by P R Ellis
Jasmine knew that Viv was right. ‘Oh, I suppose so, but I don’t like all this fake identity stuff.’ It had taken her years to accept her own identity.
‘I understand,’ Viv said and Jasmine realised that he really did understand her.
‘Thanks.’ Jasmine returned to her bedroom and completed chucking bits and pieces into her case. Then she reached to the top of the wardrobe and drew down one of the wigs that rested on a stand. It was the chestnut brown, shoulder length one. In the summer it was too hot to wear but now in November it shouldn’t be too bad unless she got really hot on the dancefloor. She and Angela used to enjoy dancing everything from the Macarena to the Dougie on their evenings out. Viv preferred Caribbean calypsos and reggae but she hoped to get him on a dancefloor sometime soon.
She tugged the wig onto her head and looked in the mirror. It looked like what it was – a middle range, artificial head of hair; natural enough at a glance but not if someone looked close. That would be fine for a weekend amongst men similarly coiffured but it wasn’t a look she liked for her normal life as a woman. She sighed, picked up her case and returned to the living room.
‘The car will be here in ten minutes, Jas,’ Viv said. Jasmine looked at her watch. She should be at the hotel by soon after ten; not too late to meet some, if not all, the Belles. ‘Are you going dressed like that?’ he went on.
Jasmine looked down at herself. What was wrong with the orange jumper, brown cord skirt and boots she had been wearing all day? ‘Do I look awful?’
‘You look lovely,’ Viv said, ‘for a pretty woman who has been at work all day.’
‘Well?’ Jasmine was confused.
‘Isn’t Sindy supposed to be a cross-dresser eager to have the opportunity to go out as a woman for a whole weekend?’
‘Um, yes,’ Jasmine wondered where Viv was going.
‘Well, wouldn’t she be dressed a bit, kind of, special?’
Jasmine considered. Viv was right. When she had been an occasional dresser, perhaps going out for an evening with Angela, she liked to dress up a bit.
‘Hmm. You’re right, but Sindy has had to travel from Hastings, by train. She wouldn’t want to stand out so much that people read her.’ She rushed back into the bedroom, dragging the jumper over her head, dislodging her wig. She pulled off her boots, tugged her skirt down her thighs and rolled the dull, brown tights down her legs. The wardrobe was opened again and she sighed with exasperation at her choice of clothes but she quickly made her selection.
She heard a car horn sound in the carpark as she emerged into the living room a few minutes later.
‘The taxi’s here,’ Viv said, letting the curtain drop across the window. He turned to look at her. ‘That’s more like it. You look like you’re heading to a party. More bling, more showy.’
‘And chillier,’ Jasmine added, reaching for her duffle coat. She wrapped the coat around the sparkly blue dress she usually kept for summer, but her legs in their sheer tights were exposed and she anticipated a cold draught up her thighs when she tottered outside on her navy blue high-heels. At least the wig would keep her head warm.
Viv held his arms wide. ‘Give us a cuddle, before you go. I was hoping for more time for this over the weekend.’
Jasmine joyfully stepped into his arms. ‘I’m sorry Viv. That dinner was wonderful. I’m sorry I’ve got to go.’
‘Well, you look after yourself. Don’t take any risks with this killer whoever it is; and, if you get a moment give some thought to my suggestion.’
‘Suggestion?’ Jasmine was unsure what he meant.
‘House-sharing?’
Jasmine gasped. How could she have forgotten? ‘Of course. Yes, I will.’
9
Jasmine twisted, putting her feet on the tarmac and pushed herself out of the taxi and upright. Her left foot slipped nearly turning her ankle. She put a hand on the car door to steady herself. My feet are going to be in agony after a weekend in heels, she thought. The driver placed her case at her side and she handed him the notes she had been holding in her hand. He smiled and wished her a pleasant night. The large tip had made up for the short distance from her flat. He drove off as she took her first unsteady steps towards the entrance of the Ashmore Lodge Hotel. She told herself that she really must practise walking in high heels more often so that she was ready for occasions like this.
Despite being after ten-thirty the reception area was still brightly lit and as Jasmine stepped through the doors the muffled noise of the disco came to her, supplemented by cheers and hoots of laughter. The Butterflies weekend was obviously getting off to an enthusiastic start.
She approached the desk where the receptionist was watching her intently. She’s examining and judging me, Jasmine thought. She put a bit of swing into her steps so that the open duffle coat swung, revealing her short, glittery dress and silky smooth thighs.
The young woman greeted her. ‘Miss Stratford? Welcome to Ashmore Lodge.’
‘Thank you. You know that I have a booking?’
‘That’s right. You weren’t on my original list but I understand that was a mistake and you are the last guest we expect tonight. We have a room ready for you. Kennet Wing room 2.1. That’s on the first floor that way.’ She pointed in the direction where there was a sign saying Kennet Lounge and Bar. The girl’s efficiency impressed Jasmine and she wondered if the members of the Wedding Belles would be so welcoming and prepared for her.
‘Thank you.’ Jasmine repeated, taking the card offered to her and filling in her name. She remembered to write Sindy Stratford and gave the address of the house in Hastings she had been brought up in.
A new burst of laughter came from the other side of the wall behind the desk and Jasmine observed, ‘The girls seem to be having fun.’
‘Oh, yes. They’re enjoying themselves, despite the incident.’
‘Incident?’
The girl bit her lip, regretting her comment, ‘One of the guests passed away earlier.’
Jasmine tried to act as if she was shocked. Her undercover guise would be blown from the start if she behaved as if she knew about Vokins’ death already.
‘Oh, that’s awful,’ she said. ‘I don’t suppose it was anyone I know. This is the first time I’ve been to one of these, ah, conventions.’
‘It was Mr Vokins,’ the girl said, visibly relaxing as if pleased to find someone she could gossip with. ‘You might know him as he is, oh dear, was, the organiser of the Wedding Belles event.’
Now, Jasmine knew she had to appear shocked. ‘Mr Vokins! But I only had a message from him yesterday. I was late applying and he made a special effort to find a place for me.’ Jasmine hoped that her story might help explain why she was left off the original booking lists. ‘How did he die?’ She added.
The receptionist dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘Well, I don’t know the full story, but the police think he committed suicide.’
‘Suicide!’ Jasmine gasped. ‘Whatever could have caused him to do that?’
‘That’s what everyone is asking,’ the girl said as another burst of noise emerged from the ballroom when the door opened.
‘They seem to be coping with the shock, though,’ Jasmine said, seeing that a matronly figure in a ball gown was approaching her. Jasmine recognised Belinda and struggled not to show it.
‘Ah, you must be Sindy,’ Belinda, said reaching out her hand. Jasmine took it and shook it in a ladylike fashion. ‘You’re our last guest to arrive but you’re not too late to join in the fun this evening.’ Jasmine was impressed with Belinda’s act, treating her as a new acquaintance.
‘Thank you, but…’
‘You’d like to get settled in your room. I understand. Can I show you to it?’
‘Thank you, uh…?’
‘I’m Belinda.’ Belinda reached down to take hold of Jasmine’s case while Jasmine took the keycard from the receptionist. ‘This way.’ Belinda added.
Jasmine mouthed a thank you to the receptionist and followed Beli
nda to the lift. As the doors closed on them Belinda leaned towards her and spoke conspiratorially.
‘It’s lovely to see you again, Jasmine. A pity it’s because Valerie has been murdered.’
‘You’d better not say that, Belinda. It’s a suicide, remember.’
Belinda, tapped her nose. ‘Oh, of course. We must stick to the story.’
‘Yes, and I must get used to being called Sindy so please don’t call me Jasmine.’
Belinda nodded vigorously as the lift stopped and the doors opened. They stepped out into the corridor. ‘Yours is the first room. Here.’ Belinda said as she stopped by the door marked 2.1
‘I gather it was your room. I’m sorry you had to give it up.’
‘Oh, no problem. Susan and I are quite comfortable in the manager’s apartment. I’ll leave you to get settled. Do you need to eat? I’m sure room service can find you something.’
‘No, I’m fine. I had dinner earlier.’
‘Oh, good. Well, if you’re not too tired after your journey perhaps you’ll join me and the girls down in the ballroom.’
‘I’ve only had a short taxi ride, Belinda.’
Belinda looked surprised. ‘Oh, silly me. I was getting muddled. You haven’t actually had a long journey have you.’
‘No, Belinda, but we’d better stop talking as if we know each other. From now on I’m Sindy from Hastings, and this is my first time at a TV weekend. Actually, it is my first time.’
Belinda giggled. ‘Oh, yes, of course. Come and find me when you come down and I’ll introduce you to Petula.’
‘Petula?’
‘Petula Edwards. She’s in charge of the Belles now that Valerie has gone.’
‘Oh, yes. I’d like to meet her.’
‘See you soon then.’ Belinda departed towards the lift and Jasmine held her key to the lock. There was a clunk and she pushed the door open. The room was comfortable, if not large. There was a double bed and the usual tables and a wardrobe. Jasmine took off her duffle coat; the hotel heating was making her feel overwarm. She sat on the edge of the bed.
What was she doing here? Trying to find a murderer was the simple answer, but how? Did Tom expect her to unmask Vokins’ killer simply by chatting to her fellow convention goers? Well, the answer to that was yes, he did, but she would have to do more than ask questions; she would have to get to know these people, the Wedding Belles, get their trust and find a way of tricking the killer into a confession. To do that she would have to make her presence felt, be the life and soul of the party, the one that they would confide in to reveal their secret thoughts.
She sighed and slumped. That wasn’t her at all. Oh, in the old days, she or rather, he, James, and Angela could clear a dance floor, but since her transition she tried to avoid being a centre of attention. Nevertheless, it had to be done. It was her job. At least it seemed that there would be plenty of opportunities to dance by the sound of the disco, the bass thump of which even penetrated up here to the bedrooms. She had better get down to work and join Belinda and the rest of the “girls”. First though she must unpack the precious wedding dress.
She stood up and lifted the case on to the bed, opened it and took out the white dress in its transparent, plastic wrapper. It still seemed a fantasy that she would be wearing it tomorrow. She hung it in the wardrobe, out of sight, along with the salmon pink wedding guest outfit and the other clothes she had thought to bring. Her underwear she scooped up in her arms and dumped in a drawer at the bottom of the wardrobe. Wash bag, makeup bag and various tubes and cartons she placed on the bedside table. She noticed her packet of hormone tablets amongst the pile. Those ought to be hidden, she thought. Someone searching her room might become suspicious finding her with feminisation tablets when she was supposed to be just a cross-dresser. On the other hand, making someone suspicious might lead them to reveal themselves…
Jasmine held her head. This undercover work confused her. Breaking into rooms to carry out searches only happened in spy movies. She was on the hunt of someone who was in all probability an inexperienced murderer. There wouldn’t be any of the cloak and dagger stuff.
She dropped the packet into a drawer, picked up her bag and went into the bathroom. In the bright light she examined her face in the mirror. The tingling from the electrolysis had subsided to a dull soreness but the unshaved stubble on her upper lip still worried her. A dab of powder did little to soothe her anxiety but she had to admit that most of her face looked smooth. At least the ballroom would be dark.
Back in the bedroom she picked up her keycard and her bag and headed to the door.
10
The full eardrum-bursting pressure of the disco music hit her as Jasmine pushed the door to the ballroom open. It had been months since she had last had her ears assaulted by dance music at high volume. The air felt warm and damp, heated by the sweating bodies, and there was an odour of over-used perfumes mixing and fighting with each other. Coloured lights barely lit the room, flashing and flickering and moving across the walls and ceiling and other surfaces. Nevertheless, she was able to make out about a dozen large, circular tables covered with white cloths. The tables were largely empty but for bottles and glasses, and few of the seats around them were occupied. Most of the diners were in the gyrating, po-going mass of dancers clustered in front of a low stage in a space empty of tables that took up approximately a quarter of the room. On the stage the DJ, behind his console and surrounded by stacked speakers, was urging the dancers on. They looked to be exclusively women, in ball gowns and cocktail dresses of various styles, but, of course, Jasmine knew them to be largely cross-dressers with a smattering of real women. She wondered how they kept up the high-energy dancing since many were middle-aged or, like Belinda, in their seventies.
Thinking of Belinda, Jasmine noticed her sitting at the nearest table. Jasmine approached. Belinda didn’t register her presence until Jasmine was standing beside her.
Jasmine could hardly make out Belinda’s shouted greeting. ‘Oh, there you are, uh, Sindy. Come and join the fun. Have a glass of wine – red or white?’ She reached for a glass in the middle of the table, presumably a clean one, at least Jasmine hoped so.
Jasmine bent to speak into Belinda’s ear. She still had to shout. ‘White, thanks. Where is Petula? Perhaps I should say hello?’
Belinda’s head swivelled as she looked around the ballroom. She pointed to a table across the other side of the room. ‘There’s Sally,’ she shouted, ‘over there in the wheelchair. I’ll take you over and introduce you.’ She poured a generous volume of white wine into the glass, passed it to Jasmine then stood up. Jasmine managed a mouthful of warm wine before her other hand was taken by Belinda and she was led around the tables to her destination.
The figure in the wheelchair was a small, shrunken creature but was dressed in an ankle length, pale blue evening gown with matching, pretty, high-heeled sandals on her feet. Her thin, white hair was carefully combed. She looked up as Belinda and Jasmine arrived. Belinda bent down and bellowed.
‘This is Sindy. She’s a new member of the Belles. She’d like to say hello.’
The woman smiled but made no attempt to reply. Jasmine crouched down so that her head was level with Sally’s.
‘Hello Sally. How do you do?’ she shouted. Sally smiled again and pointed to the chair beside her. Jasmine took the hint, pulled the chair closer and sat down. Belinda went off towards the heaving crowd of dancers. Soon she had merged with the chaotically moving bodies. Jasmine realised that it was impossible to have a conversation with the wheelchair-bound woman as she obviously did not have enough power in her voice to make herself heard above the music. Jasmine sat with her, watching the dancers as one rhythm heavy tune segued into another. As Jasmine sipped her wine she saw a feminine character moving towards them. She too was in a full length, sleeveless, ball gown but hers was a shimmering bronze and she wore a shoulder length blonde wig. She approached the table and held out her hand to Jasmine. Jasmine took it and felt a limp g
rip.
The woman leaned towards her and shouted. ‘Hello, I’m Petula. I need to get Sally upstairs.’
She bent down to touch heads with Sally and they exchanged some words that Jasmine could not hear, then Petula stood up and manoeuvred the wheel chair away from the table. Petula beckoned Jasmine to follow.
The emerged into the foyer, and Jasmine had a proper view of Petula. Her face was slick with sweat and her mascara had smudged. The ball dress was stretched tightly over her stomach but otherwise fitted well. Jasmine judged that it had been made to measure some years ago.
‘That’s better. I can hear myself think now,’ Petula said in a bass voice. ‘So you’re Sindy Stratford.’
Jasmine nodded. ‘That’s right.’
‘I had no idea you were booked until Belinda told me this evening.’
‘I arranged it with Valerie Vokins, a day or two ago,’ Jasmine explained.
Petula’s dark eyebrows rose. ‘That recently? I’m surprised Valerie allowed you to join us. The closing date for bookings was weeks ago. Valerie was a stickler for procedures and deadlines.’
Some special wheedling was needed. ‘I had to plead with her. I really wanted to come but it’s my first time.’
Petula shrugged as if it was mystery for which she had no explanation. ‘Well, it’s quite unlike Valerie.’
‘I’m surprised she didn’t tell you.’
Petula sniffed. ‘Well, Valerie sometimes failed to keep me fully informed of arrangements she had made.’
‘Perhaps she meant to tell you this afternoon.’
‘Perhaps…’ Petula’s voice tailed off as if she did not know what to say.
Jasmine tried a bit of interrogative digging. ‘I heard that Valerie had died. That must have been a shock to you, sharing in the organisation.’
Petula appeared uncertain. Did she want to talk about the events that occurred or did she want to hide her involvement? ‘It was. Valerie’s death was, um, unexpected.’
‘I gather she committed suicide.’
‘So, I’m told.’
