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

said. “You’ve got a murder. You need the medical examiner.”
    “Acting medical examiner,” the chief corrected. There was no love lost between the two at the best of times. “And he texted me back—is that a verb, texted?”
    “If it isn’t, it will be eventually,” I said. “What did he text—er, say?”
    “That he couldn’t because he was in no this week. What does he mean, ‘in no’? Is that some kind of flippant refusal? Like get lost?”
    “Probably just a typo,” I said. “Maybe he was typing something that began with n-o and hit send before he finished.”
    “Well if that’s the case, he should have sent a follow-up messageto explain,” the chief grumbled. “And he was pretty emphatic. Not just no but NO, in caps.”
    “Oh, he means New Orleans,” I said.
    “Well, how the dickens am I supposed to know that?” the chief said. “And what the devil is he doing there?”
    “Taking that tour of the famous vampire hangouts in New Orleans,” I said. “He’s been talking about doing that for ages. Fictional vampire hangouts, of course,” I added, seeing the chief’s reaction. Chief Burke had little sympathy with his acting medical examiner’s passion for the supernatural.
    “Fine way for a grown man to spend his time,” the chief said. “Not to mention the fact that he’s not around when I need him.”
    “Next time I plan a murder, I’ll make sure he’s on the invitation list,” I murmured.
    “I’ll have to call the mayor and get him to deputize someone again,” he said. “Might as well be your father, if you think he’d be willing.”
    “I’m sure he’d be ecstatic,” I said. “As long as you don’t consider him a suspect.”
    The chief sighed. “No, he’s well alibied,” he said. “We’ve been together down at the vet’s office for most of the last two hours.”
    I was immensely relieved. Dad was an avid reader of mystery books and always loved the idea of being involved in a real-life case, even—or perhaps especially—if he was a suspect. But he could hardly nominate himself as the killer if the chief himself could alibi him.
    The chief punched a few buttons on his cell phone. I closedmy eyes and tried to demonstrate my complete lack of interest in eavesdropping during the chief’s brief conversation with the mayor.
    “Lucky thing, your dad being with me at the vet’s,” the chief said, after he and the mayor had said their goodbyes. “That makes him practically the only person associated with this household who isn’t a suspect.”
    “Including me,” I said.
    “Including you,” he echoed. “Though I have to admit, I can’t help but consider you a long shot.”
    “Because of your profound respect for my character, or because you don’t think a pregnant woman capable of murder?” I asked.
    “Never mind,” he said. “Shall we continue our discussion?”
    “What about Horace?” I asked. “If you’re having Horace do the forensic work—”
    “Horace and Sammy were at the veterinarian’s office with your father and me,” the chief said. “Some fool tourist ran over Sammy’s dog, Hawkeye, this morning. Didn’t even stop to see if the poor beast was all right. Which he will be,” he added, noticing my anxious face. “But it took Doc Clarence an hour and a half of surgery, with your Dad helping out, while Horace and I calmed Sammy down and got a description of the car. Been a lively morning already.”
    “And now this,” I said, shaking my head. “By the way, don’t you want to tell Dad about his temporary appointment?”
    “Good point.” He started to sit up, realized the chair wasn’t about to let him, and then tried again. He managed to leverhimself out, which was more than a lot of people could, but he gave it a thunderous glance once he’d escaped. “Though I don’t know why I bother. He’s been acting as if he already had the job from the moment he arrived on the scene. But still, your father’s—”
    “Chief?”
    Cousin Horace. With Dad right behind him.
    “We have good news, sort of,” Horace said.
    “Sort of?” the chief echoed. He glanced back at the chair, then changed his mind and leaned against the desk.
    “Tawaret didn’t do it.”
    “Tawaret?” the chief asked. He pulled out his notebook and flipped a few pages forward. “Who the hell’s Tawaret?”
    He glared at me, as if rebuking me for leaving out a critical suspect.
    “Meg’s hippopotamus statue,” Horace said. “It wasn’t the