Haunting Melody (9 page)

“Izzy! I’m surprised to see you here. I
assumed reporters were persona non grata at these affairs.”

“The opposite. Rich people love seeing their
names in the papers. But I’m off duty, tonight. I promised Briley.”
He paused. “Truthfully? I hate working for Clow. I’d love to find a
nice juicy murder or train robbery or political coup happening
somewhere and get back with a respectable newspaper. One that pays
well of course.”

It was funny but Izzy reminded me of a male
version of Savanna. My best friend was full of humor and bluster
and good will, which hid a formidable intellect. I suspected Izzy
possessed the same.

The reporter took my hand. “Come with me,
kiddo. Let me give you the Rubens guided tour of the Ellingsford
mansion. I’m a fairly frequent guest. I can give you the scoop on
all the grand sights - and there are many.”

I’d seen "The Great Gatsby"(Robert Redford
version) and thought that’s what a jazz age party was like. I
always believed that things had gotten wilder through the Twenties,
not before the age of flappers really started. I was wrong.

These folks made the characters of F. Scott
Fitzgerald’s novels look like monks. Booze flowed from every
container in the house. Men and women sans clothing were jumping
into the backyard pool, champagne glasses still in their hands.
Couples in various corners of every room were doing some serious
making-out. Also sans clothing. From a huge balustrade on the
second floor, chorines in silky lingerie slid down into the waiting
arms of eager gentlemen in tuxedos. A sweet smoky odor drifted out
of one corner of a room filled with Egyptian objects d’art.
Marijuana?

I was way too innocent to be here. College
and four years in Manhattan in Greenwich Village had never been
like this.

Izzy and I hastily backed out of a room where
the occupants were engaged in more than heavy petting on top a huge
brass bed. Two seconds more and we’d be witnessing porn.

“Izzy? Izzy Rubens? Where are you?” Lili
Ellingsford’s soprano voice trilled from downstairs.

Izzy bowed. “I leave you to explore. Our
hostess requires my presence. Will you be all right?”

I nodded. “I’ll find someplace less occupied.
Thanks again for the tour.”

I tentatively opened the door to a room next
to the porn stars and exhaled in relief. The furnishings here
didn’t seem to belong to the rest of the house. Instead of a huge
new Grand Piano a sturdy upright stood in the corner. A clarinet
rested in a tall chair next to the piano. A flute lay on a
footstool. A violin had been neatly placed on top of a desk. Five
chairs faced the piano in a semi-circle. Sheet music lay in stacks
everywhere.

I lifted the piano lid, and ran my hand over
the keys. A different voice than Izzy’s quietly filled the space
behind me. “This room was used by Lloyd’s grandparents and three
cousins. All of whom were musicians. They died during the Spanish
influenza epidemic two years ago. It was such a horrible time here
in New York. Didn’t matter if one were rich or poor, a veteran or a
chorus girl. A plague like that doesn’t discriminate.”

I nodded, remembering the reports from
history books. “ It hit down South as well; in fact Memphis lost
nearly a quarter of its residents. My family was pretty lucky.”

His voice caught. “Unfortunately, my family
wasn’t. Frank and I were in France. That’s where we met Michel
Dupre, who died in the hospital in Paris where Frank was
recuperating. Michel was aware he was dying. He asked Frank and me
to bring his wife and son to America if he possibly could. Frank
comes back home - and disappears. I was still in Paris. Then my
parents died from influenza - after they’d offered to help the
Dupres. Thanks to Mr. Ziegfeld, Denise and Nevin finally emigrated
to New York.” His voice caught.

My eyes misted. “Losing a loved one is so
hard. My mom died two years ago in a car accident. Drunk driver. My
Dad and I have been really cut up about her death.”

Briley took my hands in his. “I’m so sorry. I
get selfish, remembering my own family. I forget others have had
hard times too. How horrible for you.” He paused. “Wars, epidemics
and idiots who drive drunk. Not much of a century so far, is
it?”

I nodded then smiled. “My mom always told me
to follow my dreams. I swear I can see her watching over me when I
design a costume she’d’ve liked.”

Briley asked, “You design? As well as
dance?”

“I’m a much better designer than dancer. More
comfortable with it too.”

Briley nodded and didn’t look at me like I
had two heads. “Well, if you design anywhere like you dance, I bet
you end up another Lucille Duff-Gordon.”

“Aw, thanks.”

Briley sighed. “I hate to bring this up
again, but this business about designers and seamstresses has me
worried about all the Follies girls - and Francesca Cerrone’s
murder.”

“You believe it was murder? Not just an
accident?”

“Well, the death itself sounds like it wasn’t
planned but lion skins? That’s drool.”

“Uh, drool?”

“Nonsense.”

“Oh.”

We stared at each other. My pulse started
hitting maximum rates.

I swiftly began talking. Chattering was more
like it.

“These instruments look lonely, don’t they?
Seeing them here is like a kick in the stomach for me. My
grandparents had a music room at their house that looked just the
same –– sheet music and stands covering everything. I spent a
lot of hours listening to them play. In fact, I took piano lessons
over at their place.” I smiled. “I was terrible about practicing. I
always wanted to play the popular songs instead of classical. And
Grandpa was always getting into trouble with Grammy because he’d
encourage me.”

Dim shapes of bodies suddenly materialized
behind Briley as a troupe of laughing men and women entered the
room. Saree and the Count led the pack of guests who’d invaded the
music room. The couple was now comfortably ensconced on the
loveseat. Two other Follies’ chorines whose names I wasn’t sure of,
their dates, the Dupres, the Ellingsfords, Grady Martel, and Prince
Peter (minus Eloise) had managed to squeeze into the now crowded
space. Saree had obviously heard my last few statements.

“Did you say you play piano, Melody?”

“I’m no Lady Ga-ga, but I manage.”

Stares all around.

“Who?”

“Oh. Uh, Lady Ga-ga. Plays in the nightclubs
in Memphis. She’s amazing. Anyway, yeah, I play.”

Saree pointed at Briley. “Don’t you play
violin, Briley?”

He tossed her a ‘get you for this’ grimace
and owned up to it. “Yeah, I’ve been heard to bow a pretty mean
fiddle at times.”

Saree’s grin was wider than the piano
keyboard. “The Count plays clarinet. Where’s Mr. Bongo? Oh, stupid
question. He’s probably in the kitchen flirting with the maids.
I’ll find him. It’s time for some music. And Izzy, if we see this
reported anywhere in any paper, I’ll personally skin you alive, or
sic Mr. Bongo on you.” Saree began hollering louder than a farmhand
bringing home the cows. “Mr. Bongo! Hey, Mr. Bongo! We want to hear
some ragtime.”

Mr. Bongo magically appeared with a drunken
Eloise Jenkins draped over his arm. I’d yet to hear the chauffeur
speak a single word. He continued his silent streak. He gently
deposited Eloise on a small love seat, then picked up drumsticks
from the snare where they’d been lying for probably the last two
years, plopped himself onto a stool, and began a preliminary drum
roll.

It was useless. We’d been roped into being
the entertainment. In comparison with some of the other
entertainment I’d witnessed downstairs earlier we were going to be
pretty tame. At least no one was naked.

I played a quick scale. Still in tune.
Someone had taken good care of this piano. The Count picked up the
clarinet then started searching through the case under his chair
for a clean reed.

Briley gently brought the violin to his chin
and drew the bow once across it. It seemed to have been recently
restrung. I gathered the piano wasn’t the only instrument to
receive loving care. Lloyd had kept the music room intact.

Briley smiled at me. “My brother was an
amazing pianist. He loved Chopin and Beethoven, but could also
pound out ragtime and theatre tunes. He was the kind of musician
who didn’t even need sheet music.”

“Liked to jam, huh?”

“What?”

“Forget it. Improvisation. That sounds like
what Frank did.”

Briley still looked puzzled. I took the
opportunity to peruse the intro to Bert Williams’ song "Nobody,"
which topped the sheet music stack nearest the piano. The crowd of
chorus girls, Peter, Grady, Izzy, various males, and Denise found
spots on the floor and in the hall. Eloise was snoring softly.
Nevin snuggled next to me on the bench like it was his rightful
place.

“Can I sit with you?”

“Sure.”

I was pleased. I’d sat next to my Grandpa for
many years just that way.

For the next forty minutes or so, we made
music. Lili’s folks had compiled an eclectic collection that
included Johann Sebastian Bach, Amadeus Mozart, Irving Berlin,
Harry Tierney, Sigmond Romburg, and Eubie Blake. Our audience was
receptive; clapping and singing along with the tunes they knew.

Nevin poked me.“Mel-o-dee? Play from Memphis?
Quelque chose nouveau?”

Something new. That opened a wealth of
dangerous choices. I glanced at Grady and decided that Ft. Worth
was far enought from Memphis for me to worry about the “new music”
having made it to Texas. I looked at the expectant faces. The
impish visage of Fiona Belle flashed in my head. With an impish
grin of my own, I turned back to the piano and starting playing and
singing.

“'You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog, cryin’
all the time!'”

Saree and two other girls started dancing
around the room. Briley was laughing so hard I worried he’d split
his abdomen in two. Mr. Bongo went right with me on the rhythm. The
Count listened then added a little harmony after the first chorus.
Izzy started writing something down on a little pad, noticed Saree
glaring at him, and began doing high kicks with her instead. After
I finished that first Elvis Presley hit, I went on to "Blue Suede
Shoes."

I spent the next hour going through my entire
Elvis Presley repertoire, including the remix of “Don’t Be Cruel”
and “All Shook Up.” Grady got up and tried to lead Denise in some
version of the Texas two-step. Izzy and Saree were laughing and
improvising a warped version of the Hora. Even Briley added a
little baritone to the mix. The only soul not singing was the
Russian prince. He looked confused. As for royalty? I grinned,
musing to myself that ‘The King may have left the building, but
it’s obvious in any era - he still rules.’

I slept in the next day. I imagine everyone
who’d been at the Ellingsford party slept in. It was past two in
the afternoon when Mrs. Donovan knocked on my door and shouted:
“Wake up, darlin’. Ya got a show to do tonight. And another
party.”

I groaned. I missed getting up at a
reasonable hour, throwing on sweats, taking a run in a park, coming
home and having breakfast with the dog. I missed Lucy licking me
awake and begging to go out. I even missed Savanna calling me past
midnight to ask me if I had a date. But I didn’t have time to mope
- or wonder if my dog was enjoying time with whichever Fiona Belle
clone currently had her.

The party Mrs. Donovan was talking about was
an official Follies Opening Night thing. Saree had told me last
night that a club in midtown, Francy’s, had been reserved for the
bash. Time to steal from Bettina Markham again. I took a quick
shower in the community bathroom then threw on a slinky black dress
that fit me perfectly. As I was tying my own pair of black boots I
noticed a new addition to Rm.413. A dozen red roses were lying in a
box on the floor near the bed.

A card was neatly attached to the box. “Best
wishes for your first opening with us. Here’s to many more. Flo
Ziegfeld."

Wow. I hadn’t realized I’d made that much of
an impression. Maybe he did this for all the Follies girls? I
wondered if Briley ever sent flowers.

I smiled grimly. If he sent plant life to me,
it’d probably be poison ivy. I thought I’d cracked a little of the
shell around him, but he hadn’t really said much to me on the way
home from the Ellingsford party. He and Saree had talked of nothing
but Francesca Cerroni. Briley kept mumbling that he felt
responsible for all the girls at the Follies. The Count had
reminded him that security was not the job for a
stagehand/electrician/engineer so Briley had sunk into a blue funk
and stayed silent the rest of the trip. When we arrived at East
12th street, I’d jumped out the limo before giving anyone a chance
to escort me inside.

I was due at the theatre in thirty-five
minutes. I ran downstairs. A teenage boy was manning the desk. I
stopped and ask if he’d mind putting the roses in a vase and
bringing them down to the lobby for all the girls to enjoy.

Between the subway ride, and a brisk run, I
made it to the theatre with five minutes to spare. I signed in at
the stage door and headed to the dressing room. Thirty minutes
later I was ready. And terrified.

I wasn’t the only one. It was like a repeat
of dress rehearsal. Terrified chorines, terrified stagehands,
terrified Ziegfeld. The only person I ran into who seemed calm was
legendary song and dance man, Bert Williams. He smiled at me while
I waited in the wings.

Places were called, entertainers scurried to
their spots and the show was up and running before I realized it. I
wasn’t in the opening, a Follies “Salad” mix, but it was was
quickly followed by a tableau of the last twelve years of the
Follies with a chorus girl representing each year. I was to replace
the 13th Follies girl, Jessie Reed, if she was ever out some
night.