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

murder weapon.”
    “You’re sure?” the chief said.
    “Reasonably sure,” Horace said.
    “We’ll know more at the autopsy, of course,” Dad said. “But I think the evidence is fairly conclusive.”
    “I thought you found strands of her hair on the hippo, and the dent in her head matches the thing’s snout,” the chief said. “If she wasn’t hit over the head with it—”
    “She was,” Horace said. “But that’s not what killed her. She was already dead when the blow was struck. No bleeding.”
    “Exactly,” Dad said. “It could be a natural death, but more likely she was poisoned. You might want to secure the kitchen.”
    Bad news for the paella makers. The chief pulled out his cell phone again.
    “What was she eating?” he asked, as he pushed one of his speed-dial numbers.
    “Weak tea,” I said. “And lightly buttered toast. You might want to see if Rose Noire took the same thing to the other prune.”
    “The other what?” the chief said, frowning.
    Oops. Better not explain. I’d just let him try to figure out if he’d misheard or I’d misspoke.
    “The other professor,” I said. “Dr. Blanco, the one who came with Dr. Wright. I could be wrong, but I think they both ordered weak tea and toast.”
    “And prunes?” the chief asked.
    “I don’t know,” I said, wincing. “Ask Rose Noire.”
    “Great,” the chief said. “Which reminds me—Dr. Langslow, the mayor sends his regards and asks if you’ll fill in as acting medical examiner while Smoot’s away.”
    “Shouldn’t that be acting acting medical examiner?” I said. “Since Smoot—never mind.”
    The chief was glowering at me.
    “Splendid,” Dad said.
    “So carry on, and keep me posted,” the chief said. “One other thing—”
    Dad and Horace both paused in the doorway and looked back expectantly.
    “We don’t tell anyone about this,” the chief said. “ApparentlyDr. Blake has already spread the word that she died from being hit over the head. So let’s leave it that way. Let everybody think that’s what we think.”
    “To weed out false confessions,” Dad said, nodding vigorously.
    “And to create a false impression of security in our killer,” the chief said. “If he doesn’t know we know about the poison, maybe he’ll think he’s got plenty of time to dispose of the evidence. So don’t say anything to anyone about poison. What should we say she died of?”
    “Blunt force trauma to the upper right portion of the occipital bone,” Dad said.
    “Too specific,” the chief said.
    “I’m the one most people are going to be interrogating,” I said. “How about if I just say it looked to me as if she was hit on the back of the head with something.”
    “That’s probably best,” the chief said. “Holding back information is one thing; deliberately spreading inaccurate information might be counterproductive.”
    “All right.” Dad sounded disappointed. “I’d better get back to my examination.”
    He and Horace popped back into the library.
    “There’s also the fact that anyone with half a brain could figure out that he’s lying,” the chief said.
    “Yes,” I said. “Dad’s enthusiasm for intrigue far exceeds his acting skills.”
    “I hope he’s not going to sulk about it,” the chief said.
    “He is,” I said. “But only for about five minutes. And I see your point. After all, if someone saw someone else deliberately putting poison in her tea—oh, my God!”
    “What?” the chief asked.
    “Señor Mendoza’s heart medicine. Did I mention that?”
    “No,” the chief said.
    “Of course I didn’t,” I said. “Because I thought she was killed with a blunt instrument. But now that we know she might have been poisoned—”
    “Just tell me about the blamed heart medicine,” the chief said.
    “He spilled it,” I said. “He handed the pill bottle to a student to open, and suddenly there were little white pills all over the foyer floor. And people crawling around everywhere picking them up.”
    “When you say people, you mean all those . . . potential suspects sitting around in your kitchen?”
    “Most of them,” I said. “I don’t think Art and Abe were here yet, or Mother and the Shiffleys.”
    The chief scribbled in his notebook.
    “Of course, that doesn’t mean there weren’t still pills lying around when they got here,” I said. “Señor Mendoza didn’t seem at all worried about getting them all back. That’s why Dad was at the vet, incidentally;