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seem to.”
    Light from the dashboard let me see Cookie push at her shortish gray hair, then see her thin hand fall to her lap. “It’s that time of year,” I said. If you can’t make interesting conversation, that’s no reason not to make inane remarks. “There’s a flu thing going around.” There always was, if you looked hard enough.
    “Yes, I’ve heard that.” Cookie sighed and I felt, more than saw, her relax into a slouch. Which was unusual since Cookie had been raised in the era of good posture makes for good girls. “I’m sure that’s it.”
    Since I couldn’t think of anything else to say, I kept quiet and reflected that this was always the case regarding conversations with Cookie. Once she’d finished whatever banking transaction I’d slid over to her, we had nothing left to say. She didn’t read, didn’t follow sports, not even the Green Bay Packers, didn’t attend church, didn’t garden. I wasn’t sure what she did in her spare time. Maybe she cooked. Or knitted.
    I was busy envisioning every shelf in Cookie’s house crowded with adorable knitted animals when she said, “Beth, I’ve been meaning to talk to you for some time.”
    “You . . . have?” I tried to the keep the surprise out of my voice, but I was pretty sure I hadn’t done a very good job.
    “It’s all those murders you’ve solved.”
    I stifled a sigh. For a number of odd reasons, I’d made contributions to tracking down a number of killers, and each time I’d vowed it would never happen again. Too dangerous and too stupid. That’s why we had law enforcement. They hadn’t needed my help then and they wouldn’t in the future.
    What Cookie probably wanted to know was one of three questions people typically asked me about those experiences. One: had I been scared? Absolutely. Two: what did a dead person look like? Sorry, but that’s something I try not to remember. Three: were they going to make a movie about my life? Not a chance. But if they did, I’d like Sandra Bullock to play me.
    “Don’t you think,” Cookie went on, “that the punishment doesn’t always match the crime?”
    “Excuse me?”
    “I mean, if someone kills someone, premeditated, in cold blood, shouldn’t they be killed, too? Isn’t that the fair thing?”
    “Um . . .” Getting into an argument about capital punishment was not high on my list of things to do with good friends and relatives, let alone with someone I barely knew.
    “I know life isn’t fair,” she went on, “but shouldn’t we be trying to make sure life is as fair as we can make it?”
    “That’s a good point,” I said, trying to find a comfortable fence to sit on. “My children are always telling me what’s fair and what isn’t.”
    “Yes, I knew you’d agree,” she said with satisfaction.
    I hadn’t, not exactly. Not at all, in fact, but since there is a strong tendency among humans to believe what they want to believe, I decided not to fight this particular battle. Skirmish. Whatever it was.
    “I’m glad we had this talk, Beth,” Cookie said. “My mind is at ease now, truly.”
    Fever, I figured. She was probably running a slight temperature and it was steering her to say things that didn’t make a lot of sense. “We’ll get you home in a jiffy,” I told her. “Do you need anything? Aspirin?”
    “Don’t you worry about me,” she said. “I have everything I need.”
    Soon, we pulled into her driveway. I steadied her as we tromped through the thin snow to the back door, asked if she needed me to help her to bed, was told no, waited until the kitchen light went on, and went back to my warm car.
    I drove home and didn’t even once worry about Cookie.
    •   •   •
     
    The next morning I was in the store kitchenette making the first crucial decision of the day—Earl Grey or Irish Breakfast Blend—when the phone rang. Lois snatched it up before I even turned my head.
    “Good morning, Children’s Bookshelf . . . Yes, she is. One