Commins' Case: Bloody Burlesque ✅

Chapter 1

My name is Claude Commins. I am a detective. However, I do not investigate cheating wives or corrupt politicians; I investigate things that go bump in the night.

How I began in paranormal investigations is a long tale. Something took my spouse from me. May was my whole world, and now they're gone. I've been chasing leads ever since.

It's a terrible racket, looking into the dark and creeping things. Most people would never admit they believe in ghosts and goblins, never mind consult a detective about it. And the police? They aren't interested in solving the stranger side. I know because I was one once. Now I work for myself, meaning most months, the bills go unpaid. This month being no exception.

-

I'm in my office, feet up on the desk, a book in hand, when a beautiful brunette in a pale blue dress and hat saunters in.

I stand, smile and motion her to one of the tatty chairs across from my desk. She takes a seat, crosses her legs and brings a cigarette out of her bag. She looks me over and strikes a match before I can hurry open my Zippo. I can't tell if she enjoys what she sees or is just sizing me up.

Feeling awkward, I sit down on the edge of the desk. "What can I do for you, ma'am?"

-

"Someone is trying to kill me," she says.

"Why would anyone want to do such a thing?"

"That's what I want you to find out."

I chuckle. "Of course. I don't believe we've been introduced yet."

"Marie ala Mode."

I clear my throat; It's suddenly hot in here. I resist the urge to put my finger in my collar and tug. "And why is it you believe someone is trying to kill you?"

She doesn't answer immediately. She shudders almost imperceptibly, though I pretend not to notice. I wait for her to answer.

-

Finally, she says, "I'm part of a burlesque show, Mr. Commins. I've just become the headline act."

I am curious at the way her face pinches as she admits this, but I respond with, "Call me Claude," and throw my left leg over the other, knowing she is about to elaborate.

She nods and takes a breath. "Okay, Claude. As I said, I'm now the top dancer—the reason we sell tickets. That's why someone is trying to kill me. Only, not by any ordinary means. You see, the other headliners have all died."

"How is that?"

Marie shrugs. "Different ways. Georgette was run over by a carriage, and Angelique fell out a sixth storey window."

"Forgive me, but they sound like a pair of unfortunate accidents," I tell her.

"That's just what the boys at the station said." She stands and paces the floor. "But you don't know all the details. Georgette was paranoid about crossing traffic. It was practically a phobia of hers. She had a brother, see. He was trampled and killed when Georgette was only ten. It stuck with her."

"That sort of thing always does."

"There's no way Georgette would have walked into traffic without looking first."

"Did either of them take drugs? Or drink, perhaps?"

She shoots me an exasperated look. "Just because we're dancers doesn't mean we're all boozers, Mr Commins."

"I was only asking the question. Which you have yet to answer."

"Georgette liked to hit the bottle, but she wasn't drinking that night. I know that for a fact; I was with her but fifteen minutes before she died. George hadn't touched a drop. And Angelique, she was straight-laced. A good lass. She fell out a hotel window that doesn't open. Just fell right out. Even the police couldn't explain it."