Haunting Melody Read online

  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?”

  I glared as defiantly as I was able up at him. “Well, excuse me, but just who are you to ask me anything? For what it’s worth I, uh, I came up here from . . . Memphis, Tennessee and I got, uh, mugged, and I don’t see where it’s any business of yours. What are you anyway? Some pervert wanderin’ through the women’s dressing rooms hopin’ to get lucky?”

  A rich laugh followed this decidedly feeble-witted bluff.

  “My name is Briley McShan. I’m a stagehand-electrician here. I try to avoid the women’s dressing rooms because the ladies who inhabit them are usually lunatics. But when Saree raced up asking me to check on an ailing girl, I came. Saree’s got one very big heart. She was quite worried that something was wrong with you.” He surveyed me with more than a passing glance. “Obviously she was right.”

  “Oh, thanks very much. I appreciate your comment more than I can say.”

  His expression changed to a thoroughly wicked grin. “Oh, there’s nothing wrong with your looks.” He paused, took a breath then hurried on as a slight flush crossed his face. “It’s the fact of you that’s wrong. You don’t seem to belong here. Whether you’re just a practical joker or a spy I haven’t yet decided. But there’s something not right about you.”

  I smiled. “So, Briley McShan. Stagehand and electrician. Who’s the dog belong to?”

  “Nice dodge, Melody Flynn.”

  I kept smiling. My face hurt.

  He shrugged. “All right. Let me introduce you to Sir Duffy Gordon. D.G. for short. He was originally a present to Flo and Billie from Lucille, the English designer. Heard of her? Lady Duff-Gordon. Flo brought him to work one day right after they got him and the pup kept following me and ignoring everyone else. The Ziegfelds already have about five dogs and rabbits and sheep and raccoons and rabbits, so they gave him to me. He’s barely six months old, but he’s good company, the cast loves him, and he’s normally a superb guard dog for backstage. How you got in without his howling is amazing. You must have a way with animals. Now... Who.... Are... You?”

  His patience was at an end.

  I looked into his eyes. Could I tell him I thought I’d time-traveled without fear of immediate commitment to a lunatic asylum? I opened my mouth to start an explanation but what came out instead was, “I’ve got a dog named after Lucille, too. Really. I mean, she’s Lucy for short and she is short. A miniature Border Collie. She’d love Duffy. Probably herd him through the theatre, then wrestle him to the floor for playtime.”

  Briley bit his lip. “I’m supposed to trust you because you like dogs?”

  He hadn’t softened even with the mention of the sweetest dog in any era. So much for trying to explain my situation.

  Fortunately Saree came racing into the dressing room, shrieking in an attempt to be a soprano. “Melody! They’re definitely looking for understudies. I told them about this funny tall redhead who just dropped in. If you get out there now you really have a chance of being hired. Please, please hurry.”

  I jumped up. I was still a tad woozy, but this could not only get out of explanations but possibly land me a job. I was bonkers. Looney tunes. A wannabe-costume designer from the Twenty-first Century thinking I could become a Follies girl. But, if I didn’t make it as a real live Ziegfeld chorine, maybe they’d let me work in wardrobe as a seamstress? If I couldn’t get myself back, some kind of security in 1919 was needed so I didn’t end up roaming the streets singing Elvis tunes, begging for quarters, sleeping in doorways and hunting for small witches. Then again, maybe I could get in good with Billie Burke and ask her to do her Glinda bit and send me home. Did granny boots work like ruby slippers?

  I have to admit I was also thrilled with the idea of getting the chance to audition for the Ziegfeld Follies. I looked at Saree, a bit puzzled by her instant acceptance of this slightly looney stranger who’d literally fallen into her dressing room.

  “Why are you trying to help me?”

  Saree snorted. “Partly because if you don’t get this job, they’ll probably give it to Eloise Jenkins. Since Dolores isn’t it the show this year, Flo is desperate to find someone tall, preferably to sub for Jesse. Eloise is tall - though not as tall as you. But I don’t like Eloise Jenkins. Nobody likes Eloise Jenkins. She’s a snob. And she’s not funny. You’re funny.”

  “Thanks, Saree. For everything. I’ll go right now. I do need this job.”

  I quickly tucked the doll and the sheet music back into my bag then waved gaily at Briley as I
trotted after Saree. I was lucky he hadn’t just called security and had me hauled off the premises. If there was security other than Duffy. D. G. The wannabe guard-pup wagged his tail and grinned.

  At least the dog liked me.

  Chapter 5

  Briley followed me as far as the wings just off stage right. I turned and waved. I knew darn well he didn’t believe my story about being mugged. I stood on stage with the other girls, but could still hear his voice. He hadn’t bothered to decrease his volume even though he was addressing the dog.

  “Duffy. Sit. Let’s watch this audition and see whether Melody Flynn can even dance a step. If she falls on her face, that’ll prove I’m right.”

  Right about what he didn’t specify.

  I glanced out into the darkened theatre and nearly fainted again. A man I recognized from historical photographs as Flo Ziegfeld sat in the first row of the orchestra seats. A large man wearing dark-rimmed glasses came onstage and introduced himself as Ned Wayburn, the dance director. But I wasn’t given time to hyperventilate over the fact I was sharing space with two of the greatest talents in Twentieth Century theatre. Wayburn corralled the seven chorus hopefuls and began putting us through a rigorous audition process.

  I was in the second group, waiting for Mr. Wayburn’s instructions. Close to the side of the stage nearest Briley McShan. I saw a petite brunette approach the handsome stagehand. I could hear every word being said.

  “Briley, Allo.”

  “Denise. How are you feeling today?”

  “Tres bon. I believe I am over zee ailment. And Nevin was not ill. He is in the costume shop helping Maureen with the iron. I must return before he sets theater on fire. Mais, mes amis, why do you watch the new demoiselles? You never do, non?”

  He took the lady’s arm and positioned her so she could see me. I was performing single pirouettes. He raised his voice enough to where doubtless every girl on stage heard every word.

  “See the girl with the red hair? Saree found her in the dressing room, passed out. Perhaps Steve Clow decided he couldn’t get inside dope on the Follies without having a dancer in the cast. Izzy isn’t enough. So he sent in a girl he knew Flo couldn’t resist. She’s different. Tall. With those eyes. And that smile.”

  Denise responded in much softer tones. I had to strain to catch what she was saying while completing my fourth spin in a row without falling over. “She ees that, oui? But Ziegfeld does not care about the eyes of les girls. Or smiles. No one sees those so good onstage. But Briley sees them. I do think Monsieur Ziegfeld will be tres interessment. Along with Monsieur McShan.”

  Briley actually hissed. “She doesn’t interest me. I just don’t want anyone else around here to be hurt by Clow, if she is a spy. But you’re right about her and Mr. Ziegfeld. I’m sure he’ll be more than intrigued. He loves tall redheads.”

  “Trust to Monsieur Ziegfeld, non? And I go back to the costume shop and see if Nevin has put holes into chiffon gowns. We shall talk again, n’est pas?”

  The brunette laughed, then walked towards the backstage work area.

  I quickly focused on the dance director. Ned Wayburn was motioning for us all to parade down the staircase. I knew what he wanted to see. The Follies walk. That glide with pelvis forward, toes pointed, head high. Elegant and sexy at the same time. I’d seen a show about Irving Berlin and the Ziegfeld Follies on TV two months ago. I’d admired that walk. Now I had to emulate it.

  I glanced at Briley as I waited my turn at the top of the stairs and prayed to all theatrical gods that I wouldn’t take a header and land in Florenz Ziegfeld’s lap, or dive headfirst, spin right, then land in a heap by Briley’s feet. Or on them.

  I sashayed down the steps and made it to the bottom without mishap. I had no idea whether I’d given a good imitation of a gorgeous Follies chorine or the scarecrow in "The Wizard of Oz" first time off the pole. I could hear applause coming from the wings. Briley and Saree were standing together. Had to be Saree clapping.

  “You!”

  The sound came from the darkened theatre house. Several girls gasped. I glanced at the attractive blonde beside me. “What is it? What’s happening?”

  She poked me in my ribs. “Not what - who.”

  “You mean?”

  “Yep. The great man himself. I wonder who managed to catch the All-Seeing eye.”

  Ned Wayburn pointed at me. I gulped.

  “You.”

  “Uh, me? Huh?” (Oh great. That sounded lovely and intelligent.)

  “Name.”

  “Melody Flynn.”

  “Thank you. Miss Flynn. Mr. Ziegfeld is interested. But we’re a mite confused. Your steps are fine, your posture is fine, your looks are fine, but your clothes are - odd.”

  The other girls were decked out in shorter skirts and tops suitable for rehearsals circa 1919. I was still in my black gaucho pants and granny boots. All I needed was a pith helmet to finish off the look of a Nineteenth Century archeologist excavating Egyptian mummy sites.

  I upped my Memphis accent. “Oh. Well. Ah just arrived from Tennessee, y’all, and ma things were stolen at Grand Central Station, and all ah had left were these –um- ridin’ clothes.”

  A girl about four inches shorter than I, with dark crimped chestnut hair, snorted audibly through her absurdly tiny snubbed nose. “I’ve never seen riding clothes like that in my life and I’ve ridden all over the Eastern Seaboard.”

  “Yeah, Eloise, but that’s on men, not horses! Though some of your beaus have been jackasses!”

  That last voice had been Saree’s, who was standing behind Briley, yelling at Eloise. The other girls giggled. I glanced over into the wings. Briley raised an eyebrow - at me.

  Eloise threw Saree a murderous look then continued the attack. “Mr. Wayburn, if this girl doesn’t have the proper clothes, she shouldn’t be allowed to audition. Ziegfeld Girls pride themselves on looking fashionable. She looks like a tramp. Even her hair is all over the place. It’s disrespectful.”

  The gorgeous blonde who’d been standing next to me joined the chorus of my defenders started by Saree. “Pardon me, Eloise, but I got robbed at Grand Central two years ago. I went everywhere around New York for three days wearing a traveling suit. That included auditions and a very swanky party at the Ritz. It was embarrassing. Give the girl a break.”

  “You don’t care, Mary, because you have a husband who provides for you. Some people need this job.”

  “And some people need the job so they can meet rich men, don’t they, Eloise? You better shut up out there! You’re just jealous ‘cause Melody is better than you’ll ever be!”

  The last was again from Saree, hooting from the wings. Briley nudged her to be silent. Mr. Wayburn waved at Saree from his place near the orchestra pit in an attempt to shush her.

  “Ladies! Enough. I didn’t mean to start a riot. Miss Flynn? We’ll see what we can do about finding you some decent clothes. Now, all of you. Behave, while I talk to Mr. Ziegfeld about who will understudy whom.”

  Mr. Wayburn gestured for us to sit in the first row of chairs on the stage then he headed straight for the second row in the orchestra seats towards the man waiting in the dark.

  The pair talked for a good twenty minutes. I tried not to focus on the fact that Ned Wayburn, one of the first choreographers in musical theatre, and Flo Ziegfeld, an impresario whose very name conjured up visions of lavish productions with beautiful showgirls were discussing me. Melody Irina Flynn, four years ago from Memphis, Tennessee, three weeks ago from a ridiculously crowded apartment on Jane Street, and very briefly and recently from East 12th Street - and the Twenty-First Century.

  Saree waved at me then clutched Briley’s arm. Her voice floated across the stage. “Yeah, yeah. I’m butting in. I don’t care. I like her.”

  Briley did not bother lowering his volume either. I could hear every word. “Saree. Do I have to remind you about the last article Clow printed about you? He called the Count every name under the sun and said he’d been a black mar
keteer during the war and called you a two-bit –– uh –– well anyway, I should think you’d be a little more wary of strangers backstage.”

  “Melody is no stranger. I like her. I have this feeling about her. What’s meant to happen will happen. She’s going to get in, and I, for one, am saying that’s swell.”

  She waved at me and yelled across the stage, “Mel! I’m rooting for you!”

  Briley gave up trying to argue with the exuberant blonde. I wanted to run to the wings and hug her. I looked into the theatre house. The two men were still talking. I was more than anxious waiting to hear whether I was really going to be hired. I’d been thrown back over ninety years through time. I was really, really scared. Yet I could soon end up on the stage of the New Amsterdam Theatre performing in the Ziegfeld Follies.

  Finally Ned Wayburn came back up the stairs. He strode to the middle of the stage.

  “Mary De Luca. Melody Flynn. Please be here tomorrow at eight-thirty for costume measurements and dress rehearsal. You will each be given specific understudy duties and will also fill in during the Prohibition scene and the staircase number. Again, everyone, I apologize for having such a late audition, but it was necessary. Thank you for attending.”

  I was in! A real Follies Girl! The other girls left. I stood alone, looking like a lost sheep. I had no idea what to do next or where to go.

  Saree and Briley emerged from the wings. Saree hugged me like we’d been friends for years. She reminded me of Savanna with her humor and ability to let her emotions show without fear of the consequences. I missed my best friend terribly but was thrilled that this chorus girl seemed to want to fill in for her.

  Saree’s grin lit the stage. “I knew you could do it. Where did you learn to dance like that? You picked up those steps so fast I thought Ned would ask you to teach everyone else.”