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

entourage followed.
    “It’s got cribs,” I said, pulling my feet back to make sure the twins and I weren’t jostled. “Cribs, a table for changing them, and a couple of chests for the clothes and diapers and stuff.”
    “The cribs don’t even match,” Mother said, in a tone that suggested that I was on the verge of committing child abuse.
    “They don’t need to match,” I said. “Jeeves and Wooster won’t—they’re fraternal. And I don’t think it’s a bad idea to have different cribs for the kids. Help them establish their independent identities from the start.”
    “Matching doesn’t mean the cribs have to be identical,” Mother said. “Matching means they coordinate. Look well together.”
    “Look like you didn’t just buy them from the thrift shop,” Mrs. Fenniman put in, with her usual tact.
    “We didn’t buy them in a thrift shop,” I said. “They were gifts.”
    “Hand-me-downs,” Mother said, with a sniff, as if to imply that hand-me-downs were not suitable for her grandchildren-to-be.
    “And I’m not sure I approve of any decorating that requires a construction crew,” I said. “No offense intended,” I added to Randall.
    “None taken,” he said. “We’re just here for the papering and painting and such.”
    Michael and I exchanged a look. Michael recognized the pleading in my eyes. I didn’t want to deal with Mother.
    “Why don’t you show me what you have in mind?” Michael stepped forward and offered Mother his arm. “I don’t thinkMeg has the energy to make decisions. And I have some pretty definite ideas about what we do and don’t want for the nursery. Nothing frilly for example, in case they’re boys.”
    “They can find that out these days, you know,” Randall said. “They can do a test to find out whether you’ve got boys, or girls, or a mixed set.”
    “Meg and Michael have decided they want to be surprised, the old-fashioned way,” Mother said. From the tone in her voice, you’d have thought she had agreed with us all along, instead of arguing with us for months. Probably, as I now realized, because it made her surprise decorating scheme more difficult.
    “You’ll have to evict Art and Abe from the nursery, then,” I said. “Maybe they can have their meeting in our bedroom—it’s about the only empty room I can think of.”
    “I’ll take care of it,” Michael said. “I’ll let you know what I think of the plan after I’ve reviewed it.”
    He led the caravan upstairs. When they were out of sight, I closed my eyes and realized I had to go to the bathroom again. And as long as I was getting up, maybe I should see if Rob had recruited my tame hacker. Yes, that was the ticket. I’d visit the refugee computer science students in the basement. Art’s and Abe’s arrival had given me a new burst of energy, and I thought I could handle the stairs.
    I passed through the kitchen on my way to the basement. Normally the kitchen would be alive with students reading lines to each other, debating the merits of the latest movies to hit town, and arguing over such timeless philosophical questions as whether killing another human being was ever justified andwho was funnier, the Marx Brothers or the Three Stooges. And after Señor Mendoza’s arrival, the kitchen had temporarily become a nonstop party. But the arrival of the prunes had cast a pall over the proceedings. Instead of the impromptu flamenco band, a single student sat in one corner, fingering soft, melancholy blues chords on his guitar. A few students sat in twos or threes, talking in undertones. Even Rose Noire seemed preoccupied as she listlessly stirred something on the stove.
    Luckily she was too preoccupied to notice me or she’d have tried to keep me from climbing down to the basement. I slipped through the door, closed it behind me, and carefully began descending the stairs.

Chapter 8
     
    I heard melodramatic music coming from somewhere down in the basement.
    “What is the name of this monster?” a tinny-sounding voice said.
    “Godzilla.”
    More melodramatic music, followed abruptly by the loud music and louder voices of a commercial so familiar and annoying that I wanted to throw something at the TV every time I heard it. Clearly, at least some of the interns shared Rob’s eccentric taste in cinema. The commercial continued as I slowly descended, and the volume was up so high that I doubted anyone would hear me coming. I was surprised I hadn’t heard it up in the kitchen.