Haunting Melody (2 page)

I blinked. I did hear music. This was no
dream.

“I hear singing. Live. Not a CD. Irving
Berlin? Wait! What?”

I sat up, and then checked the lighted alarm
by the bed. Three a.m. Between ghost hunting and Savanna’s call I’d
managed forty-five minutes of sleep time.

The singing stopped. It must have been
wafting down from one of the other apartments. A neighbor warming
up for an audition? A vocal coach giving a lesson? At three in the
morning.

I was lying to myself. That voice was my
ghost.

I gave up trying to get to sleep and headed
for the desk where I’d left my designs for "Frolic," a musical
adaptation of "A Midsummer Nights Dream" set in Egypt during the
Victorian age. Honest.

The sketches lay untouched and
unfinished.

I flipped on the desk light and stared for
ten minutes just at the designs for Oberon’s costume. Nothing hit
me that was exactly Tony Award winning. I began fiddling with the
shefflera I’d placed next the right side of the desk, wondering if
I should move it to the left where it could get more sun. Assuming
the sun ever shone again. I stopped.

The shefflera was wet. It should have been
parched. I hadn’t watered it in three weeks.

I roamed the apartment, testing various other
flora and fauna. Including a ficus tree near the kitchen. Wet as
well, even though, like the shefflera, I’d ignored it for several
weeks. I should be charged with attempted murder of greenery for my
neglect. No one else had been in the apartment. Not even the super.
So –– who?

I was blessed with an environmentally active
spook who apparently was hosing the plants.

I looked up at the ceiling. “ Yo? Spirit?
After you’re done gardening, wanna take a whack at designin’
costumes for fat fairies? Hey! Make yourself really useful. Whip up
an omelet?”

I exhaled. “I’m talkin’ to a ghost.”

I tiptoed into the kitchen with some
trepidation. Uninhabited. No current signs of spectral activity,
but I wasn’t optimistic as to possibilities for the near
future.

“Hmm. Bloodstains tomorrow?”

Lucy barked in anticipation.

I wandered back to my desk then turned on the
radio. The classic rock station was playing Chris de Burgh’s "Don’t
Pay the Ferryman." When I’d gone to bed the first time it had been
Kansas’ "Dust in the Wind." I shivered.

I lowered the volume then pulled up my
research notes on the computer for fashions of the early 20th
Century, specifically what the well-dressed archeologists were
modeling at digs throughout the Middle East, for ideas on Frolic
costumes. I sketched in something for Titania, and then quickly
erased it. Pith helmets and riding trousers with boots were just
too clichéd. Maybe naked wasn’t such a bad idea.

I began nodding to the rhythm of the heavy
raindrops hitting the air-conditioner. Then I realized that tapping
was inside the apartment. So was the rain. The window was open –
again - and the rain was coming in. I got up, slammed down the pane
then started wiping off the window seat.

A different sound filled the apartment. Very
faint but I’d heard it before less than an hour ago.

I groaned. “Oh, howdy-doody, it is Irving
Berlin. 'A Pretty Girl is Like a Melody.' Some damned ghost is
serenading me with old musical tunes. She’s lockin’ doors,
switching on lights, waterin’ the shrubbery, openin’ windows in the
rain. And now auditionin’ for Broadway?”

I headed for the piano. Perhaps playing a
song or two on the old Grand would ease my shredded nerves. The
neighbors probably wouldn’t be pleased but then again - they might
be thrilled. It’s an artsy building. I froze. A piece of sheet
music I’d never bought lay on the piano. The song was "A Pretty
Girl is Like a Melody." Copyright date was 1919.

“That’s it! I’m leavin’ before I start
looking up Exorcists-R-Us.”

I quickly threw open the doors to what passed
for a closet and found a pair of black gaucho pants and a slinky
black turtleneck top. Then I laced up my new black granny boots
with trembling fingers and tore out of Apartment 413 like the
demons of hell were after me. For all I knew –– they were.

A smart girl would have run right across the
hall to pound on the door of the gay couple who’d kindly helped
that smart girl move a few pieces of furniture into the apartment.
Did I do the smart thing? Nope. I ran downstairs to the third floor
where I’d yet to see any of the residents.

Two minutes later, Lucy and I stood in front
of Apartment 313. “Four in the mornin’ and I’m knockin’ on a
stranger’s door. In New York. Bright move, Mel. Can you say
‘possible serial killer’?”

I tried to stop trembling. Much as I loved my
dog I needed human companionship just now - even from what would
doubtless be one angry tenant. I hoped he or she didn’t own a
gun.

I lifted my hand to knock. The door flew open
before my fingers ever touched wood.

Standing dazzlingly resplendent with dyed
orange hair tucked under a black Mets baseball cap; wearing a neon
orange leather mini-skirt, a fuschia Animaniacs T-shirt, and green
Shrek fuzzy slippers, was a four-foot-five-inch-tall, somewhat
elderly gnome. She glared at me.

“Gotta ghost, doncha.”

It was not a question.

“How in Memphis blues did you . . . ?”

“Fiona Belle Donovan Winthorp. Call me Belle.
Or Fiona Belle. Just not Winthorp. I despised that man.”

I tried to close my mouth before the drool
gathering in the corners could slide down my chin. My jaw was
currently resting somewhere near my collarbone.

Fiona shook her head. “Don’t gawk. It’s not
pretty. Speak.”

I nearly said “woof,” but managed to form
real words while trying to dodge total embarrassment.

I addressed my response to “Animanaic” Dot
Warner on the woman’s T-shirt. It seemed less intimidating than
talking directly to the tiny woman scowling up at me.

“Where should I start? Wait. Don’t say it. I
got it. The beginning. If I just knew what that was. Or when.
Anyway. Someone keeps checkin’ the door locks. The lamp keeps
comin’ on. The window in the main room keeps openin’. And, uh, the
plants are wet.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

I fought for words to explain the rest of the
ghostly events. Couldn’t find them.

“Yeah? What else? You’re skipping the good
stuff. Get on with it, child.”

“I . . . I mean It . . . That is. She’s. . .
singing what sounds like old show tunes.”

“Irving Berlin.”

My eyes opened wide to match my gaping mouth.
“How the hell . . . ? Are you psychic or what?”

She glowered at me.

I blushed. “Oh, crap. Gee, I’m so sorry,
where are my manners? I’m Mel Flynn – Apartment 413.”

The elderly munchkin snorted, then gestured
inside Apartment 313 to a table where an elegant brunch had been
prepared, presumably for me. My hostess was undeniably a witch. A
stupidly-short witch.

“Sit down, dammit. You’re way too tall to
suit me.”

I sat. Lucy plopped at my feet and promptly
went to sleep, indulging in a well-deserved nap. I numbly nodded
thanks when cranberry scones (my favorite) were thrust under my
nose. I hyperventilated, gulped tea then stared at my mug, which
proudly displayed a picture of Elvis Presley singing into a
microphone. The mike lit up when hot liquid filled the mug.

Fiona Belle reached over and gently took the
sheet music from my hands. She held it out reverently, then
clutched it to her tiny chest and sighed. She seemed completely
oblivious to my presence.

I took another swallow of tea as I glanced
around Fiona Belle’s apartment, intrigued and nearly distracted
from my own ghost story by her eclectic taste. Antique furniture
vied with post-modern sectionals and chrome tables. Busts of
Egyptian pharaohs and Hindu deities perched on top of a
pearl-handled telephone stand from the Phillipines. I knew it was
from the Phillipines because my great-grandfather brought an
identical piece back from World War Two and I inherited it.

I squinted at the Rembrandts and Degas
dancers mounted beside Andy Warhol’s famous portrait of Marilyn
Monroe. All artwork looked original. Not prints. A poster
advertising the “The Threepenny Opera” starring Lotte Lenya had
been taped alongside a poster for “Our American Cousin” starring
Edwin Booth. Next to Mr. Booth was an elegant tapestry from a
medieval period. A Native American tribal peace pipe had been stuck
to the fabric by means of a staple gun.

My scan of the room halted when I saw the
Colonial roll-top desk that held a beyond-state-of-the-art computer
surrounded by six different pieces of Elvis memorabilia. The two
most striking were the table lamp depicting images of Elvis on the
shade, with blue suede shoes as its base, and a Hound Dog clock
portraying the King singing to a basset. A Scottish brooch had been
pinned to one shoe like a buckle.

The cream pitcher on the table was made in
the shape of a small television. A neon sign reading Heartbreak
Hotel flashed in the corner of the ‘set’. I waved the pitcher at
Fiona Belle.

“I have this! I love Elvis. My mother was a
total fan. Growing up, she’d take me to Graceland the way other
kids get taken to the mall.” My eyes misted. “I miss her. She died
two years ago.”

Fiona Belle nodded but stayed silent.

“I have every record Elvis ever made and I
can play all the early pieces on piano. What am I saying? That’s
not really relevant right now, is it? Where was I? Oh yeah, being
haunted by a singin' ghost. Not Elvis. I’m so sorry, I’m ramblin’,
aren’t I? I tend to get a little stupid when I’m sleep deprived and
entertainin’ spectral visitors.”

Fiona Belle Donovan daintily sipped her tea,
slapped marmalade on her scone, grunted, and wisely ignored the
majority of my monologue. She carefully placed her own Elvis mug
(the King standing on a record; guitar slung across his hips) on
the table as she caressed the sheet music with unabashed
affection.

“'A Pretty Girl is Like a Melody.' Irving
Berlin created it especially for the '13th Edition Ziegfeld
Follies.' 1919. Catchy tune. Became the Follies theme. Irving wrote
it after the dress rehearsal. Flo Ziegfeld needed a number for the
staircase parade.”

Fiona Belle broke off a piece of her scone
and fed it to Lucy, now awake and waiting patiently for a treat.
“Follies girl. Exotic looking.” Fiona Belle hissed, “Slimy
son-of-a-bitch stalked her. 1919 – vanished.”

I was completely mesmerized. “A Pretty Girl .
. . That’s what I heard.”

I frowned at my brusque-toned narrator.
“Wait. How did . . .? Nineteen-nineteen? No way you were even born
then. Did you reincarnate yourself with a built-in memory? Or are
you just an incredible bee-ess-er.” I paused. My parents had taught
me to address my elders with a bit more respect. “’scuse me, that
was rude. But, where’s all this info coming from?”

“I hafta nap now. Go home, Mel.”

Fiona Belle politely opened the door and
pushed me into the hall.

“But.”

The door snapped shut then was promptly flung
open.

“A knock-out. Loved to dance. Loved to sing.
Loved kids. Loved animals. Loved Briley. ‘course they all did.
Couldn’t blame ‘em. A fox.”

A heavy shoebox and sheet music were thrust
into my hands. The door slammed. Flung open again.

“I’m keeping your dog for the day.”

“What! You can’t have her. She’s mine. Give
her back!”

Fiona Belle’s tone softened. “Mel. Honey, you
have things to do. Yes, she’s your baby. But believe me, she’ll be
safer here. Trust me.”

Lucy was now sitting next to Fiona Belle and
the table. Her tail was wagging maniacally, but I wasn’t sure if
she was excited about her new dog-sitter or the rasher of bacon ten
inches from her nose.

Fiona Belle didn’t linger to hear my response
to the abduction of my dog. Not that I had one to give. “Safer?” I
wasn’t thrilled hearing the word but I sure didn’t want to be
trying to save Lucy at the same time I was trying to save myself. I
would leave my pup with her since apparently I was about to embark
on a mission with the ghost.

The door closed, firmly. It stayed shut. A
bolt bolted. I stood in the hall holding a shoebox and sheet music.
I was filled with questions about a chorus girl. Not to mention my
enigmatic, dognapping, downstairs neighbor.

I inched my way back up the stairs to my
apartment. My body ached. I was nauseous. Had Fiona Belle poured
brandy into my tea? No wonder I felt sick. I closed my eyes hoping
to regain some equilibrium and immediately envisioned a large stage
in another time. I could almost hear the chorus girls belting out
wonderful songs.

Had this particular Follies girl married,
moved to Jersey, sung lullabies to exotic-looking babies? Had she
hidden in her apartment, lights blazing, checking locks –
terrified? Had a pursuing admirer found her? Had she fled one rainy
night?

The whole experience suddenly took on a
frightening air of reality. Assuming of course, that I was really
awake and I’d actually met an ageless, shrimpy Follies enthusiast
with a penchant for cartoon clothing, short skirts and shorter
sentences.

I frowned. “Probably chats with Irving Berlin
and Elvis daily over tea and scones.”

I eased open the apartment door and gave the
space a quick perusal before entering. I missed Lucy even though
she wasn’t any help in catching ghosts. I wondered if other
manifestations had occurred in the time I’d been breaking bread –
well – scones, with Ms. Donovan Winthorp who hated Mr.
Winthorp.

All seemed calm within. I placed the shoebox
on the hall table, walked over to the piano, and plopped the sheet
music on the stand. There was a stain at the top of the title page.
It looked like blood.