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

somber. He held her off by the shoulders, stared down into the brown eyes. He’d called them “truth tellers” that first time, a deep brown flecked with green, eyes that never lied.
    He spoke slowly. “Well, now, Miss Miranda Corbie. That’s convenient. Because whether you smell like violets and orange blossoms or Ma Drexel’s potato soup, I think I love you, too.”
    They stared at one another for a few seconds. Johnny looked away, uncharacteristically awkward. When he met her eyes again, business was in his face. The reporter was back.
    He hurriedly tucked his shirt in and buttoned up his brown trousers.
    “I’ve gotta go cover a political rally or the boss’ll have my hide. How ’bout a late-night spaghetti dinner at Maggio’s?”
    “I’ll wait up.”
    “Don’t. I’ll buzz you. You’re still pounding the pavement for dutiful employment, honey, and you need to stay fresh.”
    John knotted his tie quickly and finished before Miranda could help him. He grinned at her and shoved the fedora on his head, slipped into a jacket and a thick wool coat.
    “Now I’m ready to tackle Tammany and the weather. You I’ll tackle later.”
    He bent forward and brushed her cheek with his lips. “What does Je Reviens mean, anyhow?”
    Her eyes searched his. “It means ‘I’ll return.’”
    The white teeth flashed again, cleft in his chin deepening. “You bet I will. Je reviens, baby!”
    He laughed as he pulled open the thin wooden door and stepped into the boardinghouse hallway, the low, mellow rumble of his laughter filling the decaying Victorian house with light. Miranda stepped across the threshold and watched him bound down the stairway, his hand sliding on the worn, smooth wood of the banister. He threw up a hand, blew a kiss, and she held up hers as she watched him slide around the entrance door and head for 29th Street.
    She stood at the top of the stairway for a few moments.
    “ Je reviens e revenez à moi, ” she whispered.
    *   *   *
    Early August 1937. Spain.
    Two large flies were mating in the small puddle of tobacco juice and Tempranillo. The tired official, sallow faced with purple bags under his eyes, raised a rolled-up Fascist poster of a lion, vivid yellow and reds faded to pastel, paper crushed and smeared with the guts and blood of previous insects.
    He swung it heavily on the desk. The tobacco and Tempranillo sprayed tiny red dots on Miranda’s skin.
    His Spanish was slow and measured, and she nodded. He stamped her passport three times, desk trembling. More flies settled in a three-inch-wide crack of wood, chromatic prism wings covering dead comrades.
    Miranda rose from the wooden stool. The official lifted the paper, brought it down again.
    “ ¡No pasarán! ”
    He looked up at her, dead eyes searching hers, and tried to smile.
    “Gracias.” Miranda shook his hand, palm cold, and limped through the door. Her hand brushed the broken marble around the door frame.
    She stood on the cratered street, watching a woman holding two children by the hand, a skinny dog scavenging for food. Distant roaring shook the aged stone.
    Her eyes were dry, voice thick. “ Vaya con Dios, España .”
    *   *   *
    October 1937. Paris.
    The soldier was young and smelled like bay rum, hair gelled and slicked back like Tyrone Power in Love Is News. Skin impossibly white, eyes a pale blue, face a mixture of old school ties and proper scones and English breakfast tea.
    His omelet was cold. He was staring at Miranda.
    Morning moisture rose from the Seine, wafting across Metro railings and arrondissements, soupçon of danger, while the smell of strong coffee steamed from thick white cups perched on wrought-iron tables, waiters flying in and out, orders shouted to the back.
    Businessmen ate alone, reading Le Figaro and the International Herald Tribune. Couples with clothes askew and covered in cigarette ash ordered brioche and deux cafés , eyes on nothing but each other. Inside, the sound of breaking