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

said.
    “Oh,” Rose Noire said. “Well, that’s nice.” She hurried off. I gathered from her tone that either she’d met The Face before or she remembered some of our stories about him.
    Her lack of enthusiasm seemed to take all the starch out of Blanco. His shoulders slumped and he seemed smaller and not nearly as imposing.
    “He’s coming out to see the rehearsal,” Blanco said. “So he can judge for himself what action to take.”
    He sounded anxious. No wonder. He’d lost a staunch ally in Dr. Wright. He’d spent the day with people who obviously wouldn’t mourn if he met the same fate. And now his boss was coming, no doubt to take personal charge of a matter that Blanco thought he was being allowed to handle. To my astonishment, I found myself feeling sorry for him.
    “I’ve got to get things ready!” Blanco exclaimed, and dashed out.
    “Meg, dear.” Mother appeared in front of me. “What was Dr. Blanco so upset about?”
    “I think he was excited, not upset,” I said. “The Fa—the college president is coming to see the rehearsal. Damn. I should go back in to make sure he finds his way out here.”
    “Surely he’ll see the lights coming from the backyard and realize that everyone is out here in the barn,” Mother said.
    “I doubt it,” I said. “In fact, unless Dr. Blanco stations himselfin the hallway awaiting his arrival, The Face will probably just stand there ringing the doorbell until someone hears him. Or until he gets tired, after an hour or so, and goes home puzzled and insulted. And possibly with frostbite in his fingers and toes.”
    Mother gave me a sharp look, realized I wasn’t kidding, and closed her eyes. Counting to ten before saying anything, no doubt. I’d learned the habit from her. Though I doubted I’d ever master the air with which she did it, as if bearing up nobly in spite of almost overwhelming trials. When I counted to ten, I usually just looked cross.
    “Then we must station someone to make sure he’s let in promptly and brought back here where he can enjoy the buffet,” she said.
    “I suppose I can do it,” I said. “Just let me finish this.”
    “Rose Noire can do it,” Mother said. “It will be more restful for her.”
    I followed Mother’s eyes. Yes, Rose Noire was probably overdoing it. Had probably been overdoing it ever since the students arrived, trying her best to see that our guests were well cared for. Now she seemed to be speeding around the barn on hyperdrive, darting into one of the sardana circles, then dashing out to wait on someone before dashing back and dancing frantically, as if to catch up.
    I’d have been overdoing it myself if I hadn’t had the twins to slow me down and remind me that the students weren’t our guests, they were temporary fellow residents. And Rose Noire was probably driving herself even harder today out of guilt at bringing Tawaret into our lives.
    I should have seen that. I put down my plate and began gathering myself to rise.
    “Sit down,” Mother said. “I’ll tell her.”
    “I’m not going in to welcome The Face,” I said. “It’s getting near my bedtime. Don’t let Rose Noire know you’re doing it for her own good.”
    “I will convince her that making the president feel welcome is of the utmost importance.” Mother strode off with her head held high.
    “It very well might be,” I muttered.
    I put down my plate and made my way to the barn door. I had to go the long way around, skirting the edge of the dance floor. On my way past the buffet I snagged an empty Tupperware container and filled it with a few delicacies for later.
    Then I donned my hat, gloves, and scarf and went to haul the barn door open far enough for me to slip out. And then a little farther, since I realized I hadn’t allowed for how big Tom and Jerry had become.
    It was fully dark now. I pulled out my cell phone and glanced at it. 5:30. Early for me to go to bed, but this had been a long day.
    I stepped outside.
    “Meg! Where are you going?”
    Michael appeared in the doorway.
    “I’ll be fine,” I said. “Close the door, quick. You’re letting all the heat out.”
    “There’s no real heat in here,” Michael said. “It’s just not quite as frigid as outdoors.”
    “You’re letting out all the not-quite-frigid air, then,” I said.
    “I’ll make sure you get safely back,” he said. He pulled the door shut after him and held out his arm to steady me.
    The air had grown much colder, or perhaps it was