Haunting Melody (3 page)

“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."

“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.

I smiled. “Sorry. I’m kind of mumbling. I
meant to say she’s so good I wish I could be like her.”

I patted the dog until his ears shook, and
unsuccessfully tried to hide my face in his soft fur. Saree nodded
at me from the middle of the doorway.

“Kiddo, I’m beginning to believe you really
did crack your head. You’re not making any sense at all. Briley. I
leave her to you. If you can get her to sound like a normal person,
up and walking, shove her on stage in few minutes. Being that tall
and with all that red hair she could probably sub for Jessie Reed.
Say, what’s your name, sweetie?”

“It’s Melody. Melody Flynn.”

Saree beamed at me. “Great name for a chorus
girl. Melody. That’s swell. Raggin’ us on. But you’re peachy! See
ya onstage.”

She left. I looked up at the man - Briley -
who was preventing me from toppling over. Black, curly hair that
needed trimming topped a thin face and those intense blue eyes. His
nose was straight, his chin slightly pointed, his cheekbones a bit
too pronounced. Dark circles ridged under his eyes as though he
hadn’t slept for days. A glint of interest appeared in those blue
eyes then he stiffened.

“Seen enough?”

I blushed.

Briley let me go none too gently then
repositioned himself across the room. He was taller than I, perhaps
close to six-five. A tattered white shirt, opened at the neck, and
brown worn work trousers, hinted of his status as stagehand at the
New Amsterdam Theatre.

He pulled a chair out; sat. “All right,
Melody Flynn. You’re no more drunk than I am and I didn’t see any
bumps on your head to indicate a major fall. Your color is too good
to have just gotten over pleurisy. Is Saree right in assuming that
someone in the cast put you up to fainting and creating this
fantasy tale about a lapse of memory?”

I held up my hand for him to stop. “Hey. I
did faint. And I haven’t a clue about what’s goin’ on either.
Believe me.”

His expression hardened. I caught a glimpse
of how tough he could be when provoked. His next words were spoken
with a definite edge. “Are you the latest in the line of Steve
Clow’s spies? If that’s the truth, you can turn around and leave
now. Everyone at this theatre is sick of his trash. The man ruins
lives.”

How could I tell him I thought I’d just
dropped through some sort of time portal courtesy of an antique
doll that played Irving Berlin, some sheet music –– and a crazy
diminutive witch? How could I say that it was now the 21st Century
but that even in that ‘advanced’ age, time travel was not exactly a
daily occurrence and getting back was dicey and dodgy? I wondered
for a second what would happen if I rewound the music box right
there in the dressing room. Would I disappear? Would I end up back
in my apartment? Or in Irving Berlin’s apartment? Or someplace with
people less kind? I had no desire to test out any theory that might
place me in a worse situation. I suddenly missed Savanna. She can
be crazy and wild but she's also Ms. Logic. She’d be able to figure
out what the hell was happening. And stop it.

I smiled what I hoped would be proved a
disarming smile. “Hold up there. Tell me, please, who’s Steve Clow?
I’ve never heard of him.”

He snarled, “Well played. Unfortunately, it’s
hard to believe you when there’s not a soul in Manhattan who isn’t
well aware that Steve Clow is the not-so-esteemed publisher of
Broadway Brevities, the nastiest scandal rag this side of the
Hudson. He’s printed more dirt on the Follies than is in a
graveyard. Don’t pretend innocence and don’t avoid the subject.
Exactly who are you, where did you come from, and what are you
doing here?”