. Bagels. Fresh bagels. I wasn’t exactly crazy about the current accommodations and situation but I was so hungry I was ready to devour anything set before me in any prison. And these bagels smelled wonderful. Geb Two motioned for me to take a step back then set the tray on a table.
“Wait ‘til I haf leef.”
“Sure.” I tried to identify the man’s accent. German? Yikes. The war was over but these fellows weren’t happy with the outcome, and I was well aware that they’d start another in Europe in less than twenty years. I instinctively knew this guy was no sad émigré fleeing the Kaiser for freedom in America. In twenty years he’d be in tall black boots proudly sporting a swastika. I had no desire to tangle with him.
He turned then shut the huge sliding doors at the end of the room. Even if I’d had my lethal wand of mascara ready, there’d been no time to stop him long enough to jab him or watch as he laughed himself blind over my feeble attempt to escape.
Besides, my attention now focused on the food. Bagels with cream cheese on the side. Eggs, bacon and oatmeal as well. If one had to get nabbed this was the way to go. There was even coffee with enougth cream in a little pitcher for both the oatmeal and the java. I inhaled that breakfast like it might be my last. “And the condemned ate a hearty meal before being plopped on a slab and ravished by a nutcase with a thing for Eygptian gods, and a hankering for an artistic bride who can sew a seam while delivering show tunes or classic rock hits with equal aplomb.”
I shivered.
Geb Two came back for the tray about twenty minutes later. I tried getting information out of him about when the ceremony would take place and where, but he declined to answer. All he’d tell me was the current time - ten in the morning - and the location of my own private chamber pot, which was good, since I’d been wondering how to take care of that little detail and hadn’t exactly found an executive washroom.
He took the tray and left. I did my business and decided I had about ten hours to escape before anyone came back to escort me to a different location. I dug back into my bag and brought out the flashlight/knife thingee, then set to work trying to jimmy the sliding doors Geb Two was using for his entrances and exits. Thirty minutes into the exercise my hands were bleeding, the knife was broken and I was cursing sturdy 1919 padlocks.
I made my way over to the window, pulled back the burlap I’d torn away earlier and wondered if I could squeeze my body through the bars. I’m a decent swimmer. I could land in the drink below and do a nice Australian crawl away from the warehouse. End up on the Manhattan side of Canal Street in Chinatown just in time to join a few tourists for some Mu-shu pork or Kung Pao chicken.
The bars wouldn’t budge. They were also too narrow for even someone Denise’s size to ooch through. I choked back tears again then looked to the ceiling for guidance.
None could be found from the nasty poles or chandelier above my head, but I did see another window. Like a big porthole. It was boarded up with one thin piece of plywood, which could have been why I hadn’t seen it before. Not to mention that it was a good twenty feet above the ground. I refused to be deterred by such a mere thing as height. Stackin’ time.
I hauled boxes and tables and more boxes until I was able to climb without too much fear of landing on my head. It was still a precarious hike, but I managed to get footholds on boxes and cling to the side of a very pockmarked wall whenever I was in real danger of losing my grip or my balance.
Within twenty-five minutes (gauged by my inner clock) I was at the window. A window blessedly boarded by screws, not nails. I carefully reached into my bag and brought out my little combo tool as I gave thanks to a father who had taught his only daughter to always be prepared for emergencies. Somehow I doubted he’d ever conceived of one like this, but at least I had both a gizmo and the spirit that allowed me to turn the screws on that board and discover a window that was open. No bars. No glass. Cool.
I hoisted myself up to it until I was half in and half out. I looked down. Way down. Water, yes, but water that must be thirty-five feet below. I figured I was already on the second floor of this building. I half-turned until I was sitting in the window with my feet resting on the top box of my makeshift ladder. I admit it. I was terrified. Death by drowning after an Olympic dive from the top of a warehouse was not a good option. Time to rest for a few minutes before taking the plunge.
Someone was singing. Actually, two someones were singing. In harmony. Sort of. Male and female. The male had a pretty fair baritone that sounded suspiciously like Briley’s. The female wasn’t exactly on key but it didn’t matter. I knew that cackle. Fiona Belle Winthorp Donovan. Briley McShan and my cranberry-scone-baking witch were singing Elvis’s "Shake, Rattle and Roll." They’d gotten to the “flip, flop and fly” lyrics.
Either I’d died from the climb up or rescue was at hand.
I twisted in the window again and looked down. A boat sat squarely in whatever body of water whooshed below. My deduction was spot on. Briley. And Fiona Belle – or in this time period - Mrs. Donovan. I waved and nearly solved the problem of whether I’d flip or fly because I almost fell out. I quickly grabbed the inside of the window.
Briley yelled, “Melody! I’m going to dock this at the pier and see if I can get inside.”
“No! I’ll jump. Y’all stay there. I can swim out to the boat.”
“No! It’s too high. You’ll kill yourself. Just go back inside.”
“No! There’s big ugly guys guarding and I don’t want you to get hurt!”
“No! You’ll drown! Stay inside. I promise I’ll take care of them.”
“No!”
We could have continued this delightful, fruitless stream of conversation from thirty-five feet apart indefinitely if Mrs. Donovan hadn’t intervened.
“Jump, Melody! Don’t be scared. Just do it!”
I held my carryall bag high over my head like a parachute to slow me down and let 'er rip. I screamed. Briley screamed. Mrs. Donovan screamed but the giggle mixed with it sounded more like she wanted to share rather than from any great fear on her part.
I landed about six feet away from the little boat into what, thankfully, was water at least seventy-five degrees Fahrenheit. I executed a nice U turn underneath before hitting any rocks or corals or mermaids below then shot back toward the top to air, to safety - to Briley.
Strong hands lifted me into the boat. Strong lips covered mine. Mrs. Donovan patted me on the back, but I ignored her for the moment.
Briley’s rich, warm voice murmured, “I thought I’d lost you. And I couldn’t stand that. Not with how our last conversation ended. Oh, hell, not in any way. I am so sorry. I let my anger over finding out that Frank wasn’t coming back to New York make me crazy and I took it out on you. Mel, I promise never to stomp off in a huff during a fight no matter which century you stay in and no matter how long you stay there.”
He kissed me and I enthusiastically
kissed him back. Mrs. Donovan beamed at us. She shifted the sail on this little catamaran to head us first toward the Ocean then over to the East Side and the small pier where I gathered the rescue vehicle had been rented. Or borrowed. Or stolen. Whichever.
“How did y’all find me?”
Briley held me tight but answered the question. “Your clue. I was only about eight feet back of you when you started singing some crazy song about a warehouse. You didn’t see me, but I was running after that lunatic who grabbed you. I managed to hail a taxi and told him to follow the car you were in.”
Mrs. Donovan sighed. “I’ve always wanted to do that. Jump into a cab and yell, ‘follow that car!’ It’s on my to-do list. Maybe next century.”
I shot her a look.
She smiled. “Go on, Briley. Tell her how the idiot cabbie lost them at Battery Park.”
“He did. So I had him drive me over to your rooming house and I told Mrs. Donovan everything that had happened and then tried to describe the song you were singing.”
Fiona Belle’s voice sailed out across the bay,"‘She’s mighty mighty, lettin’ it all hang out.’"
Briley stared at the woman. I ignored her. She grinned and wrapped a large blanket around both Briley and me since we were both soaked. She then started singing Brick House from the very beginning. She knew every line.
Briley turned to her with, “That’s it! That’s the song exactly.”
I glared at Fiona Belle. “Yeah. A song that won’t be composed for about sixty years or so.”
Mrs. Donovan ignored me. “I was after puttin’ two and two together. Knew the warehouse had to be off Manhattan Island. And there are pockets of land with old buildin’s on ‘em under the Brooklyn Bridge. So we got the wee boat here, and began tourin’ down the bay.”
The brogue was back. She had gotten quite adept at affecting one whenever I was about to nail her on who she really was. She smiled. “Hungry? I brought some delectible cranberry-orange scones for ya to munch on after yor sore ordeal.”
Haunting Melody Page 20