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

me,” she said. As well as crying, she was quite literally wringing her hands. I stared at them in fascination, since I couldn’t recall ever seeing anyone actually do that in real life before.
    “Why should they?” I asked as I stared at her writhing fingers. “What did you do?”
    “Nothing!” she exclaimed. “But they’re going to find my fingerprints on the statue. The one of the lady hippo goddess.”
    “Tawaret,” I said.
    “You mean the murder weapon?” Kathy asked.
    Alice nodded. I suppressed the urge to tell her to relax, that Tawaret wasn’t the murder weapon after all.
    “Why will your fingerprints be on it?” I asked instead.
    “I took it to the library,” she said. “Remember? You came downstairs carrying it and handed to me and told me to put it on a shelf in the library. You do remember, don’t you?”
    She’d stopped wringing her hands and was now torturing one long, trailing lock of her red hair. If she kept on like that she’d be bald by morning.
    “That’s right,” I said. “I remember.” Actually, I didn’t specifically remember her—I’d been relieved that Kathy had used her name so I didn’t have to think of it. But I did remember handing off Tawaret to a student. I had a vague recollection of the hippo goddess floating off beneath a cloud of red hair, so it probably was her. “Okay, your fingerprints will be on it, but so will mine, and Rose Noire’s, and who knows how many other curious people who picked it up to look at it.”
    “I can’t imagine why anyone would want to pick it up,” she said, with a shudder. “And—”
    She broke off and jammed the end of the hair lock in her mouth.
    “Stop that,” I said, slapping her hand slightly. She looked startled and pulled the hair out.
    “Yeah, ease off on the hair, Alice,” Kathy said. “Bronwyn doesn’t need a bald understudy.”
    “Oh, you’re Bronwyn’s understudy?” I asked.
    “That’s right,” she said. “Of course, you wouldn’t know that since Bron hasn’t missed a single damned rehearsal yet. If she broke a leg, she’d talk Ramon into letting her do the play in a wheelchair.”
    “You never know,” I said. If Bronwyn turned out to be the killer, Ramon would need Alice. Then again, if Ramon also got arrested . . .
    “So your fingerprints are on the statue,” I said aloud. “That’s easily explained. Why would the chief jump to the conclusion that you killed her?”
    “Because everyone knew how much I hated her,” the girl said, burying her face in her hands. “I got the part of Ophelia in the studio production of
Hamlet
last fall, and she took it away from me.”
    “Took it away from you? I didn’t realize she had any influence over casting department shows.”
    “She doesn’t,” Kathy said. “But you can’t appear in a show if you’re on academic probation.”
    “And she flunked me,” Alice said. “The witch. Claimed I didn’t turn in a paper on time, and it’s a lie. She lost it—maybe deliberately. But of course, I can’t prove that.”
    “How sure are you that you turned in the paper?” I asked.
    “Positive,” she said. “I even turned it in a week early. As soon as the cast list went up on Friday and I knew I’d be doing Ophelia, I wanted to clear out everything else so I could just concentrate on the play.”
    “Very commendable,” I said. I suspected the not unearned reputation drama students had for disorganization stemmed at least partly from the long hours they put in on shows. That and their belief that organization was boring and uncreative.
    “So I spent the whole weekend in the library working on my paper for Dr. Wright.” Her hands were still now, clasped infront of her, and she held her head high. She was acting, I realized. Of course, that didn’t necessarily mean she was lying, only that she’d probably told this story many times.
    “Monday morning, as soon as I finished typing it, I went down to Dunsany Hall to put it in her box,” she went on. “And I ran into her there. It was before six, but she was already there, drinking tea and staring at something on the bulletin board. She said, ‘You’re up uncharacteristically early’—I guess she noticed I didn’t always get there by nine, when the class started.”
    “Nine’s early for drama department people,” I said. I’d come to hate the semesters when Michael’s schedule called for him to teach a morning class.
    “I told her I wasn’t up early, I’d stayed up late