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

laughter and enthusiasm, so I was more convinced than ever that I’d mistranslated. Time enough later to worry about it. At least Señor Mendoza, after chuckling, tucked Spike under one arm, and kissed my hand. Then he followed my grandfather to the kitchen, still carrying Spike.
    I ignored the chuckles and cries of “
Brava!
” as I shuffled upstairs.
    It wasn’t till I was curling up in bed, trying to find a position that was comfortable for me and my two passengers, that I realized I’d spoken in French rather than Spanish.
    Ah, well. Maybe they’d think I’d done it on purpose. Catalonia was on the border with France, wasn’t it? Or was it on the border with Portugal?
    Normally I’d have fretted about this for hours while tossing and turning, but instead I fell asleep while trying to remember.

Chapter 3
     
    It was darker when I woke up. Had I slept till nightfall? Had I missed hearing that we were having a storm?
    No, someone had tiptoed in while I was asleep and pulled all the blinds. Probably Rose Noire, since I also noticed a thermal mug on the bedside table. Another infusion of some obscure, healthy, herbal tea whose very smell would set my stomach churning. In the morning, the mug might contain a yogurt smoothie so laced with vitamins, supplements, and herbs that it had the same unsettling effect on my stomach. But luckily, in the afternoons the offerings were almost always herbal teas. I had to walk all the way to the bathroom to dump the smoothies, but unloading the teas was easier.
    I shuffled to the windowsill with the mug and held my breath as I opened the top and poured the contents into the dirt around one of the potted plants. The Boston fern this time. The spider plant and the English ivy were looking distinctly unhealthy. Difficult to say whether this was due to some toxic effect from their daily doses of herbal teas, or whether they merely resented having their roots repeatedly scalded with hot liquid. The Boston fern, on the other hand, was thriving. Wasthis because it liked the herbal brews, or had I not been giving it as much as the others?
    “Sorry,” I said to the Boston fern. “But better you than me.”
    I allowed myself a moment of guilt about pouring out yet another well-intended offering from my cousin. I would be the first to admit that she had been immensely helpful throughout my pregnancy. And especially during the last two months, when she had waited on me hand and foot and enabled me to get the all-important rest my doctor recommended. I knew that the closer I could get to full term, the better it would be for Kirk and Spock, and whenever people congratulated me on how long I’d lasted, I gave full credit to Rose Noire. And it probably was just a coincidence that my morning sickness had finally ended the week I’d stopped trying to drink all her herbal offerings. She meant well.
    I just sometimes wished she had an off switch.
    I checked the clock. I’d been asleep less than an hour. Par for the course. These days I could nod off sitting up, but Boris and Natasha never let me sleep for long. They weren’t even born yet, and already I was stumbling around in a constant state of sleep deprivation.
    Time to see what was going on downstairs. Apologize to my houseguest—my latest houseguest—for my abrupt disappearance.
    After a brief detour to the bathroom, I opened the bedroom door and almost keeled over at the strong, nauseating smell that permeated the hall outside.
    Most people would have found the smell delectable, I suspected. As I leaned against the wall, patting P and non-P with one hand, I tried to untangle the components. Garlic, of course. Along with hypersensitivity to smell, my stomach’s sudden hostility to garlic had been one of the first clues that I might be pregnant. I hoped neither was permanent. Along with the garlic I detected a rich potpourri of unfamiliar spices—unfamiliar and, at least for the moment, unappetizing. And, of course, an almost tangible reek of seafood.
    Normally I merely found the smell of seafood distasteful. Now I wondered what would happen if my allergy worsened so the mere smell triggered a reaction. I’d ask Dad. Get him to give me an EpiPen, or if they weren’t allowed during pregnancy, get him to enforce a total ban on seafood cooking for the rest of Señor Mendoza’s visit. I sighed. That certainly wouldn’t make me popular.
    Along with the smells, sounds were drifting upstairs. I could hear the rise and fall of