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

little larger. Right now we sell out every show, but there aren’t enough seats to cover expenses. With a bigger theater—which we’ll never get as long as we’re in the English department—that could change.”
    “You could earn enough to pay for a new theater?” I asked.
    “We could probably find a donor for the theater, and earn enough to cover ongoing expenses,” he said. “At least that’s what Abe thinks—he’s the closest thing we have to an expert on practical stuff like budget.”
    “But getting back to the English department—if you’re such a drain on their budget, why wouldn’t they be happy to see you go?”
    “Because then we’d be yet another department competing with them in the college budget process,” Michael said. “And they’re afraid we’re cool enough to wow the budget committee into giving us more than our share.”
    “You are,” I said.
    He smiled faintly and shook his head. I didn’t think he was disagreeing with me, just feeling bone weary of cutthroat academic politics.
    “But all that can wait,” he said. “Right now, I should have a talk with Ramon. See how bad things are.”
    He tossed the zucchini on the counter and turned toward the door.
    “I’ll make sure the prunes are out of the way,” I said.
    He helped me up from the stepladder and we slipped out of the pantry.
    Out in the kitchen, groups of students were talking in small huddles.
    I glanced out one of the back windows. Señor Mendoza was smoking a cigarette and deep in conversation with my grandfather. I tried not to worry about this.
    My grandfather gestured, and the two of them strode off. Heading for the front porch, no doubt. Most of the student smokers had long ago figured out that the front porch was a lot more sheltered than the backyard, and they were even nice enough to stick to the far end.
    I scowled at the barn. The thought of Blanco occupying my office annoyed me no end. And just for good measure, I scowled to the left, in the general direction of the library wing, although I couldn’t really see it—just a corner of the sunporch on the far end.
    And then one of the twins gave a small kick, and I realized how silly I looked, scowling at invisible menaces. I patted them and turned back to tackle whatever was coming next. I saw Rose Noire was standing at the stove, holding a plate and scowling as darkly as I had been.
    “What’s wrong?” I asked her.
    “That woman,” she said.
    “Dr. Wright?”
    “I have never met anyone with such negative energy.”
    “Neither have I,” I said.
    “Her aura is dark brown, almost black,” Rose Noire said.
    I could see a couple of the students gawking at the statement, but I’d become used to Rose Noire’s apparent ability to assess people’s auras as easily as their wardrobes.
    “A person with an aura like that is capable of . . . well, anything,” Rose Noire continued. “Even murder.”
    To say nothing of murdering the careers of Michael and his poor grad student.
    “And do you know what she did?” Rose Noire went on.
    I shook my head.
    “She requested—no, demanded—that I bring her tea and toast. ‘And don’t let it steep too long’,” Rose Noire said, in a fair imitation of Dr. Wright’s precise, supercilious voice. “ ‘And be sure to bring it while it’s still hot. And be careful not to burn the toast.’ The nerve of some people. I was about to ask if she wanted anything—she didn’t have to be so . . . so . . . Oh!”
    The toast popped out of the toaster, startling her. Rose Noire arranged the slices on a plate, then placed the plate neatly on a small tray already loaded with a teacup and saucer, a spoon, a sugar bowl, a tray of lemons, a butter dish, a marmalade jar, a butter knife, and a lacy starched napkin. I wondered if the elegant tray was intended to improve Dr. Wright’s aura or her mood, or whether Rose Noire was simply incapable of being as rude as I would have been to our guest.
    “I’d have showed her the way to the kitchen and let her make her own weak tea and pale toast,” I said.
    “But then we’d all have to put up with her here,” Rose Noiresaid. “Her and her negative energy. I already need to do a cleansing in the house as soon as she leaves.”
    “While you’re at it, have the place fumigated,” I said, blowing my nose. “That perfume of hers is driving me bonkers.”
    “Some sort of ghastly artificial scent, no doubt,” Rose Noire said. “An essential oil would never