Free Haunting Melody by Flo Fitzpatrick

caviar, veal in cream sauce, and at least twenty
different cheeses beckoned from one side. Pastries, fruits and
petit fours enticed from the other. I began to search for a place
where I could sit and enjoy the craziness, but kept getting
sidetracked by introductions and waiters. There was an onslaught of
men bowing and asking for my name and giving me theirs. Half of
them were my Dad’s age and very married. I wondered if telling them
sin wasn't on the menu, and consequently neither was I, would
penetrate the gin and rum-soaked brains.
    A hand suddenly grabbed my dress. I whirled
around, prepared to slap one of the harassers. Instead I saw Nevin
Dupre. The child grinned as he tugged at my green chiffon hem. His
mother was right behind him. Denise had changed from her working
outfit and was now clad in a gorgeous white beaded dress that had
no waistline and foreshadowed clearly the flapper era that was on
its way. She looked chic and immensely beautiful. Briley was
steering them both through the maze of humanity.
    I picked Nevin up and hugged him. He smelled
of chocolate and cinnamon.
    “Hi, sweetie. You look very handsome. Your
mama is just gorgeous. And talented. Denise, am I correct in
assuming you were in charge of these goodies?”
    Denise nodded. “I did not do zee actual
cooking, n’est pas. I order others.”
    “Well, you order beautifully. I am more than
impressed. You should open a restaurant.”
    Denise beamed. “You are so kind.
Merci,beaucoup. I do hope to open le restaurante Francaise someday.
I must put together zee capital though and it is tres
difficel.”
    I smiled. “I wish I could take you down to
Memphis, where I’m from. New York is loaded with French
restaurants, but Memphis is more into soul food. They could use
some classy French cuisine.”
    Briley’s nearly spat out whatever he was
drinking. “Soul food? Cripes! What’s soul food? Fish? You say the
most ridiculous things.”
    I’d done it again. How does one explain soul
food? I knew that in later years Harlem would be besieged by
northerners sampling the wonders of southern delicacies - but 1919?
I wasn’t sure if even the trendiest New Yorkers were diving into
cornbread, collard greens, ribs and bread pudding. I started to
give a short history of soul cuisine and soul music, but was
rescued before making another verbal mishap that might reveal all
was not kosher as far as Melody Flynn was concerned.
    Lili Ellingsford was “yoo-hoo-ing” from a few
feet away while escorting a hunk dressed in black tails who
obviously was bucking for an intro. Briley grimaced then hauled it
over to a table where snooty Eloise Jenkins stood chugging down
champagne.
    Lili grabbed my hand. “Melody. I’d like you
to meet Prince Peter Herzochevskia, from Russia. He’s been begging
for the last half-hour to be introduced to the gorgeous redhead.
His English is a bit lacking, so smile a lot.”
    A Russian Prince? Peter Herzochevskia? He
looked like the newest star on a Bolshoi Ballet roster. Absolutely
straight black hair, brown eyes. Tall. Mid-thirties or so. And he
was asking about me? Thinks I’m gorgeous? Excellent. Bring on his
highness. Take that, Briley McShan.
    I smiled and tried to appear glamorous and
sophisticated. “Hello, Prince Herzochevskia. Pleasure to meet
you.”
    “Und you, Miss Flynn. Pliz. Call me Peter.
Lili says you haf recently up from Southern part of U.S. Da?”
    “I’m from Memphis, Tennessee.”
    He just stood silently, expectantly. I get
nervous when people don’t talk back to me. I can speak a little
French and a little more Spanish, but I’m not up on Russian lingo.
Maybe I could give him a quick rundown of the sights and sounds of
Memphis and he’d never notice that what I was telling him wouldn’t
be part of the town for at least fifty years.
    I smiled. “Um. Memphis is a neat town to grow
up in. Great music, great food, great folks. Beale Street is
awesome. I’m partial to the Elvis Presley stuff,