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

earrings out to the woman in gray, staring into liquid metal eyes. Mrs. Hart glanced away, finding refuge at the window.
    “You’ll want a receipt.”
    The socialite nodded, still examining various corners of the room, mouth in a well-bred curl. Miranda slid behind the desk and sank into the overlarge leather chair, twisting the Bakelite knob on the lamp. She found another key and opened the middle drawer, pulling out a receipt book with a crumpled piece of carbon paper sandwiched in between the leaves. She riffled through it, folded the cover back, and reached for an Esterbrook.
    Miranda carefully recorded the amount received, divided into expenses and fee, and glanced at her watch before noting the date and hour. She looked up and held out the receipt.
    “I’m returning your jade to you at 11:17 P.M. , Mrs. Hart. I don’t know what time it is in Switzerland.”
    The woman pinched the edge of the paper with the gloved fingertips, folded the paper carefully and returned it to her purse. Her voice was slightly higher in pitch.
    “May I ask—what were you doing at the Picasso exhibit? Were you following me?”
    Miranda stood up, eyebrows raised. “You read too many magazine stories. Private investigators don’t usually shadow their own clients. I was there on my own time. I happen to like Picasso.”
    It was Mrs. Hart’s turn to look surprised. “I wouldn’t have thought a woman of your background…”
    The first syllable was emphasized, with a long, drawn-out Lady Esther radio voice, Boston by way of Bakersfield. Miranda’s lips curved dangerously.
    “I’m a college graduate. I assume that’s the bahk ground you mean.”
    The woman in gray murmured: “Yes, of course … I merely thought…”
    Miranda stepped sideways out from behind the desk and faced the socialite directly.
    “Since you offered me advice, I’ll return the favor. Number one, get Randolph off the juice before it’s too late. It may already be too late, but seven million pieces of sugar can buy a lot of doctors. Number two, lay off the senator. Maybe you think you’re being discreet, but two stoolies offered me the information for a fiver and a pint of rye. You’re cheap news, Mrs. Hart.”
    The ice was cracking, a sharp high tang as the liquid steel eyes melted in panic and the blue map on her face suddenly led back to boardinghouses and boiled potatoes. The eyes darted around the room, searching the office, looking for her husband, looking for the flashbulbs and the inevitable fatal trip to Reno. Miranda almost felt sorry for her.
    “Number three. You need a new escort. Edmund Whittaker’s a washout. I saw him with you tonight, and it’s no good, he’s too well known to act as a front for you. Where’s the husband—New York?”
    The woman took a few seconds to resolidify. She placed a gloved hand on the edge of Miranda’s desk, then curled her fingers into a fist and straightened her spine. Her eyes were back to the color of coal and coke.
    “How—how dare you? What do you know of Edmund? He’s a fine man, an architect, and a good friend. He’d never— never —stoop to…” Her head made a sweeping, circular motion, encompassing all of Miranda and the office. She held her hand up to her neck as if she were choking.
    Miranda opened her purse and plucked a cigarette out of her gold case, lighting it quickly with the Ronson One-Touch on the desk. Her eyes lingered on the older woman’s red-and-white face, the diamonds at her ears and throat. She blew a stream of smoke over Mrs. Hart’s right shoulder.
    “You’re right for once. Whittaker prefers men to women. The problem, Mrs. Hart, is that your friends will eventually discover the charade. So will your husband. And sooner or later—and my guess is sooner—someone’s going to tell him about the senator.”
    She pointed her Chesterfield at the woman in gray. “You can take my advice or leave it … I don’t give a damn either way. Consider it a bonus, Mrs. Hart.