Free Haunting Melody by Flo Fitzpatrick Page A

especially
Graceland. Oh yeah, there’s this cool Arena built like a pyramid.
Somebody took the idea from a pyramid-shaped pavilion they built
back durin' the World’s Fair in the 1890’s. Which was actually not
in Memphis but in Nashville. It’s near Mud Island. The Pyramid,
that is. Not Nashville.”
    The prince’s eyes were glazing. Whether from
trying to keep up with my English or the speed of my monologue, I
wasn’t sure. I couldn’t blame him for going into shock. Here was a
stranger rambling away, in what was to him a foreign language,
about a town a thousand miles away and characters he’d never heard
of.
    “Peer -ramid? El-viss? Maud Island?”
    I’d better clarify this in case Memphis was
scheduled for the Royal Tour anytime soon.
    “Well, uh, it’s not really finished yet. The
Pyramid. And Mud Island will be like an amusement arcade. Coney
Island, I guess. Ever been there?”
    He shook his head.
    “Yoou Femeely?”
    He must be asking if I had family there.
    “Um, yes. My dad and some cousins.” True.
    “No. No. Femeely? You are, how you say,
different? Red hair but features no match.”
    My turn to be confused. “What do you
mean?”
    “How you say, an-says-tree?”
    “Oh! Ancestors. Ethnic and cultural
background.” I grinned. “We’re mutts. Like most Americans. A mix.
My Dad is Irish. Mom . . . was . . . Lebanese. That’s why I look
like a cross between Saint Bridget and Cleopatra.”
    He smiled. “Nice. Yes?”
    I smiled too. “Yes.”
    “So, Prince? Peter. Have some champagne?”
    Fortunately a waiter bearing a large tray of
bubbly was making his rounds close to us. I grabbed a glass and
handed it to the man. He obviously knew that word. He appeared
grateful.
    This business of meeting princes, counts and
rich tycoons was fun. Even when they didn’t speak English. I
started to ask Prince Herzochevskia about Russia and the Revolution
and why and how he came to America, but never got the chance.
Eloise Jenkins, the omnipresent Follies wannabe appeared out of
nowhere, grabbed the man by the arm then steered him towards the
doors leading to the pool, cooing all the way.
    I turned. Lloyd Ellingsford stood behind me
with another man who was extending champagne to me. “Melody. May I
introduce Mr. Grady Martel? He’s from your part of the
country.”
    Oh hell. I was about to meet a fellow Memphis
resident who knew the town as it was in this year instead of nearly
a century from now.
    I’d just stepped in deep doo-doo.
     
     
     

Chapter 10
     
    Grady Martel towered over me by at least six
inches. The man was huge. Dark blonde hair, hazel eyes and an
honest-to-goodness cleft chin completed the picture of the ultimate
Hollywood Western hero.
    “Where exactly are ya from, Miz Melody?”
    “Memphis.” I swallowed. Hard.
    Grady roared. The sound nearly broke my
eardrums. “Lloyd, you dumb Yankee, you! I’m from Texas, Hon. Not
exactly next door to Tennessee. But trust folks north of the
Mason-Dixon to believe if you’re from anywhere south of Brooklyn,
you’re next-door neighbors in Dixie.”
    I smiled broadly. I was now more than happy
to be neighborly.
    “What part of Texas, Mr. Martel?”
    “Fort Worth. I’m in cattle. And please. It’s
Grady. Mr. Martel is ma dad.”
    A vision of Grady Martel riding a horse
through a ranch while herding Longhorn steers flickered through my
mind. Grady was continuing our conversation in greater than
conversational volume. He shouted, “So, I hear you’re a brand new
Follies chorine? Is that right?”
    “Yes. Hired yesterday. Worn out today.”
    “You don’t look worn out to me. You look just
fine. Pure applesauce! And from Memphis, Tennessee. A down-home
southern belle.”
    I took a chance. “Have you ever been to
Memphis, Mr. Uh, Grady?”
    “Well, only passin’ through. We take that
route every now and then to get to Chicago. Sell a lot of beef
there.”
    I breathed a bit easier. “Chicago, huh? I’ve
never been there.”
    He nudged