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

don’t leave. Normally I’d do it, but I’m a little out of it right now. You take charge. Round everyone up and keep them in the kitchen—most of them are probably hanging out there anyway.”
    “Right,” he said, and stalked back down the hall toward the kitchen.
    I pressed the button to unmute my phone.
    “Sorry, Abe,” I said. “What’s up?”
    “Should I notify the department chair?” he asked. “The death of a member of his department—he’s going to want to know about that.”
    “Especially when it’s murder and most of the suspects are going to be faculty or students in his department,” I said. “But I think maybe the chief would rather break the news.”
    “Are you sure it’s murder?” he asked.
    I closed my eyes for a few moments. Fragments skittered across the inside of my eyeballs. The statue of Tawaret falling from a high shelf—only the shelves were all across the room. Dr. Wright succumbing to a sudden suicidal urge and clubbing herself to death with the statue—also unlikely. I even had a vision, worthy of Rose Noire, of Tawaret coming suddenly to life and leaping onto Dr. Wright’s head.
    “I can’t figure out any way for it not to be murder,” I said aloud. “And that’s going to cause trouble in the department, isn’t it?”
    Abe sighed.
    “I do hope Art and I can alibi each other for the time of death, whenever that turns out to be,” he said.
    “Abe!” Art said.
    “Because the way things have been going in the department, Chief Burke would be a fool if he didn’t put us at the top of his suspect list.”
    Just then I saw the chief’s portly form appear at the other end of the long hallway. Rose Noire was almost running to keep up with him.
    “Speaking of the chief, he’s here now,” I said. “Talk to you later.”
    “Take care of yourself,” Abe said. “You don’t need this right now. And there’s plenty of other people around to handle whatever problems this causes. Just yell if you need help.”
    “Thanks.” I hung up.
    “. . . at the end of the hallway,” Rose Noire was saying. “Meg! Are you all right?”
    “I’m fine,” I said. “Dr. Wright isn’t. Dad’s in there checking to see if she’s really dead,” I added to the chief. “And I put in a call to my cousin Horace. And I sent my grandfather to the kitchen to make sure all your suspects stay put until you’re ready to deal with them.”
    “All my suspects,” he repeated. “So you already know who my potential suspects are?”
    I winced. The chief was touchy about even the suggestion of a civilian interfering with one of his cases. His round, brown face was already creased in the frown he usually wore when investigating a crime.
    “Sorry,” I said. “I should have said ‘everyone who was in the house when this happened.’ Whether they’re suspects or potential witnesses or just people who might get in your way, I figured you wouldn’t want them showing up here. Whatever you want to call them, Grandfather is rounding all of them up in the kitchen.”
    “You keep saying all,” he said. “Just how many people are here at the moment?”
    “Let’s see . . .” I began counting on my fingers, and the chief began scribbling names in his notebook. “Me. Michael. Rose Noire. Mother. Dad. Grandfather. Mrs. Fenniman. Three Shiffleys. Señor Mendoza. Art Sass. Abe Rudmann. Dr. Blanco. Five or six of Rob’s student interns. And an estimated two dozen drama students. Oh, and an unknown number of additional Spanish and drama students who are just visiting to translate and eat paella and join in the party. At least fifty people.”
    The chief had stopped scribbling midway through my listing.By the time I finished, he was staring at me with an expression of dismay.
    “I’m sorry there are so many of them,” I said.
    “Not your fault,” he said. “Any of them with some particular reason to dislike the deceased?”
    “All of them,” I said. “Well, all of them who know her. Dr. Wright is—was—an extremely difficult person.”
    The chief scribbled some notes.
    “Let me take a look at the crime scene,” he said. “Then we can continue this.”
    “Fine,” I said. “By the way, is Scout okay?”
    “Scout?” The chief blinked. He was devoted to his recently adopted hound, and normally would have beamed that I’d asked. But clearly his mind was on the murder. “He’s fine. Why?”
    “Dad mentioned that he’d seen you at the vet’s,” I said. “It only