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

habitable. We’ve taken in quite a few students.”
    Neither professor appeared impressed. I’d bet anything there were no unruly students disturbing the pristine academic quiet of their homes.
    “May we speak to Mr. Soto?” Dr. Blanco asked.
    “I’ll see if someone can find him.” I turned and began waddling toward the kitchen, sneezing a few more times as I went.
    “See if someone can find him?” Dr. Wright said. “Don’t you understand the—”
    “I’m sure it’s just a figure of speech,” Dr. Blanco said, in a soothing tone.
    When I opened the door the noise, light, and smells almost overwhelmed me. I grabbed the door frame and closed my eyes for a few moments to fight the dizziness and nausea.
    “Mrs. Waterston!” I felt hands gripping me, and had to fight the impulse to push them away. “Are you all right?”
    “Just tired.” I opened my eyes to find half a dozen solicitous students crowded around me. “Is Ramon here?”
    Ramon emerged from the crowd. His face wore an anxious look that had become habitual over the last few weeks.
    “What’s wrong?” he asked.
    “Nothing that I know of,” I said. “Two professors are here to see you.”
    “Two professors?” From his tone of voice, you’d think I’d said two masked gunmen.
    “Dr. Wright and Dr. Blanco,” I said.
    “Oh, God,” he muttered, and rushed out of the kitchen and into the hall.
    I looked around to see if anyone else had as strong a reaction, but they’d all returned to their conversations.
    Señor Mendoza was standing at the stove, stirring a large pot. Was this some advance prep for the paella, or was he also inflicting a very fishy bouillabaisse on my twitching nose?
    As I was turning to go, Mendoza fished something out of the pot with a slotted spoon.
    “Hey!
Perro!
”
    I heard a familiar gruff bark and looked down to see thatSpike was sitting at Señor Mendoza’s feet, looking up at him with fixed attention.
    Mendoza picked something out of the spoon—some kind of shellfish. My stomach lurched.
    Spike growled softly. A small stream of drool began dripping from his open mouth.
    “Perro! Perro!”
    Mendoza grabbed a dishcloth and waved it in front of Spike like a toreador’s cape. He shook it slightly. Spike growled again and swallowed, never taking his eyes from the dishcloth.
    “Perro!”
Mendoza said again.
    Spike lunged at the dishcloth. Mendoza swept it away in a dramatic arc. Spike braked, turned, and then popped up on his hind feet and whined.
    Mendoza threw his head back with a laugh and tossed something at Spike, who leaped into the air to catch it.
    I was relieved that Mendoza didn’t seem to hold a grudge about Spike biting him.
    Mendoza saw me watching.
    “Oyster?” he asked, holding out the spoon.
    “No thanks,” I said as I ducked out of the kitchen. I wasn’t retreating, of course. I wasn’t sure whether my protective instincts were aroused or my curiosity, but I realized I should follow Ramon back to the front hall. By the time I got there, he was standing in front of the prunes, shifting uneasily from foot to foot.
    “—highly unsatisfactory,” Dr. Wright was saying. “We’ve been trying to reach you for weeks.”
    “Nine days, actually,” Dr. Blanco said.
    Ramon stopped shifting and hunched his shoulders as if expecting a blow. But he didn’t say anything, and the prunes just sat there, waiting.
    I glanced back to see if anyone else was around to help. I saw only one of the women students—the one who had arrived with Ramon. She was watching the scene with a worried frown on her face, but she didn’t seem ready to intervene.
    And someone should.
    “He’s been here for two weeks,” I said. “And working almost full time on his dissertation and his play. Did you leave a message with the drama department secretary?”
    “We e-mailed Mr. Soto,” Dr. Wright said. She turned her frowns on me, and I heard Ramon take a deep breath of relief. “And precisely whom do you mean by the drama department secretary? The last time I checked, the drama curriculum was still under the English department. There is no drama department, and thus no drama department secretary.”
    Her prim, condescending manner set my teeth on edge. And, to my astonishment, I felt some combative, articulate part of my brain wake up for the first time in several months.
    “I do beg your pardon,” I said. “I should not have spoken carelessly. I meant Kathy Borgstrom, of course. As you surely know, she