Victory Red & the Rising Phoenix: Burlesque Mystery Series, #1

By K.B. Caron

Victory Red & the Rising Pheonix, Volume 1 of the Burlesque Mystery Series 

Salt Lake City, Utah-1948. Former WASP Claudette Collins works as a secretary for the city's best Private Investigator, WWII veteran James Matsumoto. When a routine case takes a deadly turn, the two hatch a plan to send Claudette undercover as up-and-coming burlesque dancer, Victory Red. They quickly discover nobody is quite who they seem to be in this glittery world and a killer is closer than they could have imagined.

• Language: English
• Publisher: K.B. Caron
• Release date: May 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201817732

K.B. Caron

K.B. Caron (she/her) is a bisexual, award-winning burlesque performer, pinup model, and costume designer. She studied psychology, film, and history at the University of Utah. She and her child, Skylar (they/them), live in Utah with their 2 dogs.

Book preview

For Candy, who I never had the chance to meet in person. And for Kairo, who helped me feel like I did.

Also, for Skylar, the bravest person I know.

Content Warning:

This story takes place in post-WWII United States and is intended for mature readers. Content includes alcohol consumption, smoking, adult language, and adult sexual situations. Due to the time period in which the story is set, some chapters include brief descriptions of violence, death, consent violation, racism, homophobia, transphobia, and terms that are offensive.

If you experience any negative emotions due to triggers in this story, please utilize your support network and resources such as suicidepreventionlifeline.org.

PROLOGUE:

October 28, 1944

Itook off my heavy jacket and shook it a few times as I walked to the barracks. Dust rose from my bomber into the air to join the rest of the dust swirling around the Las Vegas Airfield. It had been hotter than hell itself in the cockpit of my B-17 while I waited on the tarmac to take off. But once in the air, she flew like a dream. Not all the birds did; though I guess that was part of the excitement.

I checked my watch. Bev should be back from her instrument training flight in the AT-11 by now. I couldn’t wait to hear all about it. We had both wanted to go in the worst way. Normally, Bev gave into anything I wanted if I just bit my lip, but it hadn’t worked this time and we ended up tossing a coin to decide which one of us would go. I picked heads. It’s always heads...until it isn’t. And this time it wasn’t. Still, it wouldn’t be that bad. I knew just how Bev’s eyes would sparkle while she told me about it, her arms gesturing enthusiastically. One didn’t listen to Bev speak so much as watch her and do one’s best to dodge out of the way.   

I wondered if we’d be able to sneak out again tonight after the other gals had gone to sleep. Last night had been nothing short of amazing. Bev had the softest lips I had ever kissed, and her hands knew just how and where to touch me to make me feel deliriously dizzy.

Suddenly the heat rising from my body could have put that blistering Vegas sun to shame. I resolved to make sure we found a way to slip out tonight. I needed her. I felt it in the deepest part of me. Christ, I couldn’t wait for tonight- I needed her now! It wasn’t just physical, though. I had come to realize in the last few weeks that I loved her. I was long past caring about the implications of that. I was ready to tell her how I truly felt about her. I would find a way for us to be together. I wanted her to be in my life for always.

Goddam, I love that woman, I whispered. One day, I would shout it from the mountaintops. But first, I would tell her. I would greet her today with a hug and whisper in her ear, Beverly Davis, I am in love with you. 

I grinned my biggest clown smile (I can’t help it if I have a huge mouth) and broke into a jog. Then slowed to a walk. I was already sweaty as sin. Let’s be reasonable about at least one thing today. I slowed to an amiable stroll, fighting my excitement every languid step of the way.

I was practically bouncing by the time I entered our barracks. I looked around but didn’t see Bev. Must be in the shower. I bit my lip. That could be fun, provided nobody else-

Hey Red, called a voice behind me. I turned to see Hazel Webster walking toward her bunk. She looked exhausted.

How was the ferry? I asked.

Long. The fellas in Jersey were real jerks. Hazel sighed.

What did they have you flying today?

B-17, she answered.

Me, too. I cleared my throat. Well, I’m going to go find Beverly.

Hazel laughed. I thought you looked strange. I’ve grown so accustomed to seeing you two together I almost forgot what you look like individually.

It is an absolute marvel you recognized me, I teased.

I headed to the shower, thinking about Bev’s smooth, ivory skin and large eyes. I could not wait to get her in my arms again.

But she wasn’t in the showers. My heart sank. She probably took a night ferry. I couldn’t really blame her; we all took every flight and ferry we could. Not for the first time I worried if my love for flying bordered on addiction. I pushed that thought back as I made my way to the hangar to check the logs.

The shade in the hangar notwithstanding, it felt like being inside an oven. My bangs were plastered to my forehead within seconds. I could feel sweat dripping down my shoulder blades. I shivered.

Hey Mac, I shouted as I approached the bullish PFO who was near the flight logs. Officer MacDonald hated that nickname. Which is why I kept using it.

Miss Collins, Mac began with a sigh, you have to try to call me by my actual title and name.

Got it, Mac, I replied as I picked up the flight log and began to read. Mac was saying something, but I wasn’t paying attention. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. Bev and the 5 other officers aboard the AT-11 hadn’t reported back. They were due hours ago.

Officer MacDonald, I whispered.

That stopped him cold. He looked up, worried.

My voice sounded like it was coming from far away. Where is the AT-11 Beverly Davis was flying?

CHAPTER ONE:

September 12, 1948

You can call me a snob , but the Italian restaurant we’d been set up in for the last two hours was god awful. No, that was giving it too much credit. It was downright mediocre, which is worse than god awful.

Across from me, James pushed food around his plate. Leaves a bit to be desired, doesn’t it? he confessed.

I gestured at him with my fork. Someday you’ll need to explain to me why you would order seafood in a landlocked state.

Hope springs eternal, James laughed as he poured me another glass of wine.

Wine covers a multitude of sins and James made sure we had it in abundance. The two of us had put away nearly an entire bottle while waiting for Mr. Bartholomew Barty Andrews to make his appearance. I surveyed the gaudy velvet décor of the restaurant with disdain. It smelled of lies and aftershave-a perfect place for a cheating husband.

I closed my eyes and took in the sounds of glasses clinking against other glasses. Forks and knives scraping against what passed for fine china. The low-throated laughter of women in love. Not wanting to think about love just now, I opened my eyes and my mouth to ask James for the millionth time, Is he here, yet?

I forgot to ask, though, because when I opened my eyes, James was staring at me. I snapped my mouth shut and for a moment we just looked at one another.

James Matsumoto was, without doubt, one of the most heartbreakingly handsome men I had ever met. His skin was a smooth, honey gold. His hair was a thick, velvety black. Unlike many men, he didn’t use an overabundance of pomade, so it always had a temptingly soft appearance. His eyes were a deep, rich, raven with hints of dark brown and flecks of copper. His eyes were framed by moderately thick eyebrows that could not possibly have worked on anyone else’s face. He had a strong chin and full lips that always seemed turned up at one corner, ready to smile. His face was perfect, except for a small scar that ran just above his right temple toward his cheekbone. It disappeared into the lines that formed around his eyes when he laughed. Far from marring his good looks, the scar seemed to belong there.

Suddenly, his dark eyes lit up. I swear to Christ, his eyes sparkled. He leaned toward me and the air whooshed out of my lungs.

He just walked in with a dame I don’t recognize, he whispered excitedly. Dark hair. Slick dress. Definitely not his wife.

He made a face. No, not a face. The face. The face that caused me to drop an entire mug of coffee on my third day working for him. It was a grimace of embarrassment. Not for himself, but for others, and it was boyishly sincere. Sincerity was a rare thing in our industry. Our city. Our world. What on earth was a fella like him doing in the PI business?

Needing a bit of distance between myself and those sincere, sparkling eyes, I leaned back in my chair and lit a cigarette. Where they seated? I asked.

About 3 tables back, near the window, he replied.

Best seats in the house, I declared.

For them or for us?

For me. Damned if I don’t have to walk right past them to get to the powder room. I handed my cigarette to James and stood up.

As I made my way to the ladies’ room, I did a once over of Mr. Andrews and his companion. It was my first time seeing Barty up close and he was...well, he was something else. It wasn’t his looks, although those didn’t hurt. I knew he was 36 years old, but he looked slightly younger. His thick, black hair had just a few streaks of silver. He was about 6 feet, I’d guess. Thin lips, but not unpleasant. Straight, average nose. Trim build with broad shoulders. Well-dressed, of course. His eyes were a color that reminded me of looking down on the Pacific Ocean from 20,000 feet. Green and blue swirling together yet never quite mixing.

His eyes met mine for a brief moment and he smiled at me. It suddenly felt like we were the only two people in the room. I almost stopped in my tracks but managed to keep going and observe his lady friend from the corner of my eye.

Slim figure, but shapely. Elegant, but slightly overdone. Cool as cream expression. Her dark hair was definitely dyed. It was so artificially black it was almost blue. It wasn’t unbecoming at all, somehow it brought out the golden brown of her eyes and the pale hue of her skin. As striking as she was, though, I found it difficult to focus on her. My eyes kept flicking back to Barty.

Just then, my observations were blocked by a young couple approaching the table. As I slid by, I overheard one of them ask for the dame’s autograph. Interesting. She sparked no familiarity at all. Maybe an up-and-coming stage actress? She certainly didn’t remind me of anyone I’d seen in the pictures. No way could she be a call-girl, either. Who asks for a call-girl’s autograph?

Perplexed by this riddle, I opted to avail myself of a resource that generally proved reliably fruitful. I headed straight for the bar. On the way, I arranged my facial features into my best innocent, but not too innocent expression.

I leaned over the bar and tapped the bartender on the shoulder. Say, pal, I began, smiling my very sweetest smile. You don’t happen to know who that woman is, do you? I cocked my head in the direction of her table.

The barkeep turned around. Eyes on my breasts before they (finally) found my face. Just like almost every male pilot I worked with during the war. He ran a hand through his hair and grinned with all the confidence of a man who had seen more than his share of knickers drop. Maybe, he oozed. Wanna tell me which woman you’re talking about, Red?

I felt my cheeks grow hot. I allowed very few people to call me Red and you can bet your last dime sleazy fellas like him did not make that list. I swallowed and gathered my self-control. The one in the gold gown with the black hair. I offered. I saw someone ask for her autograph so I thought she might be famous or something.

Sounds like Betty Noir, he stated.

Betty Noir?

The Burlesque Star.

A burlesque star in Salt Lake City? I choked back a laugh. I could just imagine women in Pioneer garb showing a tantalizing ankle to a very sober audience.

You’d be surprised, he shrugged. There are burlesque shows all over the place around here.

He leaned forward and whispered in my ear. Some of ‘em are even private, if you know what I mean.

The knucklehead actually wagged his eyebrows up and down. That was more than enough for me. I turned on my heel and skedaddled. I got what I needed so there was no sense subjecting myself to his charms any further.

I stole a glance at Betty Noir as I walked back to my table. She was glamorous, all right. Beautiful in a specific kind of way that didn’t really impress me at all. She and our mark were holding hands and staring at each other in a manner that promised a fat paycheck for me and James.

I smiled as I sat back down across from James. Where’s my cigarette? I asked.

You gave it to me, so I smoked it, James answered.

Dinner’s on you, then.

Ain’t it always?

One of the perks of being the boss, I guess. I smiled innocently. If you don’t like it, we can always trade. You’d make a swell secretary.

I would! I certainly make better coffee than you do, James laughed.

I knew he was dying to know what I found out. I also knew he wouldn’t ask. He waited for me. No pressure. That was his way. He opened his cigarette case and offered me a smoke. I accepted and lit it. We regarded one another in silence for a moment. The truth was, I was excited to share this news. We’d never had one like this before.

The dame, I began dramatically, is Betty Noir. Burlesque star.

Burlesque? In Utah?

That’s what I hear. From a guy who would know.

James leaned back, thoughtful. Seems Mrs. Andrews was right.

I knew this troubled him. Although cases like this were our bread and butter, James never took pleasure in them. He simply couldn’t stand to see anyone in pain. Even when that pain paid our bills.

Time to go? I asked.

Time to go he agreed, motioning for the waiter to bring the check.

You’re such a steady, predictable sort, I said as I gathered my purse. You always promise me dessert and never seem to follow through.

Wine isn’t dessert? he asked.

No. Wine is wine, and dessert is dessert. They may be paired together but not substitute one another. If I promised you wine and then gave you a cookie, would you consider the promise fulfilled?

Depends on the cookie, James answered as we made our way out the door and began walking to his car.

The conversation continued this way for the next few minutes as we settled into his sedan which was conveniently parked near the restaurant’s dark alley side exit. In another stroke of convenience, it was in full view of Barty’s car.

James reached into the breast pocket of his suit and presented me with a stick of gum. Dessert, he stated seriously. As promised.

You are, indeed, a man of your word again, I said, just as seriously. I unwrapped the gum and popped it in my mouth, relieved to have a way to cover up the taste of the overcooked manicotti I had been trying to eat for the last two hours.

Juicy fruit. I felt myself turn pale as I choked on the flavor in surprise.

You ok? James asked.

Yeah. I just haven’t had Juicy Fruit since... I trailed off, not knowing how to say it.

I know that play, James said quietly as he fiddled with his camera. I can’t eat chocolate without tasting the dirt of the Vosges Mountains.

I froze. I knew he had fought in the war, of course, just as he knew I had flown planes for the WASPs, but we had never actually talked about the details. If he was saying what I think he was saying, James had been in one of the most decorated units in military history.  

Fuck.