Death in an Ivory Tower (Dotsy Lamb Travel Mysteries) by Maria Hudgins Page B
Authors: Maria Hudgins
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sometimes take a tour or a cruise, but this summer was different.
I had known since March that I was to accompany Larry Roberts to Oxford for this conference. Lettie had no plans to come with me until her daughter, Lindsey, accepted an offer to work at Oxford’s highly respected Radcliffe Hospital in a doctor exchange program with her own hospital back home. Lindsey and her husband are separated, soon to be divorced, and the battle between them has been bitter the last few months. Lettie has called me nearly every night to unload her burden. She takes on her children’s troubles as if they were her own. Her main concern in this matter—and my own, too—is that the young ones be spared the ugliness. Claire, seven, and Caleb, five, obviously had to come to Oxford with Lindsey, but Taylor, the soon-to-be-ex, raised a stink, claiming she couldn’t take them out of the country. Their lawyers went toe-to-toe, and Lindsey won when her lawyer produced photos showing details of the lifestyle to which the children would be exposed if they stayed with their father.
This presented another problem: What to do with the kids while Lindsey was working at the hospital? She knew nothing about sitters or day care here, and was reluctant to leave them with strangers. Lettie came to her rescue by offering to come over and babysit. As luck would have it, I had already booked a room at St. Ormond’s for this conference and knew that they rented vacant dorm rooms in the summer on a B&B basis as well.
Lettie had been here for two weeks before Larry and I arrived so she was already an old hand at getting around in Oxford. She usually took a bus, sometimes a cab, between the college and Lindsey’s flat. I told her she’d be better off to lease a car, but she reminded me that, since her unfortunate entanglement with a yield sign in Scotland, she’d sworn off driving in any country that drove on the left side of the road.
Lettie was breathing loudly as she undressed, the way she does when there’s something on her mind and she needs to talk about it. I had something I needed to talk about as well but I decided to let her unload first, as my news would probably take longer.
Lettie answered my question about the children. “Lindsey’s taking the day off so she’s with the kids. She got home at five-thirty this morning.” My friend looked at me with her head lowered, the way she would do if she were looking over the tops of her glasses but she didn’t wear glasses.
“Out with her new friend?”
“Right. I spent most of the night planning what I was going to say to her, but when she finally came wandering in, sneaking in, like she didn’t think I’d hear her—I lost my nerve. I didn’t say anything.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because there’s something wrong.”
“What?”
“I don’t know, but I got the feeling that if I said anything it would be the wrong thing. You know what I mean?”
“Are you hungry? Have you eaten today?”
“I’ve done nothing but eat. Nervous snacking. I ate a whole box of yogurt-covered pretzels. What I need is sleep.”
“I’ll let you sleep, but first I have to tell you what happened to the man in room four.”
“The big man with the long braid?”
“You saw him?”
“He and this woman—girl—heavy,” Lettie said, puffing her cheeks out, “were carrying their bags in yesterday as I was leaving. We nodded to each other, but I didn’t really meet them.”
“What was your first impression?”
“They looked like escapees from Woodstock, nineteen sixty-nine.”
I laughed, and then told her my story. Meanwhile Lettie donned her nightshirt, smeared green goo all over her face, crawled between the covers of her little bed, and propped her pillow behind her head. At first she was aiming to get rid of me, but became engrossed as I gabbed on, telling her about the state of Bram’s room and about my misgivings. As I wrapped up my story, Lettie was sitting, cross-legged and
I had known since March that I was to accompany Larry Roberts to Oxford for this conference. Lettie had no plans to come with me until her daughter, Lindsey, accepted an offer to work at Oxford’s highly respected Radcliffe Hospital in a doctor exchange program with her own hospital back home. Lindsey and her husband are separated, soon to be divorced, and the battle between them has been bitter the last few months. Lettie has called me nearly every night to unload her burden. She takes on her children’s troubles as if they were her own. Her main concern in this matter—and my own, too—is that the young ones be spared the ugliness. Claire, seven, and Caleb, five, obviously had to come to Oxford with Lindsey, but Taylor, the soon-to-be-ex, raised a stink, claiming she couldn’t take them out of the country. Their lawyers went toe-to-toe, and Lindsey won when her lawyer produced photos showing details of the lifestyle to which the children would be exposed if they stayed with their father.
This presented another problem: What to do with the kids while Lindsey was working at the hospital? She knew nothing about sitters or day care here, and was reluctant to leave them with strangers. Lettie came to her rescue by offering to come over and babysit. As luck would have it, I had already booked a room at St. Ormond’s for this conference and knew that they rented vacant dorm rooms in the summer on a B&B basis as well.
Lettie had been here for two weeks before Larry and I arrived so she was already an old hand at getting around in Oxford. She usually took a bus, sometimes a cab, between the college and Lindsey’s flat. I told her she’d be better off to lease a car, but she reminded me that, since her unfortunate entanglement with a yield sign in Scotland, she’d sworn off driving in any country that drove on the left side of the road.
Lettie was breathing loudly as she undressed, the way she does when there’s something on her mind and she needs to talk about it. I had something I needed to talk about as well but I decided to let her unload first, as my news would probably take longer.
Lettie answered my question about the children. “Lindsey’s taking the day off so she’s with the kids. She got home at five-thirty this morning.” My friend looked at me with her head lowered, the way she would do if she were looking over the tops of her glasses but she didn’t wear glasses.
“Out with her new friend?”
“Right. I spent most of the night planning what I was going to say to her, but when she finally came wandering in, sneaking in, like she didn’t think I’d hear her—I lost my nerve. I didn’t say anything.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because there’s something wrong.”
“What?”
“I don’t know, but I got the feeling that if I said anything it would be the wrong thing. You know what I mean?”
“Are you hungry? Have you eaten today?”
“I’ve done nothing but eat. Nervous snacking. I ate a whole box of yogurt-covered pretzels. What I need is sleep.”
“I’ll let you sleep, but first I have to tell you what happened to the man in room four.”
“The big man with the long braid?”
“You saw him?”
“He and this woman—girl—heavy,” Lettie said, puffing her cheeks out, “were carrying their bags in yesterday as I was leaving. We nodded to each other, but I didn’t really meet them.”
“What was your first impression?”
“They looked like escapees from Woodstock, nineteen sixty-nine.”
I laughed, and then told her my story. Meanwhile Lettie donned her nightshirt, smeared green goo all over her face, crawled between the covers of her little bed, and propped her pillow behind her head. At first she was aiming to get rid of me, but became engrossed as I gabbed on, telling her about the state of Bram’s room and about my misgivings. As I wrapped up my story, Lettie was sitting, cross-legged and
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