City of Ghosts (A Miranda Corbie Mystery) by Kelli Stanley Read Free Book Online

gold-plated cigarette case out of his tuxedo pocket. Lit one of the brown-tipped French cigarettes. His hand shook a little. He avoided her eyes.
    “I spoke to my mother about you when I visited home. She advised me against a formal relationship, but I stand by what I said. You do not have to work, Miranda. I want to marry you. I am in love with you.”
    The room spun, seashells and warm beaches, palm fronds and Palm Beach, golf on the coast, skiing at Sun Valley, newest dress by Hattie Carnegie, fresh from the twice-yearly trip to Manhattan. Bloomingdale’s and I. Magnin, the May Company and Bullock’s, Marshall Field’s and a special jaunt to Chicago just to buy a goddamn hat.
    Tall, dark, and handsome, looks just like a movie star, whispered conversation and schemes from the blonde in the country club bridge tournament, that Mark Gonzales is a Mexican, but one of the good ones. Wife’s history, though … why, Nancy said she was actually a whore ! Can you believe it? And he seems so nice, and good-looking, too …
    She looked up at the earnest, somber man in front of her.
    Searched his eyes, but Miranda Corbie was nowhere to be found.
    She drained the Blue Fog and the room spun again, the band starting to play “Someone to Watch Over Me,” and it was Paul Whiteman at the bandstand and Sherman Billingsley at the next table, Walter Winchell scribbling on a napkin for his next column, 1936 and marcelled hair and silk gowns with sheer, silk stockings. The music ached, oh it ached and throbbed and filled her with such joy, such ineffable joy, an echo of the man who held her in his arms, tall dark and handsome, Irish grin, white teeth, hard muscles on his arms from working at the docks, from growing up in New York and fighting his way out.
    To the Times. To the Stork Club.
    To her.
    Johnny.
    She said: “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let you kiss me. I like you, Mark, but I don’t love you, and I never will. I don’t think you love me, either, not really. You don’t know me.”
    His shoulders sank. He reached for her hand. She let him.
    “I could try to, Miranda. May we remain friends?”
    She withdrew her hand, gave him a sad smile.
    “I hope so.”
    *   *   *
    Gonzales left most of the lobster untasted, drank three more glasses of wine, spoke little and about trivial things, the department, when he was going back to work, about the possibility of a transfer to Los Angeles when he was through with the Dies Committee. Miranda ate the steak, green beans, and scalloped potatoes methodically, trying not to listen to the voice of reproach, of guilt, reciting a memory of his hands on her skin, and how her pulse had raced against his long, lean body.
    Rick arrived fifteen minutes late, breathless, hat and tie askew, mustard on his display handkerchief. Starch in his back when he walked up to the table, jaw squared and stoic, handshake stiff and abrupt.
    “Inspector. Good to see you again.”
    Gonzales wiped his mustache with the dinner napkin, eyes glistening. “You too, Mr. Sanders.”
    Rick pulled a chair out and sat down, and Jorge appeared like a genie in a bottle, smiling as if he knew a secret.
    “Drink, sir?”
    “Bourbon and water. And the usual, Jorge … Miss Corbie and I will have to leave soon.”
    The waiter nodded, eyes flickering over Gonzales, who flushed, looking back and forth between Miranda and Rick.
    “You did not tell me you had an appointment, Miranda.”
    She glanced at Rick, whose jaw muscles popped in and out while he studied his nails.
    “I told you I’m working, Mark, and this is work. Rick’s taking me to the Picasso exhibit at the San Francisco Museum of Art.”
    The Inspector raised his eyebrows, swallowed another portion of wine.
    “I know something of Picasso. My family purchased several of his drawings at a Mexico City gallery.”
    She asked quickly: “Which one?”
    “I believe it was the Count Lestang Gallery. It was several years ago.”
    He turned to Rick, glancing