Death in an Ivory Tower (Dotsy Lamb Travel Mysteries) by Maria Hudgins Page A

him. I remember corresponding with Bram Fitzwaring, but I rather thought he’d already been invited to speak by someone here.”
    “Did you know he was from Glastonbury?”
    “I don’t recall even being curious about exactly where he lived. I assumed he lived in England.”
    Daphne wrung her hands nervously, but said nothing for a minute.
    “How did your husband react when you told him Bram was dead?”
    “Harold takes things like this in stride. He said, ‘Heart attack?’ and I said, ‘They think it was low blood sugar.’” Daphne’s hands worked constantly with the folds in her dress. “Harold is an academic, Dr. Lamb. His head is always busy with things the rest of us will never understand. My sister calls him a genius.”
    “Can you call me Dotsy? I don’t have my PhD yet.”
    “All right.” But she didn’t say call me Daphne, so what was I to do? The British are more formal than we are, but I truly would have felt strange calling this woman who was about ten years younger and six inches shorter than I, Mrs. Wetmore.
    “How long have you and Dr. Wetmore been married?” I realized calling him Dr. Wetmore was laying the groundwork for further confusion.
    “Three years,” she said. “Harold and I were both what you might call late bloomers. Up until the time we met, Harold was totally immersed in his research. He’s written more than thirty papers, and published four books.” Daphne paused while I reacted appropriately to these impressive statistics. “He works closely with archaeologists in this part of the country, because his field is the early kings of Wessex, and so much of what we’re learning now comes from the archaeologists.”
    “Yes. I was a bit surprised at his choice of topic this morning. The Tudor period? But he handled it beautifully.”
    Daphne blushed. “Harold can speak on any period of British history. He’s amazing. My sister calls him Einstein. I’m continually in awe of that brain of his.”
    The porter on duty emerged from his office beside the front gate and trudged toward Staircase Thirteen. I stood as he disappeared into its dark interior. “I bet he’s going up to Mignon’s room. I think I’ll follow him.”
    “Me too,” said Daphne, hurrying to catch up.

C HAPTER F IVE
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    The porter did go to Mignon’s room, but shook his head at Daphne and closed the door behind him. We kept climbing. When we arrived at the landing between rooms four and five, I saw the door to five, Lettie’s door, was open. Lettie sat on the side of her bed, kicking her sandals off with a flourish that sent one of them spinning across the room. Her shirt was partially unbuttoned. “You can come in, but you can’t stay,” she said. “I haven’t had a wink of sleep and I need to take a nap.”
    “Are you all right, Mrs. Osgood?” Daphne’s question was perfunctory. The sort of thing she always asked guests, expecting an affirmative answer. The good hostess. She turned toward Bram’s room, looked down the stairwell, then back at the door to room four, as if she didn’t know where to go or why. “Will you excuse me? I have a million things to do.”
    She disappeared down the stairs.
    “Who’s with the children?” I asked, knowing that Lettie’s daughter worked at the hospital most days while Lettie babysat. I stepped into Lettie’s room and closed the door behind me.
    Lettie Osgood is my oldest and dearest friend. We grew up together, but we now live a hundred miles apart so we see each other only a few times a year. One of those times, for the past several years, has been when we go on vacation together. Lettie’s husband, Ollie, is a building contractor in northern Virginia and he’s busiest in the summer so he can’t take those months off from work. Lettie and I, on the other hand, can. The courses I teach at a small college in Virginia don’t extend through summer session. Lettie is a librarian, and she also finds her summers the easiest time to leave town. We