Winnie Lark

I spent thirty-eight years behind the reference desk of a branch library in St. Paul, and I can tell you that people will confess things to a librarian they would never tell a priest. They want a book on divorce, or poisons, or how long a body stays frozen in a lake, and they always say it is for a friend. My sleuth, Dot Engquist, is a retired reference librarian who still cannot walk past a misfiled book. I write on the couch by the front window, with a cup of coffee going cold and my husband Arne asking what is for supper. The answer is usually hotdish.