Briley started to escort me back to our table, but stopped when he saw the men still camped there. Grady, Lloyd and Prince Peter were engaged in animated conversation. As long as it didn’t involve Egypt, gods, or abduction, I didn’t care that the gentlemen seemed to be bonding. The Count was somewhere in the back of Fontainbleu’s consoling a sopping-wet Eloise Jenkins. Lawrence Vassily was at the next table dropping dollars into a waiter’s hand for bringing him a Scotch and soda with no ice. The suspects were all in sight and accounted for.
I turned to Briley. “Look, I’ll be fine. You go on to the theatre and deal with the lighting problems. I’ll grab a cab.”
Briley frowned at me. “I’m not leaving you here by yourself.”
“I’m not exactly by myself.” I gestured around the room. “There’s what? Two hundred people milling about here?”
“That’s not what I meant. I’m not sure how long this will take and I’d really prefer that you were securely back at Mrs. Donovan’s.”
Izzy's voice chimed in.“We’re on our way out, Briley. We’ll take her.”
We turned. Izzy and Saree stood behind us. Saree handed me my Elvis bag. “Here. You left it at the table along with all your broken-hearted suitors. I thought I’d rescue it before one of those idiots starting searching for coins at the bottom. Rich men are the worst, I swear. Never can seem to find the nickels and dimes they need for tips. They’re always asking us girls.”
Izzy shook his head. “No more of that. From now on you’re with an employed, but poor, journalist who will not bum spare change from his girl.”
Saree kissed her poor journalist then smiled back at me. “We’re leaving. It’s just too crowded now. This became, in one night, the latest Follies gin joint and dancehall. By tomorrow there won’t be room enough to wiggle your toes.”
Briley tried to give Izzy a few dollars but his friend refused. “We were going to take a taxi anyway. Put your money away. Hey! That reminds me. I’m still on Clow’s payroll for the next two weeks. I’ll give him a great scoop about Fountainbleau’s being the Follies latest playground and see if he’ll advance me some dough for the trip down to Memphis. Before he starts screaming at me that I’m a traitor for moving.”
Briley reached his hand out to me. I took it then curled up against him for an embrace. We stayed close for at least a minute, until Saree poked me in my ribs.
“Will you guys cut it out? I thought we were bad, but you two are topping Izzy and me for canoodling in public.”
Briley kissed me lightly on the lips. “Take care of her, you two.”
Saree pushed him in the direction of the exit doors.“Go away, worry wart.”
I waved him good-bye. “Briley, I’m okay. Honest. Give me a call when you’re done, okay? I won’t be asleep. It’ll tick Edith off no end, but she’s always mad anyway since the phone is never for her.”
“Forget the phone. I’ll come by. Mrs. Donovan will let me upstairs even it’s the middle of the night.”
I grinned. “Even better.”
He left. Izzy, Saree and I stayed behind long enough to pay the bill then headed outside to try and find a taxi. A rainstorm had started up during the time we'd been dancing and drinking and a cool front seemed to have accompanied it. I shivered as I climbed inside, wondering how to get water stains out of borrowed satin and lace.
Izzy gave the driver my address on East 12th, then turned back to Saree and me to talk about wedding plans and honeymoon trips. I hugged them goodbye in the shelter of the cab and told them to stay put. No point in either of them getting soaked. I was wet enough for all three of us and for a moment I regretted my childish act in tossing an ice bucket over Eloise. Cold water is not pleasant when it’s trickling down one’s front or back. But since Eloise deserved the dousing for being a snooty bigot, I dispensed with the guilt. I ran up the four flights of stairs eager to take off my own sodden garment and put on warm clothes.
My black pants and black turtleneck were dry and felt wonderful against my skin after I’d toweled off and hung Bettina’s dress up to dry. Tomorrow I’d ask Mrs. Donovan what took out water stains and if she had no rememdy, I’d buy the girl another dress to replace this one.
I felt edgy. I wanted Briley with me, making me laugh, scoffing at my stories and theories, and kissing me, then maybe going a tiny step or two or further with the physical activity. I wondered if we’d ever get a chance to be really alone.
Alone.
I hadn’t seen another living soul in my mad dash up the stairs to my room. No one had been at the desk downstairs and I couldn’t hear any giggling or chattering from any of the other rooms on this floor. The only sound I did hear was the rain beating against the window. It was coming inside. It was also aimed directly at the bed I’d pulled up against the wall under the window for stargazing during nights when I hadn’t been able to sleep.
“Not good.” I shut the window and felt the coverlet to see if it was soaked. It was. I wrung out the quilt into the base of the ficus tree in the corner of the room.
The phone down the hall rang. I hadn’t seen Edith, so I ran to answer.
“Mel?”
“Briley! Hey! How’s it goin’ at the theatre?”
He snorted over the wire. “Oh, famously. It’s ridiculous. There were two - count ‘em -two frayed electrical wires. Anyone with half a brain would know to throw them away and replace them tomorrow. It was not an emergency. I’m furious that I was called away from you to handle something this basic and silly. I still need to check one or two things to make sure no one gets electrocuted, then I’m coming over.”
“Good. I miss you and it’s only been an hour since you left. This is crazy!”
He laughed. “It is but it’s also very logical and real! I’ll be there as soon as I can. Rumor has it that with this downpour every taxi is busy tonight so it won’t be in the next thirty minutes but I’ll try my best. Subways are flooded but still supposed to be running.”
“I love you, Briley. See you soon.”
“I love you too. Bye, Mel.”
I hung up then wandered back into my room in a romantic haze. Briley should be by in about twenty minutes. I passed the time by rearranging the clothes in Bettina’s closet.
The phone rang again. I ran to answer but received no response to my, “Hello? Who are you calling?”
Someone whispered, “Melody,” then what sounded like “my sock mate” then the line went dead. I jiggled the receiver a time or two but there was no response. No dial tone, no operator. Nothing.
I ran back to my room, slammed the door and locked it. The words “sock mate” kept going through my head. I could see that page in the book we’d read down in Memphis. Ptah’s mate, the woman who adorned herself in lion skins, the creator goddess was called Sekhmet. I had no idea if the name hit an “ah” instead of an “eh” on the first syllable.
It didn’t matter how it was pronounced. Ptah Junior wanted her and apparently had decided not to wait another moment to find his woman. His consort. His “sock-mate.” Me.
I was now in trouble. I was up on the fourth floor in a building where the fire escape was in the back. As far as I knew no one else was even around, or if they were, they were zonked out dreaming pleasant dreams.
The phone lines must have been cut. That meant my caller was near enough to snip them. If I ran down the hall, and my attacker waited, there was no way for me to escape. If got nabbed this time, I wouldn’t be left free to roam around a warehouse, chow down breakfast and dive into the East River singing “Shake, Rattle and Roll.”
I checked the door again, clicking the lock several times to be sure no one could come busting through. I stood for a moment and leaned against the doorframe. I heard footsteps.
A male voice called “Melody, my Sekhmet. Soon, my love, soon.” Then silence. Then more footsteps and the refrain repeated. Briley had to be on his way here but with no cabs and flooded subways, he could be too late.
“Melody. Sekhmet.” The voice came again but I still couldn’t identify the speaker. Not that it mattered. None of the candidates were small men. I felt certain Ptah Junior was armed and ready with chloroform, or perhaps a big stick with which to whap me over the head before dragging me off to the latest lair.
I was scared, but I was also royally pissed at the nerve of this creep coming to my own apartment to grab me like an actor in a bad slasher flick. I moved away from the door and began to look for a possible weapon. I found the watering can but even though it was made of metal I doubted it was strong enough to knock out a prospective abductor. I filled it anyway then started watering the plants in the room out of sheer anxiety.
The footsteps had stopped. I couldn’t hear anyone talking, muttering, hissing, or anything else outside my door. I hurried back to the window and opened it. Rain spat through and doused me. I braved the pelting water and leaned out.
Briley came into view at the end of the street, running, his dark hair glistening under the streetlamps. I screamed, “Briley! I’m here! Come quickly!” but between the rain, thunder, and the horns tooting I doubted he could hear the cries of a girl a block away.
I shut the window again then brought the nightstand lamp as close to the window as I could. I clicked the lamp off and on and off and on trying to signal S.O.S. although I really hadn’t a clue how dots and dashes worked for lighting equipment.
I crossed to the piano and began pounding out show tunes as loudly as I could –again out of a sense of bravado. I sang "Hearbreak Hotel" and "Brick House" and finally "A Pretty Girl is Like a Melody." Maybe my stalker would hear me. He’d decide I was too crazy to be part of his warped plans. Perhaps one of the other girls really was trying to sleep and she’d hear and come running in to tell me to be quiet since it was now two o’clock in the morning.
My hands froze on the keys. Two in the morning. Locks clicking and clicking again. Lights turned on and off. Windows opening and shutting and opening again. Plants getting watered. And a voice singing "A Pretty Girl is Like a Melody."
Not any voice. My voice. Damn. I’d known it all along. Just hadn’t wanted to believe it. I really was the ghost from Apartment 413. I remembered Fiona Belle’s brusque words the night I’d run to her apartment looking for answers.
“Follies girl. Exotic looking. Some slimy sonovabitch stalked her. 1919 – vanished. Loved to dance. Loved to sing. Loved kids. Loved animals. Loved Briley.”
Melody had indeed been haunting Melody.
I was going to die tonight. The realization left me numb for at least a minute. I picked up my Elvis bag from the floor by the piano and picked up the musical doll as well. For a second I tested the weight of the doll, wondering if it was heavy enough to bonk Ptah Junior over the head and stun him long enough for me to haul my butt down the stairs to the safety of the street. To Briley.
The door crashed open. Fiona Belle’s “slimy sonovabitch” had strength; I’ll give him that. He’d been kicking on that sucker the whole time I’d been playing tunes.
I stared at him. “Peter.”
With unaccented, perfect English, the fake Russian Prince replied. “No, my lovely Sekhmet. I am Ptah.”
“I’d prefer to call you a sick bastard and do a little more yelling to summon large gents with guns from the closest police precinct to come arrest your sorry ass.”
Peter calmly entered the room. I stood as far away as I was able, near the window, and wished that cell phones had roaming power to go back a century.
“It’s no use struggling, Melody. This is fate. I thought Francesca was the one, but she wasn’t strong enough to be the mate for a god with total power. Denise seemed perfect since she already had the boy, my Nefertem, but destiny stepped in and took her away. Then, I saw it was for the best.”
“Destiny? That’s crap! You stupid creep. What stepped in was Briley McShan, his brother Frank, and Miss Melody Irina Flynn. All of whom whipped the butts of you and your merry band of bumblers, including your sorry excuse for a sister.”
He brushed away my words. “I believed you were the one when I met you at the Ellingfords. You spoke of Memphis. You have ancestry from Lebanon, a close land to Egypt. You have the fire, strength and the artistry of Sekhmet, the woman I have loved for centuries.”
Okay. He’d been rational up to the last statement. Now he was veering toward the deep end. Not that I scoff at the idea of reincarnation. Is it real? Perhaps. Hey, up until three weeks ago, I’d poo-pooed the idea of time travel. Now I was a firm believer. But it seemed to me that if one is looking for one’s soul mate from ancient Egypt, that soul mate would be interested in being found too and doin’ the whole reunion thing. But honestly, the whole reincarnation question was one I wanted to leave to philosophers and theosophists or bored socialites who sat around eating caviar and sipping champagne while channeling ancient royals off of Ouija boards.
At least Peter was talking and not waving drug-soaked rags under my nose. I kept my hand on my bag and the doll, ready to wap him with one or both if the opportunity arose.
“Peter? Oh, wait, my bad - Ptah. Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why all this obsession with the Egyptian ritual and past lives and all that jazz?”
He shrugged “Power. I grew up poor on the Lower East Side. During the war, I was relegated to patrolling deserts in Egypt. There is very little advancement to be found that way in terms of making a top rank in the Army. But I felt I’d found my spiritual home in the ruins of Memphis. Then I discovered that large profits can be made in wars. I liked being rich, but rich does not always equal power. While in Egypt I learned about another power. Rebirth. Given by the great god Ptah. The god who can create -or destroy. I have felt my power grow these last years, but I still need the woman who will complete me in my journey to bring Ptah back to life again in me. That woman is you. My beautiful designer.”
I quickly responded, "Hey, not really that good. Probably will never win a Tony award. No red carpet paparzzi hounding us."
“I don't underestand your strange words, but I do not care. You are perfect. The living embodiment of Sekhmet."
Mister Black-Marketeering Creep was one sock short of a mate. Looking into his handsome face, into those intense eyes, I saw madness.
He must have seen that realization reflected in my own face and eyes. He took two steps toward me. I threw a pretty punch with the Elvis bag right in his solar plexus. He coughed and clutched his middle, then immediately recovered, grabbed me by my hair, and flung me to the floor. He had twice the strength I did but I fought back, kicking and clawing and biting and trying to reach any delicate area I could.
The gun ended all thoughts of maiming any reproductive organs. The thought that someone in 1919 could be hauling around town carrying a small weapon in a coat pocket had not entered my mind until Peter drew it out and pointed it at me.
“Melody. It’s time to embrace your destiny.”
I rose, quite calmly, still clutching the doll in my right hand. I slung the carryall over my shoulder and began to walk toward the busted door of Room 413 with Peter following a few steps behind. When I got to the piano, I stopped.
“Do you mind if I at least take a few of my belongings?”
“That is acceptable”
I grabbed several pieces of sheet music and opened my bag. I sat on the piano bench, carefully setting the doll beside me. I smiled at Peter. “Just a second, okay? Uh, are you aware that your leg is bleeding?”
He looked down. I was telling the truth. I’d scratched and clawed him clear through his elegant trousers and he did have a few spots of blood on his shin. I hid the only reason to smile I'd seen in the last hour. It was true. He was hurt. But I’d’ve made up any lie I could to just to distract him for the few seconds I needed. Because the instant he leaned over to inspect that leg, I turned the key on the bottom side of the doll, held on to the music and prayed that I’d end up backstage of the New Amsterdam Theater.
Tinkly sounds filled the room. Darkness closed in around. Just before I passed out I heard a dog bark. A voice screamed, “Melody!”
Briley’s voice.
Then I was gone.