Femme Noir by Clara Nipper

could share a ride to the funeral.”
    “Oh, I’ve already promised Sloane,” I lied.
    Cool silence. “Sloane? Sloane Weatherly? Not a good idea, but whatever. Café Kokopelli is at Thirty-fifth and Peoria. Can you find it or should we pick you up? I’ll be in the BMW.”
    “No, no, I can find it. Is it near Swan Lake?”
    Darcy paused meaningfully. “It can be if you like.”
    “I’ll find it, don’t worry,” I said hastily. “See you there at one o’clock.” I laid out my funeral clothes, put on baggy shorts and T-shirt and headed out.
    I reached my rental car and there was heavy moisture and condensation clouding the windows. I had missed the fog as it had gathered during the night and spread through the streets, touching everything before it melted. I snapped on the air conditioner and turned on the wipers. I drove to the bookstore, which was midtown and close to Max’s. I had to exert all my will not to dump the game plan and just drive over to Swan Lake, bust in on Max, and roll all over her, tangling both of us in body-warm bedsheets, laughing, breathless, rubbing skins. I was home at last. Later, I promised myself. Later.
    The bookstore was in part of an old foundry that had been lovingly restored and that had kept the original exterior. There were spectacular oak and sweet cherry trees all around the building. Their leaves were turning brittle and yellow and falling into heaps on the sidewalk. The ornamental lawn was crisp. Some marigolds in boxes were the only plants thriving. The foundry had been converted to shops. I went inside. It was a huge space, nicely cool and dim. I heard the phone ringing insistently over the New Age music. All I could see were bookshelves. Hundreds of them. Mismatched and packed to bulging. The smell of incense was overpowering.
    “Look out!” A woman whizzed by on Rollerblades and stopped at one of the phones. She wore a tiny gauzy skirt and a tight half shirt. She had short straight brown hair, closely cropped. She had tattoos on her arms, her legs, and her belly. She wore fifteen rings on each hand, five earrings, and a navel ring. “Light and Love,” she snapped, thoroughly put out. “Yes, I do readings over the phone, but I can’t right now, I’m swamped. You need to call back either after I’ve closed or before I open tomorrow.” She hung up.
    The phone rang. I stood next to a shelf that was labeled “Ouspensky and Gurdjieff.” I was fascinated and wanted to watch. I noticed the heads of many other browsers among the shelves.
    “Light and Love,” the woman barked. “Yeah, we have the Ephemeris. What year and type? Uh-huh. Rosicrucian? Yeah, we have that. Until nine p.m.” She glided to a customer service area that was in the center of the enormous room and raised three steps. She went up and sat on a stool. “Bear, are you still here?” She was exasperated.
    “I told you, Amber,” a man whined. My look sharpened. Bingo. That was the woman. “I’m dating a faerie. Is that weird?”
    “No, we’ve all done that a time or two, am I right? But I can’t help you.”
    “Don’t you have anything? Any book about this that would show me where her head is at? I need to get into her headspace.”
    “Well, I know an alien abductee you could talk to.”
    “Whoa.” Bear laughed, holding up his hands. “That’s a trip.”
    “Other than that I don’t know. Like I said, the faerie section is over there. Everything we have about faeries, headspace and otherwise, will be there.” She pointed and added, “Perhaps a therapist could help more.”
    A woman approached the counter and held something out to Amber. “Can I use black tourmaline for anger?”
    “You bet.”
    “But what about for creativity?” she persisted. Bear wandered off to thumb through the faerie section again.
    “For creativity, you want this,” Amber said, handing the woman a stone. “Tiger eye. They also come in blue, but those are rare. This will work fine.”
    A large golden