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36
Palm Beach, Florida
The mansion had been modeled after a villa on the Amalfi Coast and it had once been a grand place. Now it was showing its age. The grounds weren’t as well tended as they had been. The front gate and door needed paint. Much of the brickwork required pointing. And who knew when the windows had last gotten a proper cleaning?
Coco knew all about the house’s many deficiencies and needs. He just had to look around the bedroom he was in to get upset. The silk wallpaper was separated at the seams in many places and curling back yellow. Scratches and dings showed on almost all the furniture. And the Oriental rugs were starting to look dingy.
Coco refused to dwell on any of it. He chose to ignore what had to be done to the house, just as he had chosen to ignore the Palm Beach Post’s story on Ruth Abrams’s death.
Instead, he accessorized the three outfits laid out on a king-size bed. He loved to accessorize. It calmed him as much as cross-dressing did.
For the past hour, ever since he’d read that the police were calling Ruth’s death a homicide, Coco had been adjusting the look of each ensemble using items from a large box of estate jewelry.
Wasn’t it fascinating, how the effect changed so radically with such small modifications? Mother always said image is in the detail, and she was right—
The house phone rang.
Coco ignored it. People were always calling, always hounding, wanting this and that, and he just needed a break from reality for a little while longer.
Is that too much to ask? No. Not at all.
Coco had narrowed the three outfits down to two when the doorbell rang.
They’re coming to my front door now?
He forced himself to swallow his outrage. Nothing was going to interrupt his interlude. Not today. Let them all wait. A party isn’t a party until the life of it arrives. Am I right, Mother?
Coco decided on an ensemble composed of a black taffeta skirt from Argentina, a lavender chiffon blouse with a daring neckline, sheer black hose, and black pumps. He went to a closet door, fished a key off the top of the jamb, and turned the dead bolt.
He pulled open the door. Several bathrobes and kimonos on hooks on the inner side of it fluttered and settled. The walk-in closet was huge and filled with all manner of women’s high fashion beneath clear plastic covers. Much of it went back decades, and he had to go well beyond the vanity and makeup mirror to find space for these new additions.
He hung the Tangerine Dream outfit first, and then the indigo Elie Saab dress. Both of them were definite repeats at some point down the road, he was sure. He placed the gladiator-strap stilettos and the orange sling-back heels on the floor beneath the ensembles and then retrieved the jewelry box.
Coco set it on a shelf beside the vanity and got to work. He taped his gender back, laid on Lancôme foundation, and glued his fake lashes into place. Feeling slightly breathless as he always did when the transformation was fully under way, he set his makeup aside for the moment.
He found a pair of naughty black thong panties left over from a trip to Paris a few years back and slipped them on. Then he put on the garter belt and hose, loving the thick black stripe up the back.
How pulpy!
Now Coco knew who he’d be for the evening, and he looked to a higher shelf filled with old wig boxes. His attention went to a blue one and he retrieved it. He wouldn’t tape the wig in place until he was almost fully clothed, but he couldn’t resist trying it on.
The hair was jet black and pulled back severely into a tight bun. Coco set it on his smooth head, adjusted it, and then eased into the black pumps.
He stepped in front of the mirror and pursed his lips in satisfaction.
Tonight you shall be the Black Dahlia, Coco thought. A sultry Latina with a hint of dominatrix and—
He heard a gasp. His wigged head whipped left.
A chunky, middle-aged black woman in jeans, a dark hoodie, and yellow rubber dishwashing gloves stood in the closet doorway, gaping at him.
“Oh, Jesus, no!” she whispered in a thick accent.
Then she turned and ran.
Chapter
37
