Stork Raving Mad: A Meg Langslow Mystery (A Meg Lanslow Mystery)

fetch cleaning supplies.
    “Look!” Michael said, pointing. “It’s one of the digitalis pills!”
    “I’ll take your word for it,” I said. Its brief stay in Spike’s stomach had not improved the smell of the sardine.
    “Do you think he swallowed any more?” a student asked.
    “I doubt he could have swallowed any long ago enough for them to make it out of the stomach and into the intestines,” Dad said, peering over Michael’s shoulder. “Too fast. Which is a lucky thing, because if he had, he’d be in bad shape. Meg, are you all right?”
    “I will be if someone will take those sardines away,” I said.
    “I’ll give them to Spike,” Rose Noire said, as she continued mopping the table. “Poor sick little doggie!”
    “No, they’ll only make him sicker,” I said. “And he wouldn’t be sick if he hadn’t stupidly gobbled up Señor Mendoza’s heart medicine. Get his crate; we’ll need to keep an eye on him, and we don’t dare let him out until we’ve picked up all the pills.”
    “I’ll do it,” Rose Noire said.
    “No, we should have him checked out a little more carefully,”Dad said. “I’ll take him—I’m sure Clarence can work him in. Just call my iPhone if you need me.”
    Dad tucked Spike under one arm and hurried out. I felt relieved, not only because Spike was going to see the vet—I could stop worrying about him—but also because I knew Dad wouldn’t be going anywhere if he thought his human patients needed observation.
    And maybe Clarence would insist on keeping Spike overnight. That thought made me downright cheerful.
    “Okay, Dad’s got Spike,” I said. “We need to put Professors Wright and Blanco someplace. I was thinking the library, although that would delay Ramon’s next rehearsal.”
    “I think it will have to be the library,” Rose Noire said. I sighed. Normally I loved even the thought of our library. Having a whole room devoted to books and reading had always been my idea of ultimate luxury. And ours, which a previous owner had built as a ballroom, was large enough to hold any amount of books Michael and I could ever imagine accumulating. But so far, it only held half a dozen Ikea shelves and a lot of book boxes, and even those were now completely hidden by an ocean of clutter. The drama students had been using our library as their common room and rehearsal hall. In addition to Ramon’s props and costumes, it was filled with piles of books, papers, CDs, pizza boxes, soda cans, coffee mugs, and stray items of clothing. Not a sight I relished showing to unfriendly eyes. But I couldn’t think of an alternative.
    “The library it is, then,” I said. “Rose Noire, could you show Professor Wright there? I think Professor Blanco wanted someprivacy to make phone calls, so perhaps someone could show him to my office.”
    “I’ll take care of him,” Probable Alice said.
    “No problem,” Rose Noire said. “Alice and I will take care of everything.”
    Neither of them seemed to notice the demotion I’d given the prunes.
    “Make sure the door to Michael’s office is still locked,” I told Rose Noire in an undertone. “And the doors between his office and the library. And—”
    “Of course,” she said, and hurried toward the door to the hall.
    I didn’t have to give Alice any instructions about my office because anything sensitive or valuable had already been locked up months ago, when I got too large to get near my anvil and had to put my blacksmithing business on hold for the balance of my pregnancy.
    “And you might open the French doors to the sunporch and crack a few of the jalousies,” I called after Rose Noire. “A little ventilation would be nice. She’s wearing gallons of some ghastly perfume that makes me sneeze.”
    “The library will be freezing if I do that!” Rose Noire protested.
    “True,” I said.
    “We’ll give it a good airing as soon as she leaves,” Michael said.
    “Good idea,” I said as Rose Noire tripped away. “Michael, can we talk for a moment?”
    I indicated the pantry and Michael followed me in.
    Of course, so did the smell of the sardines, mingling with the remnants of the paella. In the small space of the pantry, the odors seemed more overwhelming.
    “We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” he said. And then he noticed my face and scrambled to find something on the shelves.
    “Here.” He twisted open the top of a little jar of stick cinnamon and handed it to me.
    “You’re a mind reader,” I