Read Online City of Ghosts (A Miranda Corbie Mystery) by Kelli Stanley - Free Book Online
Authors: Kelli Stanley
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in the book. It could have been Miranda or Mary, Corbie or Carp.
“Thank you again.”
Miranda shut the book with a thump, brushing roughly by and almost knocking over the brunette in white, who’d been waiting in line behind her, making disapproving noises. Miranda posed for a moment, shifted her weight and turned on the electricity. The brunette’s slick-haired date opened his mouth and kept it open, while a few other men stared, lips parted and eyes wet. Her lips curved upward in a smile, and she stared into the pale blue, furious eyes of the brunette.
“So sorry, my dear—I didn’t see you. White fades so, doesn’t it?”
Miranda glided through the crowd toward Rick, green dress shimmering in the muted light.
* * *
“So why exactly did you want to come tonight, Miri? I’ve never heard you mention art, much less the modern stuff.”
Miranda popped two more Life Savers in her mouth, keeping her eyes on the door.
“You get a good education at Mills.”
He pushed the fedora back off his forehead and grinned down at her. “Yeah. And I studied ballet. C’mon, Miranda … maybe you know your way around an art gallery, but that’s not why you’re here. You’re looking for somebody. Who is it?”
She threw him an irritated glance and refocused on the entrance. They were standing in a corner with a few of Picasso’s earlier drawings and studies. The crowd congregated toward the better-known paintings, and the view gave her an angle on the entire gallery.
“Ever hear of client confidentiality, Sanders? I can’t tell you anything even if I wanted to. So drop it.”
He covered a yawn with his fist. “OK, so maybe I’ll go home. I got my story, such as it is, we’ve been here over an hour, and Mrs. Sanders’s little boy needs his sleep. But while you’re waiting for your mark—whoever he is—I figure I’d better spill my idea. About”—he dropped his voice—“your mother.”
Miranda’s voice was sharp. “You got something? What is it?”
He threw a hand up. “Wait, Miri. I don’t have anything, but I need your permission before I go forward.”
She glanced at her watch: 10:18. Mrs. Hart, she of the gray eyes and gray snood and green bills and jade would be punctual and arrive at eleven, the pitter-patter of handmade Corsican leather pumps echoing down the hallway of the Monadnock, sound as hollow as the woman’s soul. Miranda wanted the goddamn jade out of her safe and her life. She looked up at Rick expectantly. His voice was soft.
“I know—at least I think I know—what this is doing to you inside, Miranda. But I’m worried you’re not catching all the angles. We don’t know if the postcard is from your mother—it could be someone posing as your mother. It could be some kind of trap, a grift, even revenge.”
Her eyes swung back to the entrance. A large florid man in tails was panting up the stairs.
“Nothing new. I realize the risks. What’s your idea?”
He sighed. “OK. I’ve looked at ship arrivals and departures, morgue and hospital records. All for 1910 and ’11, since you figure you don’t remember her after you were three or four years old. I checked for Corbie with an ie or y, Katherine with a K, Katy, and everything else. Nothing. So here’s my idea: I want to search the criminal records.”
Catherine Corbie.
Mother and fugitive, mother and criminal, lost woman, giving birth to a bastard and then abandoned by one. Pantomime memories, early and faded, like old photographs and scratchy Victrolas, and after three or four years … nothing.
Miranda spoke slowly. “I should have thought of that myself.”
He gazed down at her, wide mouth twisted. “Just make sure you’re ready for whatever we find, Miranda.”
She shook her shoulders. Gave him half a smile and placed a gloved hand against his cheek.
“You’re a good friend. Thank you, Rick.”
He covered her hand with his for a moment, then turned to pick his way through a group of five or
“Thank you again.”
Miranda shut the book with a thump, brushing roughly by and almost knocking over the brunette in white, who’d been waiting in line behind her, making disapproving noises. Miranda posed for a moment, shifted her weight and turned on the electricity. The brunette’s slick-haired date opened his mouth and kept it open, while a few other men stared, lips parted and eyes wet. Her lips curved upward in a smile, and she stared into the pale blue, furious eyes of the brunette.
“So sorry, my dear—I didn’t see you. White fades so, doesn’t it?”
Miranda glided through the crowd toward Rick, green dress shimmering in the muted light.
* * *
“So why exactly did you want to come tonight, Miri? I’ve never heard you mention art, much less the modern stuff.”
Miranda popped two more Life Savers in her mouth, keeping her eyes on the door.
“You get a good education at Mills.”
He pushed the fedora back off his forehead and grinned down at her. “Yeah. And I studied ballet. C’mon, Miranda … maybe you know your way around an art gallery, but that’s not why you’re here. You’re looking for somebody. Who is it?”
She threw him an irritated glance and refocused on the entrance. They were standing in a corner with a few of Picasso’s earlier drawings and studies. The crowd congregated toward the better-known paintings, and the view gave her an angle on the entire gallery.
“Ever hear of client confidentiality, Sanders? I can’t tell you anything even if I wanted to. So drop it.”
He covered a yawn with his fist. “OK, so maybe I’ll go home. I got my story, such as it is, we’ve been here over an hour, and Mrs. Sanders’s little boy needs his sleep. But while you’re waiting for your mark—whoever he is—I figure I’d better spill my idea. About”—he dropped his voice—“your mother.”
Miranda’s voice was sharp. “You got something? What is it?”
He threw a hand up. “Wait, Miri. I don’t have anything, but I need your permission before I go forward.”
She glanced at her watch: 10:18. Mrs. Hart, she of the gray eyes and gray snood and green bills and jade would be punctual and arrive at eleven, the pitter-patter of handmade Corsican leather pumps echoing down the hallway of the Monadnock, sound as hollow as the woman’s soul. Miranda wanted the goddamn jade out of her safe and her life. She looked up at Rick expectantly. His voice was soft.
“I know—at least I think I know—what this is doing to you inside, Miranda. But I’m worried you’re not catching all the angles. We don’t know if the postcard is from your mother—it could be someone posing as your mother. It could be some kind of trap, a grift, even revenge.”
Her eyes swung back to the entrance. A large florid man in tails was panting up the stairs.
“Nothing new. I realize the risks. What’s your idea?”
He sighed. “OK. I’ve looked at ship arrivals and departures, morgue and hospital records. All for 1910 and ’11, since you figure you don’t remember her after you were three or four years old. I checked for Corbie with an ie or y, Katherine with a K, Katy, and everything else. Nothing. So here’s my idea: I want to search the criminal records.”
Catherine Corbie.
Mother and fugitive, mother and criminal, lost woman, giving birth to a bastard and then abandoned by one. Pantomime memories, early and faded, like old photographs and scratchy Victrolas, and after three or four years … nothing.
Miranda spoke slowly. “I should have thought of that myself.”
He gazed down at her, wide mouth twisted. “Just make sure you’re ready for whatever we find, Miranda.”
She shook her shoulders. Gave him half a smile and placed a gloved hand against his cheek.
“You’re a good friend. Thank you, Rick.”
He covered her hand with his for a moment, then turned to pick his way through a group of five or
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