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

“These days, we both carry our cell phones twenty-four/seven.”
    “Let’s go upstairs and let her make her call,” Abe said. He was patting Art’s shoulder in a reassuring manner. I found myself wondering how Art had survived his own children’s births if the mere possibility that I might be going into labor unnerved him so much. I made a mental note to ask his wife one of these days.
    They trooped upstairs. Abe seemed to take the stairs well enough, but Art lagged a little. Was he still worrying about me, or was he feeling unwell? He’d come through heart surgery last year just fine, but everyone was trying not to put too much stress on him. Everyone in the drama department, that is. I felt a sharp surge of anger and resentment against Drs. Wright and Blanco for causing Michael and his closest colleagues so many headaches. If they were fretting Art into some kind of stress-related medical problem . . .
    Nothing I could do about it now. Except maybe ask Dad to take a look at him. But first, they had to have their conference.
    A wave of tiredness washed over me. I could remember days when I’d have dashed out to the kitchen in a few seconds, but right now I felt too exhausted to stand up. I leaned back in my chair and called Michael.
    “Meg?” he said. “Where are you?”
    “Just out here in the hall,” I said. “Art and Abe have arrived and they’re upstairs in the nursery, since at the moment it’s probably the only empty room in the house. Apart from our bedroom, of course, where I’m planning to take a nap before too long.”
    “Great,” he said. “I’ll be right there.”
    “By the way, did you know we have displaced programmers in the basement?” I asked.
    “Is that something like carpenter ants?”
    “No, it’s more like I was so focused on the drama students occupying our extra bedrooms and living room, I never even noticed we had a whole extra colony of guests underground.”
    “Oh, Rob’s people.” Michael was standing in front of me now, so we both shut off our phones. “Yes, I found out about them a week ago. I chewed Rob out for not asking, then told him that under the circumstances, it was fine if they stayed. Should I have told you? I didn’t want to worry you.”
    “No, it’s fine,” I said. “Maybe even useful.”
    “Do you want me to bring you another chair?” he asked. “Something more comfortable?”
    “Nothing’s all that comfortable right now, and I like this one. I can get out of it when I want to. Art and Abe are waiting.”
    “Just rest there, then.” He planted a kiss on the top of my head and began galloping up the stairs, two steps at a time.
    I leaned back. Maybe I’d rest for a few moments and then go up and join them. Or go out to the kitchen to check on events there.
    The doorbell rang again.
    “This is ridiculous,” I said.
    Michael came running back down the stairs.
    “Stay put,” he called. “I’ll get it. I thought you said you let them in and sent them up to the nursery.”
    “I did,” I said. “This must be someone else. Our lives are starting to resemble that scene in the Marx Brothers movie—you know the one where they have fifteen people in the ship’s cabin?”
    “
A Night at the Opera
. Good practice—when the kiddies arrive they’ll be a crowd all by themselves. Oh, hello,” he said as he opened the door. “Meg, it’s your mother.”
    “Surprise!” Mother trilled.
    Mother and her best friend and usual co-conspirator, Mrs. Fenniman, sailed into the foyer. Both of them were carrying bolts of fabric in shades of lavender and green. Behind them, I could see a small party of workmen carrying tool kits and lumber.
    I had a bad feeling about this.
    “Hello, dear,” Mother said. “We’ve come to decorate your nursery.”
    She and Mrs. Fenniman both flourished their fabric bolts.
    “Decorate the nursery?” I said, blinking with surprise. “It’s already decorated.”
    Behind Mother, the workmen shuffled from foot to foot and looked sheepish. I recognized the tall, lean form of Randall Shiffley, owner of the Shiffley Construction Company. The other two workmen, equally tall and lean, were probably two of his many cousins. No wonder they looked sheepish. Randall and the rest of the Shiffleys should know by now how I felt about my mother’s kamikaze decorating attacks.
    “Meg, darling, it’s not decorated. It’s barely furnished.” Mother kissed my cheek as she strolled past me toward the staircase. Her