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

them. Or maybe he was doing it deliberately. Spike had been known to bite the hand that fed him, so why should I be surprised if he tried to trip the owner of that hand?
    “Someone get Spike out of the way,” I said as I waddled over to the doorway to greet our guest. Or maybe I should drag Mendoza inside—why were they keeping an elderly visitor standing on the front porch so long? Did they want him to get pneumonia?
    Just then the door opened with a burst of arctic air, and Señor Mendoza limped in, leaning heavily on a walking stick and bundled in a thick overcoat that was clearly intended for a much taller man—the hem dragged along the floor behind him. He was about five foot four, though he might have been taller if he weren’t so stooped. He had a wild mane of white hair, a ragged white beard, and an irrepressible twinkle in his eyes.
    He also reeked of tobacco, which probably explained what he’d been doing outside—having one last smoke before entering the house.
    “Welcome to America!” he exclaimed, waving his stick in the air. “I am Ignacio Mendoza! Happy to meet you!”
    Michael followed Señor Mendoza in, helped him out of the overcoat and hung it on one of the coatracks, all the while making conversation in rapid-fire Spanish.
    I gazed at my husband in envy. At the moment, I could thinkof two Spanish words—
adiós
and
arriba
. Neither of them seemed even slightly apropos, so I worked on smiling in a welcoming fashion.
    Then I recognized another phrase—
mi esposa
. Michael must be introducing me. I held out my hand.
    Señor Mendoza lunged forward, grasped my hand, and thumped my belly several times.
    The twins resented it. Someone should explain to strangers that it was rude to tickle babies before they were born.
    “Sorry,” I said, wrestling my hand free and taking a step back. “But Butch and Sundance aren’t up to shaking hands yet.”
    Actually, Butch might be trying to—he was squirming around with great enthusiasm. Sundance merely began the steady, rhythmic kicking he resorted to whenever Butch annoyed him. Why couldn’t they wait until they were out in the world before beginning their sibling squabbles?
    Michael stepped up and treated Señor Mendoza to a few more paragraphs of Spanish. I hoped he was explaining that while he was happy to welcome such a distinguished guest to his humble home, the guest should damn well keep his hands off the lady of the house. Whatever he said made Señor Mendoza beam at me with great approval.
    “Meg!” my grandfather said, as he burst through the door with another blast of cold air. “This is going to be such fun. Nacio’s going to make paella. And he’s brought his guitar—did you know he’s an expert flamenco player?”
    Nacio? Must be Mendoza’s nickname. Short for Ignacio, Isupposed. Were they old friends or had they hit it off instantly? Either way, it was cause for alarm, given my grandfather’s penchant for trouble.
    And then the other part of his statement hit me: paella. A dish that normally contained copious amounts of seafood. No one in my family ever remembered my allergy to crustaceans and shellfish, so why should I expect them to believe that ever since I’d become pregnant, the mere smell nauseated me? I’d be avoiding the kitchen for a while.
    And was there any hope that someone could convince him to play quiet, subdued, soothing flamenco music? Or was that an oxymoron?
    Everybody seemed to be looking expectantly at me. Had I zoned out again and missed a question? I blinked, hoping someone would enlighten me. No one did.
    The only creature in the hallway not staring expectantly at me was Spike, who was sniffing suspiciously at Señor Mendoza’s shoes. To my horror, he uttered the briefest of growls before sinking his teeth into the playwright’s left ankle.
    Everyone was horrified except Mendoza.
    “
Que diablito!
” He picked Spike up, not seeming to mind getting nipped in the process, and held him up at eye level. “What a ferocious watchdog!”
    Spike was squirming madly. I wasn’t sure whether he was uncomfortable or just frantic to get out of the playwright’s grip so he could counterattack. Luckily Mendoza seemed to have a good hold on him.
    And some of my linguistic ability surged back.
    “
Chien mechant,
” I said finally, hoping my memory was working, and I had just called Spike a bad dog. “
Et maintenant, je dois dormir
.”
    Never before had news of an impending nap been greeted with such