Read Online Death in an Ivory Tower (Dotsy Lamb Travel Mysteries) by Maria Hudgins - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Maria Hudgins
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nothing better to do this afternoon, and it occurred to me that owners of an occult bookstore or a shop that sold the sort of esoterica Mignon and Bram went in for might know them. They might have connections to the Glastonbury New Agers.
I talked to a man at Waterstone’s checkout counter.
“Right you are,” he said. “Are you walking or driving?” When I told him, he gazed out one of the big plate-glass windows for a minute, and then said, “You might want to try The Green Man, just down the High, a bit past Logic Lane. All sorts of incense and things of that nature.”
I followed his directions and walked eastward down the High. My watch said ten minutes to five. Most stores on the High closed around five-thirty or six, so it was getting near closing time. I found The Green Man and smelled the aroma of burning incense through the open door. I stepped inside.
No one was minding the store apparently, but I heard chatter from a back room. It sounded as if a half-dozen or more people were talking, gaily, like a party. The little shop was claustrophobic, with glass cases and racks of the sort of thing I expected to find in a place like this: A wicker basket full of pagan posters in rolls, a rack of greeting cards with fairies and pentagrams all done in a pre-Raphaelite style. Jewelry with spiders. Shelves full of oils and essences. A purple skirt with sewn-on spangles and tiny bells had fallen to the floor under a circular stand of black T-shirts with air-brushed designs.
I strained to hear what was being said in the back room. All I caught was a woman’s voice saying something like “holy thorn tree.” I detected both male and female voices. A gaunt, slightly stooped man slipped past the velvet curtain separating the back room from the front of the shop.
“Ehh. Didn’t know anyone was out here. May I help you?”
“Just browsing,” I said. That sounded inadequate. “I’m looking for a card for a sick friend.”
Couldn’t you come up with something better than that, Dotsy?
“These are so nice.” I turned to the card display and picked up a random one.
“Indeed,” the man crept behind the jewelry case and began fiddling with the earrings, positioning himself to make it impossible for me to shoplift any of their more expensive items.
I found myself actually searching for a card that would make a sick friend feel better.
Aha. This is a good way to introduce the real reason I’m here.
“This is so difficult,” I began. “A couple of friends of mine—acquaintances actually, but we’re staying on the same staircase at St. Ormond’s College—well, the man died this . . .”
A raucous belly laugh shook the curtain to the back room.
I stopped in mid-sentence, forgetting all about what I was trying to say. It was Mignon Beaulieu’s laugh. No doubt about it.
C HAPTER S IX
----
I rushed back to St. Ormond’s in time to shower and change clothes before dinner, aiming to be ready for cocktails at six-thirty but failing to notice our schedule said nothing about pre-dinner drinks. It said dinner at seven. I stood outside the garden door of the Master’s Lodgings, hearing nothing but silence from within. No light peeked through the curtained window beside the door. When I realized my mistake I wished I could take back my knock, fearing Harold Wetmore would open the door, wrapped in a towel and straight from the shower.
I turned and hurried back toward the East Quad, now wondering what to do with the extra thirty minutes before dinner. Lettie was still asleep, and I assumed she’d set her alarm for whatever time she wanted to wake up. After the night she’d had, I didn’t want to wake her.
Keith Bunsen turned into the archway as I was leaving it. “Aren’t you staying for drinks this evening?” he asked. He was making the same mistake I’d made.
I set him straight.
“Well! What to do? I certainly c-c-can’t go back to my work. My brain has shut down for the day.”
“You work here? I
I talked to a man at Waterstone’s checkout counter.
“Right you are,” he said. “Are you walking or driving?” When I told him, he gazed out one of the big plate-glass windows for a minute, and then said, “You might want to try The Green Man, just down the High, a bit past Logic Lane. All sorts of incense and things of that nature.”
I followed his directions and walked eastward down the High. My watch said ten minutes to five. Most stores on the High closed around five-thirty or six, so it was getting near closing time. I found The Green Man and smelled the aroma of burning incense through the open door. I stepped inside.
No one was minding the store apparently, but I heard chatter from a back room. It sounded as if a half-dozen or more people were talking, gaily, like a party. The little shop was claustrophobic, with glass cases and racks of the sort of thing I expected to find in a place like this: A wicker basket full of pagan posters in rolls, a rack of greeting cards with fairies and pentagrams all done in a pre-Raphaelite style. Jewelry with spiders. Shelves full of oils and essences. A purple skirt with sewn-on spangles and tiny bells had fallen to the floor under a circular stand of black T-shirts with air-brushed designs.
I strained to hear what was being said in the back room. All I caught was a woman’s voice saying something like “holy thorn tree.” I detected both male and female voices. A gaunt, slightly stooped man slipped past the velvet curtain separating the back room from the front of the shop.
“Ehh. Didn’t know anyone was out here. May I help you?”
“Just browsing,” I said. That sounded inadequate. “I’m looking for a card for a sick friend.”
Couldn’t you come up with something better than that, Dotsy?
“These are so nice.” I turned to the card display and picked up a random one.
“Indeed,” the man crept behind the jewelry case and began fiddling with the earrings, positioning himself to make it impossible for me to shoplift any of their more expensive items.
I found myself actually searching for a card that would make a sick friend feel better.
Aha. This is a good way to introduce the real reason I’m here.
“This is so difficult,” I began. “A couple of friends of mine—acquaintances actually, but we’re staying on the same staircase at St. Ormond’s College—well, the man died this . . .”
A raucous belly laugh shook the curtain to the back room.
I stopped in mid-sentence, forgetting all about what I was trying to say. It was Mignon Beaulieu’s laugh. No doubt about it.
C HAPTER S IX
----
I rushed back to St. Ormond’s in time to shower and change clothes before dinner, aiming to be ready for cocktails at six-thirty but failing to notice our schedule said nothing about pre-dinner drinks. It said dinner at seven. I stood outside the garden door of the Master’s Lodgings, hearing nothing but silence from within. No light peeked through the curtained window beside the door. When I realized my mistake I wished I could take back my knock, fearing Harold Wetmore would open the door, wrapped in a towel and straight from the shower.
I turned and hurried back toward the East Quad, now wondering what to do with the extra thirty minutes before dinner. Lettie was still asleep, and I assumed she’d set her alarm for whatever time she wanted to wake up. After the night she’d had, I didn’t want to wake her.
Keith Bunsen turned into the archway as I was leaving it. “Aren’t you staying for drinks this evening?” he asked. He was making the same mistake I’d made.
I set him straight.
“Well! What to do? I certainly c-c-can’t go back to my work. My brain has shut down for the day.”
“You work here? I
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