Free Death in a Funhouse Mirror by Kate Flora

weekend."
    "Sometimes you are so weird. What time?"
    I looked at the clock. "Quarter of eight?"
    "You're on. Hope you don't mind pale green."
    "Suzanne, you never wear green."
    "I don't mean my clothes. I mean my skin. Paul's out with some of his friends tonight, celebrating the end of his single state. So I'm supposed to be out with a bevy of my girlfriends, doing the same. Only I don't have a bevy of girlfriends. Been too busy working. Paul's sister called and asked if I wanted to get together, but she's so serious. Can you imagine spending the evening in an earnest discussion of the best reference books on the blended family, or what Consumer Reports recommends in vacuum cleaners? Well, neither can I. See you there." She hung up.
    I imagined her dashing around her neat, feminine bedroom, pulling on some perfectly coordinated casual outfit in sandwashed silk. Suzanne likes clothes. I, on the other hand, mostly wear them for the sake of decency, except for things I like a lot, which I wear to death. Most of them have come from Suzanne, my personal shopper. She spots them when she's shopping, buys them, and leaves them on my desk with little notes. If I like them, I keep them and write her a check, otherwise she returns them.
    But this was no time for daydreaming, not if I wanted to get to Monty's on time. I grabbed an emerald green shirt and my favorite jeans, stuck my feet into some green flats, and went into the bathroom to check my hair. Not spectacular. I looked like me. That would have to do. I found my purse and was looking for my keys when the phone rang again. This time it was Eve.
    She sounded exhausted. "Sorry I was such a beast yesterday. It must have been the shock." Her words came with difficulty. "I sound weird," she said. "I know. I've been on the phone all afternoon. Helene's funeral is on Tuesday. I was hoping you'd go with me."
    Surely even those who didn't want me to get involved would agree I ought to go to the funeral. "Of course, Eve. What time? Shall I pick you up?"
    "I'd like that," she said, "if you don't mind. The service is at two-thirty, so maybe around two?"
    "Two is fine. I'll see you then. Call me sooner if you need me." I hung up the phone, scooped up the keys, which were hiding behind the malevolent ceramic cat on my sideboard, and went out.
    It was still light, and the clear mild air was scented with salt. I drove with the window down and the sunroof open. It didn't matter if the wind messed up my hair, my hair is chronically a mess. Untamed hair. My mother used to try to impose order on it, forcing it into braids so tight I could barely blink my eyes. I suffered for a while until I figured out that I could unbraid it as soon as I got to school. She had untamed hair herself, so she believed me when I told her that the braids had come undone when I was jumping rope. I complain about my hair a lot but the truth is that I like it. Back when I was a kid, I read in some romantic trash book that a woman's crowning glory is her hair. That's how I feel about mine. I could cut it short and it would be neat and manageable, but I like the mass of it, its wildness, the feel of it on my bare shoulders.
    As I got away from the sea, the air smelled of flowers, damp earth and fresh cut grass. Everyone seemed to be outside weeding, mowing, planting or just savoring the last of the day. On the radio, Jackson Browne sang over a swirl of guitars and piano, wanting me to "Stay," but I had places to go. I put the pedal down and my turbo engine responded with a burst of speed. As I skimmed along the highway, everyone seemed to be smiling. Balmy weather does that. It's hard to be grumpy in May. I hoped the weather would work a little magic for poor Suzanne.
    The parking lot at Monty's was jammed. The lines at the takeout window were impressive, and the picnic tables that looked over the salt marsh were crowded. I wasn't the only one who had longed for clams. I beat out a slower car for the last parking spot,