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

said, holding the jar to my nose. “That helps.”
    “The zarzuela’s a little overwhelming,” he said.
    “Zarzuela? I thought that was a kind of theater?”
    “It’s also a kind of Catalan fish stew—sort of like bouillabaisse.”
    I wrinkled my nose at the thought.
    “I thought he was fixing paella.”
    “He’s fixing both.”
    “Yuck.”
    “Just inhale the cinnamon,” Michael said. He unfolded the stepping stool I kept in the pantry to reach the top shelves, and I perched on the seat. “It’s supposed to stimulate the brain.”
    “Brain stimulation’s good,” I said. “Because we need to strategize.”
    “Art and Abe are on their way,” he said. He had closed his eyes and was leaning against the door. “You realize that this could torpedo my bid for tenure.”
    There. One of us had said it aloud. According to all the new age books Rose Noire kept giving me, naming a worry was supposed to help you realize that it wasn’t really as bad as youfeared. But this was every bit that bad. It plopped down and brought our conversation to a dead stop as both of us thought about it.
    “Yes,” I said finally. “But Dr. Wright’s probably already gunning for you. And anyway—can you live with yourself if you don’t at least try to fix things?”
    “No,” he said, without hesitation. “We have to help Ramon. I just wanted to make sure you were okay with it.”
    “I’m fine with it,” I said.
    “And I think Groucho and Harpo would understand,” Michael said.
    “Oh, God,” I said, clutching my belly. “Not Groucho and Harpo!”
    “Why not? I thought you liked the Marx Brothers.”
    “Yes, but there were three of them—don’t forget Chico. Haven’t there been rare cases where people thought they were having twins and ended up with triplets? Don’t jinx us!”
    I began looking around for someplace to put my feet up.
    “Actually, there were five of them—don’t forget Zeppo and Gummo. I’m pretty sure the doctors wouldn’t overlook an extra three.”
    He pulled a twelve-pack of paper towels down from a top shelf and set it where I could use it as a footstool.
    “Thanks,” I said. “And humor me—let’s stick to doubles only.”
    “So Winken and Blinken would be out, too.”
    “Since two of the hyenas at the zoo are already named that, I think not. But we’re wandering. Back to the problem at hand. What do we do?”
    “We can’t just jump in without thinking. We need a plan.”
    And he was probably expecting me to help him formulate the plan. Normally, that was the sort of thing I was good at. Why did this crisis have to hit when I felt as if my brain was full of sludge?
    Just then P squirmed, as if expressing his impatience, and non-P predictably delivered several thumping blows.
    “Settle down and take a nap, kiddies,” I said, patting them. “Mommy needs to think.”
    “More premature labor pains?” Michael asked. I’d been having something called Braxton-Hicks contractions for weeks now. After one late-night visit to the emergency room and several anxious calls to Dad and my ob-gyn, we’d stopped panicking.
    “No,” I said. “Just the kids doing their calisthenics. Just as well, since if I were getting contractions now, they might not be false.”
    Michael’s face took on the anxious look he always got at the thought of me going into labor.
    “And that’s fine,” I reminded him. “Remember, the kids are big and healthy and nearly full term, and at my last appointment, Dr. Waldron said if they came anytime from then on it would be just fine. Though obviously it would be better if Gin and Tonic delayed their arrival until the current crisis is over.”
    Michael took a deep breath.
    “Sorry,” he said. “When the time comes, I will do my best not to behave like a stereotypical new father. And I shouldn’t be putting you under this much pressure right now.”
    “You’re not, the prunes are,” I said. “And remember, a problem shared is a problem halved. Many hands make light work and all that nonsense. So, one plan coming up.”
    I pulled out my notebook-that-tells-me-when-to-breathe, the worn notebook that serves me as a combination to-do list and address book. I started a new page and held my pen poised to begin making notes. Michael smiled, as if he found the appearance of the notebook as reassuring as I did, and took a comfortable position leaning against the pantry counter.
    “So what kind of records do they keep in the English department about