Commins' Case: Bloody Burlesque ✅

Chapter 13

Matt Thompkins, my old partner, positions himself in front of me, effectively blocking my view of the crime scene.

"I'm like a bad penny." I shrug.

He crosses his arms and looks at me with his chin lowered and his eyebrows raised.

"I'm working on a case." I inform him about Marie, making it sound as though she only hired me for protection whilst failing to mention any supernatural aspects. "It looks as though our cases have just collided."

"My case," he corrects me.

"Please, Matthew, let me take a quick look. Several lives are on the line here."

-

"Funny you should mention that," says Matt. "A warehouse belonging to Devon Burlingham was destroyed very recently. We found evidence that would suggest that the manager of the club where your client works was there. Know anything about that?"

"It's news to me." I try my best to seem surprised by the information.

"If you aren't going to co-operate with me, then you can go sit on that client of yours," Matt tells me. "That'd be the best way to keep her safe."

"Fine, I knew about the warehouse," I confess.

"Did you start the fire?"

"No."

"But you were there?"

"Yes."

"And?"

I sigh and hunch my shoulders. "The manager was deep in debt with Devon. I barely managed to get him out of there alive, but I didn't set the blaze."

Matt glares at me for a moment before he motions for me to take a look at the scene.

-

Antoinette lived in a tiny basement flat with carpets the colour of pond scum that are similar in smell, water-stained ceilings and peeling wallpaper. She must have loved horses—there are little horse figurines on the nightstand and a weathered chest of drawers. An oscillating fan makes a steady creaking sound. The detectives are crawling all over the apartment, placing bits of evidence into paper bags and boxes. The body of the trapeze artist lays stretched on the floor, face down with her hands at her sides. I'd have assumed she'd fallen over drunk if it weren't for the dent in the back of her skull. Her face is in a sticky, dry puddle of dark blood.

I sigh. "Body number three."

"What's that?" Matt asks.

I point to Antionette. "That's body number three."

"You know something I don't," he says.

"Two performers from the same troupe were killed recently, Georgette and Angelique. My client, Marie—"

-

"I assume these aren't their real names?" he interrupts.

"I don't believe so." I shake my head. "The police ruled both of their deaths as accidental, but Marie thought they were murdered. She came to me to find out who killed her friends. She was right; someone is killing off this burlesque troupe one by one."

Matt plants his hands on his hips. He didn't miss the jab at police incompetence, but he doesn't comment. "Any suspects."

"I've ruled out the trapeze artist." I kneel beside Antionette. "How did she die?"

"I'm no coroner," says Matt, "But I think someone hit her in the back of the head."

"You don't say?" I give him a flat look. "Have they found the murder weapon?"

He points to a cardboard box with an evidence tag on the side. I stand up and step carefully around the body for a peek. Inside is an alabaster horse head the size of a melon, with blood staining the corner. I whistle. "Someone hit her with a horse."

Matt makes a grunting noise.

-

I look at the body—Antionette is face down with her hands at her sides. She has no defensive wounds. It's as though she turned her back on someone; they picked the horse-head up off the mantle and struck her with it. If she were running away from her murderer, otherwise her hands would be outstretched or overhead. "I don't suppose we're thinking the same thing, Matthew?"

Matt jerks his head forward. "She was killed by someone she knew, someone she trusted. Poor girl never saw it coming."

"Yes," I agree. "That would either make it someone from the troupe or a nightclub employee."

"We'll need to compare notes on this burlesque troupe."

"Of course."

"What I don't understand is how you got here so quickly," says Matt.

"What do you mean?"

"We haven't started the investigation yet," he tells me. "Hell, we haven't even notified next of kin if she has any. How did you find out?"

"Wait," I say. "Who discovered the body?"

"Anonymous tip," he says.

"Thank you, Matthew. I need to go." I leave, swatting the police tape out of my way, making a run for the stairs.

"Hey! Commins! Get back here," Matt's voice follows me.

-

I have no time to explain; perhaps it's already too late. This whole encounter was fabricated to get me away from the office and away from Marie. Matt gave me the final piece of the puzzle. Antionette's death hasn't been publicised yet. There is no way Blanche could have known about the murder unless she was the one who killed her. Antionette would have welcomed Blanche inside without a second thought. The moment Antionette turned her back, Blanche killed her, then showed up at my office and sent me on a wild goose chase. I sprint the mile back to my office building and take the steps two at a time up to the second floor.

The door stands open.

The girls are gone. A high-heeled shoe laying in the middle of the floor is the only indication that Marie was ever here, to begin with; nothing else is out of place. It looks like Blanche grabbed her and left.

But where to?

-

I snatch the phone off the receiver, dial for Marcus and wait at the curb, my hands in my pockets, rocking back and forth on my heels. Thunder rumbles in the distance as a light drizzle starts, the tiny raindrops making orange halos around the street lamps. Five long minutes creep by before the carriage comes roaring around the corner. Wooden wheels whine on the wet concrete. I pull open the door and launch myself into the seat before Marcus can make a complete stop.

He whips the reigns. The carriage leaps forward, and I am pinned to my seat. "Where to?" he asks.

"The club." I am hanging onto my seat, praying that Marcus doesn't go sliding off the wet roads. He peels around corners and bangs over potholes, but five minutes later, the horses scream to a halt in front of the club.