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The Deadly Glamour: Martini Murder of Miss Baby Daisy.
Is this a bittersweet ending - or the opening credits to brand new chapter?
Published: May 12, 2025
Byline: Celestial Gimmick | Culture & Crime Correspondent
The moon was full, the champagne colder than the stares, and the stage was set for decadence and another high-society affair—velvet curtains, cabaret curls, and the scent of scandal in the air. But before midnight struck, a martini laced with arsenic gave way to tragedy.
Miss Baby Daisy, burlesque’s rising sweetheart, had a talent for making even silence blush. She was all curves and charisma—the kind of dame who could stop a room with a wink and a nose crinkle. But on the night of May 12th, under a chandelier sky on the rooftop of Crystal Towers, she stopped the room for good.
It was 11:11PM inside the swing-soaked speakeasy at No. 95 Invention Lane, when Baby Daisy hit the floor like a velvet curtain dropping on the final act of a burlesque show. A dirty martini slipped out of her hand and arsenic poured from her lips like the end of a bad love story. Gasps, clutched pearls, and somewhere between the saxophone and the sirens, a single question curled through the air like cigarette smoke:
What’s happened to Baby Daisy?
The answer, it turned out, was murder.
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Before the poison, before the fall, Miss Baby Daisy was riding high on the applause. She had opened the rooftop soiree in signature style—feathers, flirtation, and a stage presence that left the room dizzy. The performance ended, but the night was still young, and so was she.
True to her reputation for charm and rule-bending, she didn’t linger with the rooftop crowd. Instead, she skipped the queue and swanned downstairs—where, for one night only, the private members bar was open to performers. It was the kind of room where secrets are louder than the softy played piano , and Baby Daisy fit right in.
Witnesses said she was laughing, flirting, sipping slowly from a martini glass. She was seen cozying up to the bartender—a handsome young thing with a half-smile and charm in his pour. They were chatting like old lovers or new conspirators. The lighting was low. The mood was high.
No one remembers who brought her the second drink. But ten minutes later, she was heading back upstairs.
And five steps from the rooftop terrace, she collapsed.
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Two Daisy's. One Spotlight. No Love Lost.
The room fell under suspicion, but only one name rose faster than the others:
Daisy De Vell
They shared a stage, a name, and little else. They weren’t rivals. They weren’t friends. But in showbiz, sometimes that’s more dangerous than both.
Baby Daisy was the sugar and sweet—a pin-up sweetheart dipped in charisma and charm, the kind of girl who made hearts flutter and cameras click. She was all feathers and pink fantasy. When she walked into a room, the lights seemed to follow her, and so did the sighs. She was yesterday’s pinup dream, all cheesecake charm and wide-eyed winks.
Daisy De Vell, on the other hand, was what happened when the dream went dark. A film noir femme fatale with a voice like velvet sin, she didn’t twirl or tease—she prowled. Cigarette smoke curled when she spoke. Her songs dripped with heartbreak and heat, and her gaze could freeze a man mid-sentence.
Where Baby Daisy sparkled, De Vell smouldered.
Where one invited affection, the other dared you to come closer—just close enough to regret it.
They had nothing in common but a name, and even that was too much.
And it’s said, quietly, that Daisy De Vell had no patience for pin-up sweetness.
Rumours spoke of Daisy De Vell watching Baby Daisy earlier that night. That she brushed past the downstairs bar shortly before the fatal drink was served. Surveillance footage showed her spending more time at that bar than seemed innocent. And then there were the connections: the bartender who served the martini was once her trumpet player.
The waiter who delivered the Martini was once on De Vell’s payroll.
Still, her alibi was flawless.
She was onstage, wrapped in spotlight, crooning as the poisoned starlet crashed two floors below. She had eyes watching her on the rooftop of Crystal towers. None however were watching the quite members only bar.
She hadn’t left the stage. She hadn’t touched the glass.
But poison doesn’t need a hand. It just needs time. And timing was De Vell’s specialty.
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The Vial, the Vanishings, and the Vanishing Act.
The investigation picked up speed, but Daisy De Vell kept her cool. That is, until the bottle surfaced.
Found behind a side curtain of the main stage—tucked beneath old costumes and wires—a small, unlabelled glass vial held traces of undiluted arsenic. No fingerprints. No reason to be there. De Vell claimed it was a prop from a Halloween cabaret act. “It’s the backstage of cabaret” she said, smiling like sin.
But arsenic doesn’t trick. It kills.
Then the dominos started falling.
The server who handed Baby Daisy her final drink vanished—moved cities, left no trail. The trumpet player who mixed it was quietly fired, and out of the country before he could testify. Surveillance footage from backstage? Erased between 10:45 and 11:15 PM. The exact window of the crime. Blamed on a “technical glitch.” Never resolved.
And De Vell? She didn’t run. She didn’t flinch. She simply hired better lawyers.
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The Courtroom, the Performance, the Acquittal.
She sat in court like a fatal carved in noir shadow. Untouchable. Unreadable. Unforgettable. Her voice was never raised. Her gaze never wavered. Her defence? Iron-clad.
No fingerprints. No direct witness. No motive that would stick.
The jury took two hours.
Not guilty.
When asked outside the courthouse if she had anything to say, she offered a slow smile and a single line:
Darling, I’m only ever guilty of being watched.
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And so the Case Closes… or Does It?
Miss Baby Daisy’s name now drifts like perfume through the city’s gossip and gutters. Her legacy is a feather boa, a poisoned martini, and a question that won’t die.
The speakeasy has shuttered. The rooftop is silent. But somewhere, behind a piano or a velvet curtain, a woman sings sweetly into the dark—
a melody of heartbreak, arsenic, and the perfect crime.
And if justice missed its cue that night, it’s only because the spotlight was pointed the other way.
Though acquitted in court, Daisy De Vell emerged from scandal more infamous than ever. Debuting her first electro swing song not long after the trial.
Audiences couldn’t help but notice: her lyrics glinted with wicked familiarity—verses about poisoned drinks, backstage secrets, and martinis stirred with regret. Every chorus felt like a confession she’d never legally make. Was it art? Was it provocation? Or just a masterclass in misdirection?
One thing’s certain—Daisy De Vell now sings the soundtrack to her own legend. And everyone is keen to listen.
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