Femme Noir by Clara Nipper

possibly a deranged psychopath who was murdered for her trouble.
    I finished my cigarette, finally turning on the a/c. Not feeling sad anymore, but tall and clear, I drove to the church.
    What happened to you, Michelle? I thought. I arrived at the church and was startled by the presence of several news crews in the parking lot, but then realized this might be a big local story. I took the program an usher handed me. I was early enough to get a back-row seat. I was the most recent lover, usually a position of honor at the front and carefully tended by hovering grief divas, but Michelle was an ex and there had been no time to achieve peace and no one here knew me anyway. This was not Michelle’s and my shared community.
    It was a large Christian church of some kind; I paid no attention to what kind. Methodist, Sloane had said, whatever that meant. To me, organized religion was for fools. This church was a glorious, tremendous tribute to the Lord that wealthy white men built. The church was so big, in fact, that I knew they would never fill it for the likes of Michelle. A celebrity, maybe. Perhaps I should move up twenty or thirty rows. How did a little town like Tulsa support a church of this size? It was fearsome and oh, so somber. Someone played tastefully on the enormous pipe organ that was raised above it all at the front of the church. At least for the time being, the press was respectful enough to remain outside. Or they were kept out, as I remembered the rumored wealth and assumed there to be a matching power of the family.
    I looked at the program: Michelle Wilson McKerr, born June 10, died July 23. Services: July 30, three o’clock at Main Street Methodist Church. I tried to swallow the pincushion of shock at seeing these words. These words in print, in black and white that Michelle was no more. This was it. This was real. I needed so many drinks, I vowed I would actually buy cigarettes after the funeral and get poisonously drunk and then flee this town as fast as I could as soon as I was sober enough to return the rental car. Forget all the mysteries, forget Max, forget Michelle, forget all this trouble and grief.
    “I need to play ball,” I whispered fiercely.
    Movement caught my eye. Max came in, looking tragically beautiful and fetching in gray. Very nice, I thought, forgetting just as quickly about leaving town. Very tasteful of her to attend and to wear gray, not black. A gesture of respect to be here, yet she had nothing to mourn, so no black. Let the family wear black if they would. Max’s riotous raven red hair was pinned in a French twist and her dress was high-collared and form-fitting like a military uniform. One strand of pearls lay on her chest and she wore sensible flats. But for all that, to me, she just looked like a naughty librarian with breakaway clothing that could only disguise her temporarily before her true sensual ripeness came busting out.
    I pictured that, smiling a little. Hairpins flying, buttons popping, zipper ripping, nylons slipping, and there was my fragrant Oklahoma peach.
    Someone I didn’t know escorted Max to her seat and I felt indignant. I saw Sloane bringing up the rear, wearing sunglasses. I decided to sit next to her and so unfolded my big body out of the pew and greeted her. She gave me the butch nod and we traded handshakes. She was sitting in the row directly behind Max and whomever, which suited me just fine. Once settled, over the throbbing, melodramatic strains of “How Great Thou Art,” I whispered to Sloane, “Who’s that?” and pointed discreetly at Max’s companion.
    Sloane, who hadn’t removed her sunglasses, leaned close to hear me, her black leather pants squeaking agreeably. As an answer, she shrugged, shook her head, and put a finger to her lips. Offended at the implied scolding, I withdrew. Max’s neck was right in front of me, her silken white skin begging for a mere brush of my fingers. I imagined how startling yet perfect my dark hand on her