Haunting Melody (27 page)

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.”

I’d eaten about two hours ago but it didn’t
matter if it had been two days or two minutes. I can’t refuse those
scones and she knows it so the manipulative little witch keeps
baking them.

We returned the boat to its rightful slip in
a spot on the pier then walked to a vehicle that was parked by a
curb about three blocks from the pier. Two people sat in the
vehicle.

“Izzy! And Saree? How did you get involved?
Whose van is this?”

Saree leapt out to hug me. “Izzy called me
and told me everything that had happened in Memphis and then he
said you’d been grabbed outside the train station. So I telephoned
one of Flo’s stagehands backstage who said he had a van that
belonged to the Follies but he figured since you’re a chorine, that
Mr. Ziegfeld himself would drive it if he were here! And since he
wasn’t, Joe offered to let me and Izzy take it to search for you.
And then Briley called Izzy and told him that your landlady had
figured out where you were and to wait for us at the Pier. So we
did.”

It was a mixed-up explanation but it didn’t
matter. I hugged her again and glanced at Izzy who was watching the
pair of us with paternal pride - and a little something extra where
Saree was concerned. I winked at him over Saree’s shoulder. He
winked back. Wicked.

Izzy drove us back to Mrs. Donovan’s rooming
house, let the enigmatic landlady and me out, escorted us to the
door then took Briley and Saree to their respective residences
before bringing the van back to the New Amsterdam Theatre. Briley
argued that he wanted to accompany me to my room, but I told him I
needed a shower and a long sleep even more than a bodyguard.

It was now close to one in the afternoon. I
had a show to do tonight.

“Melody? It’s for you again. Another
hotsy-totsy beau.”

Edith Beyers, self-appointed phone monitor
for the day, stood over me.

“What time is it?”

“Time to answer the fifth stinking call
you’ve gotten in less than two hours.”

Obviously I was not going to get a nap.
Edith’s math was correct. I’d had five phone calls since I’d gotten
back to Room 413 after my kidnapping adventure.

“Melody? Hey, l’il lady! Ah heard you were
back in town. It’s Grady. You up fer some supper after the show
tonight? Lloyd may join us.”

“Melody? This is Lawrence Vassily. I was told
you’d returned to New York yesterday. Would you care for some
dinner after the show?”

“Mel-o-dee? Zis ees Prince Peter. You iss
back? Vood dine after show dis evening?”

And a surprise call. “Melody. This is the
Count. Would you like to have dinner with me after the show? I’ll
send the car around with Mr. Bongo.”

I’d told them all no. One of them might well
be the Ptah Wannabe and I didn’t need to make abduction easier. My
life and virtue were in already in jeopardy. Aside from that, I
declined each invitation for a much better reason. Briley. We
hadn’t had a second to ourselves since the spectacular rescue at
sea. Uh- bay.

The Count’s call had been the one that had
forced Edith to roust me from my short nap. After I’d politely told
him I appreciated the invite but “no, thanks, not tonight” I
wandered down the hall back to my room musing that in this era
people didn’t need cell phones or the internet. There was a
grapevine in play speedier than cable modem on a state-of-the-art
computer.

I opened the door to my room and screamed.
Lotus blossoms filled vases in every corner. I marched back
downstairs and informed the latest desk clerk that I was certain
whatever hospital was closest would be more than happy to take them
off our hands, if she’d be so kind as to call. She did. I waited in
the lobby of the building until several young men arrived from St.
Luke’s, then escorted them to the room so I could watch watch them
remove every bloomin' bloom from my sight and smell.

I threw on one of Bettina’s casual skirt and
blouse combos, then grabbed my bag and carefully folded one of
Bettina’s fancier dresses inside. Briley had last seen me as a
dripping piece of animal-skin covered flotsam this morning. Once I
got to the theatre I’d be wearing a ton of make-up and attired in
costumes. I wanted to be gorgeous for our after-show date.

Bettina’s dress was a mix of silk, satin and
lace in a lime sherbet color that set off my hair color. Like the
party dress I’d worn to the Ellingfords less than two weeks ago,
this early flapper, handkerchief-hemmed baby had a dropped waist
that set off my legs. For once Briley McShan was about to get an
eyeful of Mel not covered in dirt from a makeshift pyramid tent,
water from the East River, or ashes from a burnt-down
whorehouse.

I splurged and took a cab so I’d get to the
New Amsterdam with plenty of time to iron and hang up the dress. I
rehearsed steps with another chorine since I hadn’t danced in a
week. I stretched out, wincing over sore muscles and Geb-inflicted
bruises.

Saree burst into the dressing room. She was
even more effusive and bubbly than normal – which was saying quite
a bit. “Mel! You’ll never guess! Guess what? Wanna guess? Huh?”

“You’re engaged.”

Her face dropped a mile. “How did you know?
No one knows. Who told you?”

“Saree! I was joking! My gosh! You really are
engaged? Holy Madonna!”

She squealed, giggled and threw her arms
around me. “I am! Really! For the first time in my life, if you can
believe it given the number of guys I’ve gone out with!”

“Saree! I’m thrilled. Details, girl,
details!”