She was right. I knew she was right. Even still, it was hard to think that the bookmobile would be fine without me. And then I realized something not so terribly profound. It was better if the bookmobile could go on without Ms. Minnie. Way better. What if I wasn’t paying enough attention when crossing the street and got whacked by a truck? Or needed a leave of absence to take care of my mom or dad, post-surgery? I should be pleased that there were qualified and trusted people to take over the bookmobile’s operations.

“Okay,” I said. “I will. Bye, Eddie Freddie. Be as good a boy as you can.”

“Say good-bye to your mom, Eddie.”

Since he was a cat, the last thing my fuzzy friend was going to do was respond on cue, so I wasn’t surprised when I heard a very fake “Mrr” from Hunter.

“Lame,” I said, laughing, ended the call, and headed to my office, thinking about the coming day. There were two big things on my to-do list: (1) attending the monthly Friends of the Library meeting, and (2) attending the monthly Friends meeting while keeping a smile on my face throughout.

The second task was far harder than the first, because this year the Friends president was, once again, Denise Slade. For years I’d tried very hard to like the woman. There were lots of reasons to do so; she was smart, was dedicated to the library in general and the Friends in particular, and could always be relied upon to lend a hand any time volunteers were needed.

But there was something about Denise that set my teeth on edge. Polite and professional was my current mantra when dealing with her. We didn’t have to be best buddies, or even friends, after all.

“Polite,” I told myself later that morning as I climbed the stairs. The book sale room the Friends ran was on the second floor, and holding the meetings was a simple matter of setting up a couple of folding rectangular tables and rearranging a few chairs. “Professional,” I murmured, walking into the room.

“Talking to yourself again?” Denise laughed. Loudly. “Isn’t that the first sign of insanity?” she asked as she pushed the last chair into place.

I smiled. Politely. “How are you this morning?”

Denise, a stocky woman with short and tidy brown hair, rolled her eyes. “It’s April in northern Michigan. Too warm for ice fishing, too cold for boating. How do you think I am?”

I’d had no idea Denise fished. I sort of remembered that her late husband had been interested in fishing and hunting, but that was about it. “Well, time will take care of that problem,” I said calmly. And politely.

“You know what other problem time will take care of?” she asked. “Your director.”

“Graydon?”