Missing in Soho (A Misty Divine Mystery, 2) - Softcover

Stars, Holly

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0593816730 ISBN 13: 9780593816738

Verlag: Berkley Books, 2026

Inhaltsangabe

A missing photographer. A megalomaniacal millionaire. A drag queen hellbent on saving her club. The latest glittering mystery from the author of Murder in the Dressing Room…

Misty Divine is bold, beautiful and back in action. She’s barely settled into her new role as the glamorous hostess of Lady’s Bar when a private detective arrives out of the blue. He’s been stabbed. With what might be his final breath he whispers a cryptic message. “You’re in danger, Misty… you must find Jeremy.”

As Misty dives wig first into the investigation, she gets up close and personal with a number of shady characters, including a notorious televangelist, a group of mysterious financiers, and a bunch of drunken bachelorettes at a drag brunch. And when it becomes clear that Misty's beloved Lady's Bar is under threat, she'll have to seek help in the unlikeliest of allies to solve the case, save the bar, and find Jeremy before he disappears for good.

Can Misty find Jeremy and save Lady’s Bar? And what, or who, might she lose in the process? Her club, her career, her relationship… everything’s at stake. No-one is safe and there’s a young photographer Missing in Soho.

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Holly Stars is a drag stand-up comedian and writer. She is the writer of the smash-hit drag murder mystery, Death Drop, a play that has had three runs on the West End and a UK and Ireland tour. Holly has two seasons of her own television series, Holly Stars: Inspirational, on OUTflix and OUTtv, and regularly performs in London and around the UK. Her solo shows include: Justice for Holly, Nightmare Neighbour, and Birthday.

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1

THURSDAY-TWELVE HOURS EARLIER

Misty knew how to spot them. The lookie-loos. The ones who came to a show at Lady's Bar just to get a glimpse at the drag queen who'd caught a murderer. The viral sensation: Misty Divine.

There were fewer of them now: a year had passed since the bar's previous owner and Misty's mentor, Lady Lady, had been murdered backstage, and the number of lookie-loos had steadily decreased.

But there was one tonight.

"A creeper," Plimberley, the long-legged lip-syncer who was famous for her acrobatic dips and flips, had called him "sitting at the end of the bar."

"Oh, I've seen him."

Misty had spotted him right away, the creeper. He was sixty-five, easy. Maybe seventy-five. And not a Lady's Bar regular. It was unusual for older men to show up at her cabaret club by themselves, so his demographic alone made him stand out. He was underdressed: for the venue, for the show. A slouchy pair of chinos and plain brown shoes so worn he might have run multiple marathons in them, Misty had clocked him as soon as he walked in.

You don't belong here . . . she thought, though she wasn't entirely sure she could explain why.

The shoes probably. The plain brown shoes.


Lady’s Bar was one of London’s hottest drag venues: a gorgeous underground auditorium accessed by a nondescript door on Old Compton Street in Soho, it had been a mainstay of the live cabaret scene for the past twenty years. When the previous host and owner, Lady Lady, died last year, Misty inherited ten percent of the bar, making her one of the city’s dwindling number of queer venue owners. The other ninety percent was owned by Mandy White, her business partner and friend. Misty had been delighted to jump from performer status to part owner. It had raised her profile in the community, given her purpose and drive, and let her quit her toxic day job as a bored and depressed hotel accounts assistant. This was hers: this club, this stage. This was where she belonged.

The only dark spot on Lady Lady's glittering gift from beyond the grave was the bribery. Oh, how Misty hated it. Atrax, the mysterious City firm that had been trying to shut down Lady's Bar, was always lurking beneath the surface of her thoughts. Even now, as she stood onstage in front of her adoring audience, she fought to keep it at bay. She spotted Mandy across the bar sitting with a group of patrons. Their shared secret and shame surged to the fore, the piles of cash they skimmed from the tills after closing . . .

Don't think about this now, she willed herself. It's showtime.

She beamed. Her teeth had been freshly whitened and she knew they were sparkling in contrast to tonight's deep red lipstick. Her corset was tight and so was her wig. The audience clapped, whistled, and cheered and Misty took the microphone to introduce the night's first act.


Plimberley was the opener, as she always was on a Thursday. She performed a limb-tastic display of gymnastic prowess while lip-syncing a track by Charli XCX. Her hair was long, down to her perfectly padded bottom, and her slinky bodysuit sparkled in the spotlight. Misty admired her from the side of the stage. Plim was young, twenty-three, and had had a tough life. Kicked out by her parents, couch surfing, and occasionally sleeping in a clapped-out car she called Calista. But she showed up, did the job, and brought the house down night after night. A real pro. An up-and-comer, Misty knew she was destined for greatness.

After Plim finished her number she took a long bow, panting and smiling and waving at the audience, enjoying her moment in the limelight.

Then Misty returned to the stage. "Let's hear it for Plimberley Walsh!" she called into the microphone, and the room went wild.

Everyone was whooping, wailing, clicking fingers in the air for the young queen, except one person. Misty could see him at the back of the auditorium. The creeper. He sat perfectly still, a glass of whiskey next to him on the bar, watching with a straight face and crisp eyes that were visibly blue even from the stage.

Maybe he's a journalist, she thought.

Occasionally, reporters would turn up unannounced, asking Misty about last year's murder. Was he one of those?

The applause died down and Misty smiled again, batting her lashes and winking to a handsome man in the front row. She looked effortless, she knew, beautiful, and much more flirtatious than she'd ever dare to be out of drag. Part of her job was having new costumes made, and tonight's was a bobby-dazzler: a lime-green strapless bodice with a taffeta train bejeweled with hundreds of rhinestones. Hot pink stilettos. White blond hair. Pink earrings. Perfection.

"Before our next act," she said, as the crowd died down, "I wanted to give you a little gift. A special treat from me to you." On this cue, a track started playing, a relaxed, jazzy musical theater number that grew from a quiet beginning to a belting end. She started to sing.

Misty oozed confidence onstage, and she felt powerful, like she had the audience in the palm of her hand. A song like this was an adventure, a journey from one word to another, one note to the next. Building, always building, to the big showstopping moment, a key change, then a long high note. She knew before she even sang it that it would prompt a standing ovation. And it did. The whole auditorium on their feet, except the creeper.


It was tradition at Lady’s Bar for the performers to stay after the show and have at least one drink with the audience. It was a chance to mingle, chat, receive compliments, and promote the next night’s cabaret. Misty had enjoyed it when she was new at the bar, but now she was an owner and hostess she loved it. It was noisy and bustling and exciting. It made her feel like a superstar.

Tonight she made a beeline for the creeper. Misty Divine didn't hold herself back and she didn't mind a confrontation. If this ancient lookie-loo was a journalist, she wanted to talk to him immediately to put her mind at ease. As she hustled her way through the crowd, she said speedy thank-yous to gushing audience members, all delighted to tell her how great she was.

Who are you? she thought as she made her way toward him like a military missile.

As she reached him she noticed more about his outfit: a small tear in the worn trousers and deep scuffs on the sad shoes . . . Too old to be a journalist too, she thought. Up close he looked quite frail, like he should have retired many years ago.

"Hello," she said, holding out her bejeweled hand. "I'm Misty."

He clasped her fingers and his blue eyes shone in the lights of the bar. He looked kind, and this surprised her. He wasn't giving creeper vibes after all. He might just be a gentle pensioner who needs a wardrobe upgrade. She felt bad for having judged him from afar.

"I know who you are," he replied. "I need to talk to you."

"Oh?" Misty leaned across the bar and waved to Jan the bearded barman. He nodded and started preparing her a gin and tonic in a crystal glass. "How can I help?"

"It's a bit complicated," said the old man. "Is-is there somewhere quieter we could go?" She heard the jitter in his voice like he was nervous or on edge and guessed he was out of his comfort zone in Lady's Bar. It's true the room was rowdy, still buzzing with guests, and drag kings and queens circulating like royalty.

"Not right now, I'm afraid," said Misty. She could have taken him to the office, but she didn't want to. She didn't know anything about this guy. "Why don't you give me the headlines here?"

"Okay," he said, taking a sip of whiskey and a look around. "I'm a private investigator. I've been hired by the family of a missing man to try and find him. I need to ask you a few questions."

A missing...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Berkley Books
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2026
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0593816730
• ISBN 13: 9780593816738
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 368
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar