Stork Raving Mad by Donna Andrews

precedents in history, philosophy, art, and so forth might help.”
    “Gotcha.”
    Michael nodded his agreement.
    “And is there some way we could compile statistics on the percentage of drama department grad students who complete their master’s and doctoral degrees compared with other departments?”
    “The attrition rate.” Michael said, leaning over my shoulder so Kathy could hear him.
    Silence on the other end.
    “Is that not something we can get?” I asked.
    “You need to talk to Abe,” she said. “And Art.”
    “They have attrition statistics?” Michael asked.
    “Some,” she said. “They’ve been working on that as part of their campaign to secede from the English department. We’ve got statistics and they’re not pretty, and the prunes are going to fight like hell to explain them away. But maybe it’s time for the showdown.”
    Michael and I looked at each other. We both knew that the ongoing tension between the drama faculty and certain powerful members of the English department was a volcano waiting to erupt. Was Ramon’s problem going to set off the eruption?
    Michael squared his shoulders.
    “I already called them about an emergency meeting of Ramon’s dissertation committee,” he said to Kathy. “Maybe you could get hold of them and warn them to come armed with the attrition statistics, in case they feel it’s time to use them.”
    “Can do,” Kathy said, and I could hear the tapping of keys. I suspected Kathy had an electronic equivalent of my notebook. “If they’ve already taken off, I can bring the papers out myself.”
    “You’d be more than welcome,” Michael said. “We’ve got heat. And enough paella and sangria to feed the whole college.”
    “I’m already on my way,” Kathy said. “I’ve been getting frostbite over here. Anything else?”
    Michael shook his head.
    “If we think of anything else, we’ll call,” I said.
    “Up the rebels!” she said. “Death to the prunes!”
    And with that she hung up.

Chapter 6
    “I think I feel better already,” I said, as I made a few scribbles in my notebook. “What next? Should we try contacting the Spanish department?”
    “Why?” Michael asked.
    “Maybe we could enlist them to help in the battle?” I asked. “Surely someone there would be insulted at the slight to one of their most notable living dramatists.”
    A slow grin spread over Michael’s face.
    “Mendoza’s not exactly the Spanish Shakespeare,” he said. “More like the Spanish Three Stooges.”
    “Oh, great,” I said. “Your tenure’s on the line for the Spanish equivalent of ‘Nyuck-nyuck-nyuck’.”
    “Or maybe the Spanish Benny Hill,” Michael said. “There’s a lot of mildly suggestive stuff in it—the sort of thing that would amuse a teenage boy. Bathroom humor.”
    “Benny Hill? This isn’t making me feel any better about defending him. Wait—is Mendoza’s play the one where all the actors keep hitting each other over the head with plastic zucchinis?”
    Michael nodded. I closed my eyes and shuddered.
    “They’ll be using real zucchini in the show,” he said. “Andfor tonight’s dress rehearsal. We just wanted to keep the zucchini budget as low as possible. See, we’ve got the real ones all ready.”
    He pointed toward a shelf at the back of the pantry. I craned my neck and saw zucchinis, dozens of them, stacked, row upon row. Their deep-green skins had a curiously menacing sheen, like some kind of sinister organic arsenal.
    Michael must have seen the dismayed look on my face.
    “There’s political content, too,” he said. He leaned over, picked up a zucchini, and began tossing it from hand to hand like a beginning juggler. “All anti-Franco, anti-Fascist stuff. Which means it’s pretty obscure. Although I suppose Blanco and Wright could have picked up on the left-wing, antiauthoritarian tone and disliked that.”
    “That’s assuming they even bothered to read it,” I said. “They could have just said ‘Oops,