We stayed at the police station long enough to let Denise make a statement and watch the cops officially arrest Anna for aiding and abetting in kidnapping. They had no idea what else to charge her with since performing Egyptian rituals of rebirth wasn’t exactly on the books. We had no proof that she’d been involved in the disappearance of Francesca Cerroni back in New York, nor that her death that was anything other than accidental. Ptah Junior had been looking to mate, not maim or kill.
Anna was escorted to a jail cell, still wearing her lion-skinned costume. She wasn’t talking to anyone. The sergeant who’d tried to take her statement got only two words out of the woman and they were unrepeatable.
Izzy trotted off to file his latest story with the Courier-Appeal. The rest of us drove back to Teresa’s. The truck was dirty, but unscathed after the night’s adventure. Briley promised me he’d wash it before Teresa had a chance to see it. Once again we’d crawled home in the very wee hours of the morning. Saree had been right that I’d grow used to late nights, but I sure hadn’t thought I’d be spending them scoping out houses of ill-repute, watching brothers reunite in Beale Street bars, or fighting vicious murderous madams on Mud Island.
I offered Denise and Nevin the use of my room and found a couch in a sunroom at the back of the house. It was too short to really fit my frame, which could have helped explain why sleep was impossible to achieve. After a few hours of tossing, I got up then headed to the kitchen for some tea and to try to make sense of what was insensible.
A noise startled me. I grabbed my empty teacup as though it were a weapon and stood with it raised to defend my honor.
“Death by camomille? Is that your intention?”
I set the cup down. “Briley. You scared the livin’ doo-doo out of me. That’s two times this same day if you count last night as today.”
“I actually understood that. And I’m sorry I startled you. Couldn’t sleep. I guess we’re sharing thoughts about something warm and soothing to ease our minds.” He started to add water to the kettle, but I waved him toward a seat.
“I’ll do it.”
Briley grinned. “I’m not sure this is wise. With your talent for arson perhaps you shouldn’t be allowed near a stove.”
I threw a crocheted potholder at him. “All I did was let the hot plate overheat. Seems to me you’re the one who actually lit the match and tossed it into the bathtub at Madam Anna’s. You’re just as culpable. I’d say we started a nice fire together.”
Briley took a step closer to me. “I bet we could start other fires together. The last day and a half has been crazy, and I’ll admit my mind has been primarily focused on rescues and reunions, but I really enjoyed that kiss - until the room went up in flames, that is.”
Those last words were merely a mumble because by that time his own lips were on mine. My arms immediately wrapped around him and our bodies molded together. His hands gently roved through my hair then traced my forehead and cheek and neck. There was an urgency in this kiss even though we were safe in a friendly house in the middle of the night. We knew things weren’t settled. Somewhere out there was an angry man who, deprived of his latest hope for power through reincarnation, would be seeking revenge. Doubtless sooner than later.
“I smell tea! How wonderful. Camomille?”
Briley and I pulled away from each other and glared in united frustration at the interloper.
“Izzy. How did you sneak inside at this hour?”
“Southerners. Bless their trusting little rebel souls. They never lock their doors. I didn’t want to disturb anyone’s sleep,” he grinned, “or other activities, but I needed a typewriter and figured the Flynns had one.”
“At this hour of the morning?” I asked.
“Sure. Best time to get my head around all the crazy twists and turns in this little opus.” He paused. “Plus, I thought if anyone was up and indulging in small repasts in the kitchen I was going to grovel and beg a cup of coffee.”
Briley started to argue but I waved “okay” at him. “It’s fine. I’ll just get a pot started.”
I began roaming through the kitchen muttering until Briley stopped me. “What are you looking for?”
“Coffee maker or expresso machine.”
Both men stared at me.
“Oh. Uh. Forget it. Briley, you make coffee since your skills are undoubtably better then mine. Meantime I’ll entertain Mr. Rubens with tales of Ptah.”
“What?”
I shook my head at Izzy. “Not what. Who. I’m going to spell this out while you write. P. T. A. H. Ptah, creator god of Memphis. Not this Memphis. The one on the Nile. Anyway, Ptah is the god of rebirth and favorite of designers and seamstresses – or of villains who want to use designers and seamstresses.” I began to sniffle. “Stinkin’ lousy kidnapping swine. I can’t believe this clown abducted Denise and Nevin and intended to –well –do what he intended.”
Izzy had his notepad out and was getting busy. “Nobody has really told me. Exactly what did he intend?”
Briley snarled. “What the hell do you think? Flaming ferrets! How old are you, anyway?”
“Ah. Yes, indeed. Got it.”
I gave Izzy him the skinny on everything we knew about the old god and the wannabe new one while Briley got the Flynn percolator to perk.
“Hold it.” Izzy’s pen slowed. “Didn’t you say you also were a costume designer?”
“Yep.”
“Has it occurred to you that you’re probabaly up next on this guy’s list?”
“Yep.”
Izzy stared at me while Briley stared at the table with a deep frown. “You have?”
“I’m not stupid. Just ‘cause I can float down a staircase with grace and execute a double pirouette without falling on my butt does not mean I can’t deduce a pattern. And our Ptah is laying one out like a Donatella Versace showroom during the Paris season.”
Izzy’s right eyebrow raised. “Who?”
“Never mind. Uh. Our lunatic knows me. He knows I design. He may well be waiting to pounce, either here or back in Manhattan.”
Briley muttered, “Will you agree to let me protect you?”
I smiled. “Yep.”
He looked surprised. “You will?”
“Yep. Remember? Not stupid here. I’m not going to go off by myself huntin' down some lead. I accept all the big bruisin’ bodyguards I can get.”
Izzy queried, “Any idea who we’re looking for?”
“Yep.”
“You do?” asked Briley.
For someone who is usually intelligent and articulate, Briley was being pretty dense this night.
“Guys, I’ve been getting lotus blossoms on an almost daily basis since my first night in New York. And as we saw earlier, lotus blossoms seem to figure prominently in the décor of Ptah Junior’s little hopeful love life.”
“They do?” Izzy interrupted.
Briley growled, “Shut up, Izzy..”
I sighed. “Okay. Let me list the guys who jump out as great villain candidates. Gentlemen who suddenly became part of my life after the Ellingsford party. We’ll start with him. Lloyd Ellingsford. A married man interested in the fact that I design costumes. Who happens to be an amateur archeologist with lots of Egyptian figurines and stuff around his house. Or howzabout Prince Peter who doesn’t speak a heck of a lot of English, but who seems fascinated by Memphis, Tennessee? Ditto Grady Martel, except for the English, which he speaks fine but with a damn huge Texas accent. Oh, yeah. Grady’s a pyramid-exploring buddy of Lloyd’s.”
Briley squinted at me. “News to me. How did you found that out?”
I grinned. “Simple. Grady told me. Shyness is not part of his personality. Okay. Up next. The Count, who is always dating Follies girls and knew a lot about Francesca Cerroni’s disappearance. Oh. Y’all do realize all these guys have at least one chauffeur or bodyguard or manservant or something?”
Briley commented.“Who look like they’ve won -or lost- numerous boxing titles. Damnation, what an ill-favored bunch!”
“I thought I was the only one who’d noticed the lack of glamour amongst the hired help.”
Briley smiled. “Nope. I’m never comfortable seeing those men hanging out by the stage door waiting for their bosses to finish flirting with the chorines. But you were saying?”
“Yeah, well, last but not least, there’s Lawrence Vassily, who asked me a lot of questions about Beale Street and why I want to go into costume work instead of becoming a big Follies star. Two subjects we covered during one foxtrot at Francy’s on opening night.”
Briley’s mouth turned down at the corners. “I had no idea you were so popular. Well, perhaps I did, and didn’t want to dwell on it.”
I smiled sweetly. “Ain’t just me, Briley. All the chorus girls are inundated with suitors. Regardless of hair color, height or charm. Though, our mysterious Ptah worshipper isn’t in the same class with the typical stage-door hounds. This guy wants a girl for his own power, not for a wife or a mistress.”
Briley nodded. “I’ll endeavor to restrain my jealous impulses until we determine who’s behind this.”
Izzy looked at Briley, then at me. “Aha! I sensed was blowing that direction. Well, I shall have to bow out and get over my broken heart elsewhere.”
“Mr. Rubens, if your heart breaks that easily, you need to be in an Intensive Care ward somewhere.” An imp suddenly overtook me. “By the way, Izzy darlin’, Saree Goldman told me she thinks you’re cute. I believe her exact words were 'he's hot and peachy!'"
He brightened. “She said that? Wowee! I return the sentiments with extra. I’ve always had a yen for Saree, but she has a way of attracting the attention of the rich boys and royalty like your chauffeur-driven Count. I’m afraid of competition when it comes in the form of dollars. Would she’d really be interested in a struggling, poverty-stricken reporter?”
I prayed that this little bit of matchmaking would not condemn me to the same locale in the hereafter doubtless reserved for Madam Anna and her brother, but I answered, “Izzy, she’d be thrilled.”
“Do I smell coffee?”
I glanced toward the doorway. Frank stood in the center, smiling. Right behind me stood Denise, modestly wrapped in one of Teresa’s robes. It trailed on the floor around her feet and I felt a special kinship with my Great-great-aunt, another tall female hovering above all the petites.
Briley ushered the newcomers into what was now a crowded kitchen. “You do. We also have some scones leftover from tea.”
He winked at me. “They’re not cranberry but they’re tasty. Plus, we have scintillating conversation. Theories and hypotheses as to who, why, and what was behind Denise’s ordeal.”
The pair found two empty chairs and pulled them up around the old table. For the next three hours we hashed out the mystery of Ptah’s follower. By the end of the night, Denise and Frank had sparks igniting between them, Briley and I were barely maintaining a time-out on our own emotions, and Izzy had a Pulitzer prize-winning story to sell to the Times, the Post or the Memphis Courier-Appeal.
What none of us had was an answer.