The Body in the Bouillon ff-3 Read online

  The Body in the Bouillon

  ( Faith Fairchild - 3 )

  Katherine Hall Page

  "Only the best people go to Hubbard House to die". So Faith Sibley Fairchild, gourmet caterer-turned-amateur sleuth, is told as she begins to investigate some mysterious doings at a retirement community near the village of Aleford, Massachusetts, where her husband is the local minister. And die they do--in Faith's bouillon, even in her bed.

  THE BODY IN BOUILLON

  BY

  KATHERINE HALL PAGE

  Prologue

  This is the story of a house, Hubbard House—or, to be more precise, two early-nineteenth-century houses connected by a twentieth-century addition faithful to the period. Nathaniel Aldrich, the original owner, had amassed a considerable fortune shipping "West Indies Goods," to use the more genteel label of the time for rum, and he built a large house outside Boston in the countryside. He believed the air would be more salubrious for the large family he intended. But he had only one child, a daughter, and when she married, he built a replica of his house next door, unwilling to part from her. The only difference between the two houses was the staircases. Nathaniel's house, as it continued to be called forever after, was graced with a magnificent staircase spiraling up two stories from the rear of the large entrance hall. In deference to his daughter's fear of heights, the staircase in her house, Deborah's house, was a double one, proceeding in elegant, gentle stages from floor to floor.

  The last Aldrich died, the estate was put up for auction, and Nathaniel and Deborah's houses became Hubbard House. The staircases remained untouched, but the enormous pier glass Nathaniel had placed across from the staircase to reassure his daughter as she descended the steps was sold to a couple from New Hampshire. Dr. Hubbard was afraid it might break.

  It was after eleven o'clock at the Hubbard House Life Care Retirement Home. The doors were locked and most of the residents in the main building and outlying cottages were asleep.

  Naomi Porter was dreaming she was at the Chelsea Flower Show in London. One of the Queen's gardeners was asking her advice about orchids. Her husband, Danforth, who had been such a whiz at double digging when they had had their own extensive garden instead of the small greenhouse off the living room now, snored dreamlessly at her side.

  Leandra Rhodes was also asleep, but her husband, Merwin, was not. They had been married over fifty years, and he had always acceded to her demand that the light be out when she wanted to go to sleep. Lying in the dark, reviewing the day's events, had become such a habit that he eventually considered it essential. As soon as she had dropped off, he'd switch the lamp on and read. She never knew.

  Fingers of light shone beneath other doors, but by the time the clock chimed midnight, everything was in darkness. This was New England, and old adages retained their currency. If one wasn't early to bed, one wouldn't be early to rise.

  Those in the hospital annex slept more fitfully, aware perhaps of the ailments and frailties that had placed them there for a long or short stay. A ghostly figure in white slipped silently from one of the rooms, entered another farther down the corridor, and noiselessly shut the window. The curtains grew still at once. The room's occupant had tossed most of his blankets on the floor, and these were carefully replaced before the figure went to the door, opened it a crack, looked out, and then walked softly away.

  Beyond the cottages in an apartment above the garage housing the vehicles and equipment, which kept Hubbard House so faultlessly maintained inside and out, Eddie Russell was quite awake. The night was still young.

  He was stretched out naked on top of his bed facing a large-screen TV and flicking through the home shopping channels with the remote. Images of jewelry, collectors' plates, fuzz busters, and cookware raced across the screen. He stopped at some earrings. A voice urged, "Just in time for those special holiday occasions. The office party, an open house. Filigree peacock earrings, eighteen-carat gold. Two inches long and one inch wide. Three layers of feathers that move as you move, and a French clasp to make sure you'll never lose them. Tonight only we're offering this exquisite item with a retail value of $455 for $183.18, plus $3.75 for shipping and handling. Or, if you prefer, the easy-pay plan—three payments of $61.06 each.”

  Eddie rolled over and reached for his drink—Chivas on the rocks. "Want some earrings, baby? They'd look great on your lobes." He nibbled the one nearest to him, then gave it a sharper bite.

  “Eddie! You're hurting me," his partner squealed in delight.

  “Come on, want some earrings? Take down the number and I'll get them for you."

  “Oh, honey, you're so good to me.”

  Eddie smiled. "That's because you're so good to me.”

  The earrings were going to be a good-bye gift.

  One

  “I'm not going to tell you anything unless you do exactly as I say and do not get involved any further than is necessary for my peace of mind. I want you to promise, Faith.”

  Faith Sibley Fairchild considered for a moment. Her Aunt Chat, short for Charity, was using her most uppish aunt voice. The only way to find out why she had called all the way from New Jersey to Massachusetts—and before the rates went down—was to agree with Chat's no uncertain terms. But, Faith reflected as she dutifully swore, peace of mind could cover quite a bit of territory.

  “I don't know if you remember my old friend Howard Perkins. He moved to a retirement home near you last month. I had meant to tell you, so you could go and see how he was.”

  This didn't seem like much to ask, and Faith was puzzled about the oath. Going to pay a call on Howard Perkins, whom she vaguely remembered as a dapper colleague of Chat's in the advertising business, wasn't even up there with the secret of the Rainbow Girls. Why all the cloak and dagger?

  “No problem, just tell me the name of the place and I'll be happy to run over—today, if you like."

  “I said 'was,' Faith. Howard died last week. He had a very serious heart condition and certainly should have stayed in his apartment, but he wanted to spend his last years in New England, where he'd grown up. The move was a strain, and then there's all that abominable weather you have.”

  Chat sounded bitter. She had lived in Manhattan all her adult life and moved out to Mendham, New Jersey—a sensible distance away—when she'd retired as head of her own lucrative ad agency. Faith, a native New Yorker herself, was torn between loyalty to her new home in the small village of Aleford and tacit agreement with Chat as to the climate and even the virtues of city life. She'd been in Aleford for more than three years, and she still missed New York. She wondered what Howard had done with his apartment. Like Chat's old one, it had been in the San Remo on the West Side. Not that the Reverend Thomas Fairchild, Faith's husband, would ever entertain the idea of even a pied-à-terre anywhere except in his own backyard, but Faith would always enjoy playing that absorbing and perpetual New York pastime "Apartment, Apartment, Who's Got an Apartment?"

  “Oh Chat, I'm sorry to hear that. I do remember him. He was a lovely man."

  “Yes, he was. We thought we might get married once, but we were such good friends, it seemed foolish to risk it." Faith thought she detected a slightly wistful note in her aunt's voice, which quickly vanished as Chat got back to business. "Now, I'm sure you're wondering what this is all about and too polite to say so. There was a letter in the mail from Howard today—another example, incidentally, of the scandalous way the postal service is being run. He mailed it several days before he died and I'm just getting it now. Anyway, I'll read you the relevant part:

  ... I must close now, Chat dear. It's time for dinner and I don't like to be late. The food takes me back to my boyhood—all sorts of old favorites I haven
't had for years. I've put on a pound or two! There is one thing that is bothering me, though, and I don't quite know what to do about it. I plan to tell Dr. Hubbard eventually, but I want to get it all straight first. I'm sure he'll be able to handle the matter. I'm already fond enough of the place to want to avoid involving the authorities. I'll tell you all about it in my next letter. Human nature being what it is, I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised—even here at Hubbard House, surely an oasis, and that's why I must do something to keep it that way for my fellow residents—and yours truly too. I miss you... .

  Well, the rest you don't need. Poor Howard—he must have stumbled across some kind of scandal, who knows what. But I feel a certain responsibility to follow up on it. I'd hate to think that people were being mistreated in any way. I thought of going there myself and having a look around. I could pretend to be interested, however difficult that might be, but it might not be necessary if you could make a few discreet inquiries for me and find out what kind of reputation the place has."

  “Hubbard House is nearby—in Byford—and I've never heard anything negative about it. Tom has made some pastoral calls there. I could start by talking to him and then speak to Charley, if you like. If there are any rumors, he'll know.”

  Charley MacIsaac was Aleford's veteran chief of police. While consuming bottomless cups of coffee and dozens of corn muffins at the Minuteman Café, he was also taking in at the same time whatever was happening—or not happening—in the town and surrounding environs.

  “And don't leave Millicent out," Chat admonished.

  “I was afraid you'd say that." Faith sighed. "But for you, anything.”

  Millicent Revere McKinley gathered her information from the vantage point of her authentic colonial clapboard house with a bow window (a nineteenth-century addition by a like-minded ancestor) affording a panoramic view of Aleford's Green and Battle Road, its main street. Millicent had regarded Faith with suspicion ever since Faith had rung the historic call-to-arms bell in the old belfry after discovering a fresh corpse therein. The body was warm, and Faith had surmised it was not impossible that the murderer was lurking nearby on the hill in the bayberry bushes. Although the event was long past, Millicent still managed to remind Faith whenever possible that the bell was solemnly tolled on only three occasions: the death of a president, the death of one of the descendants of the founding families of Ale-ford, and on Patriots' Day as part of the reenactment of the events of that famous day and year.

  Millicent had also saved the lives of Faith and her son, Benjamin, and there was that burden too. Faith figured she'd spend the rest of her days in Aleford making amends. She longed for a chance to even the score—snatch Millicent from under the hooves of runaway horses, dash into her burning house to save the glass-enclosed mourning wreaths plaited from the tresses of Millicent's forebears, or have the legislature pass a bill establishing a state holiday honoring Ezekiel Revere, distant cousin of Paul and great-great-greatgrandfather of Millicent, who cast the original Aleford bell. But Chat was right. Millicent would know what was going on at Hubbard House. The question was, would she tell Faith?

  “And remember, if you turn up anything that looks serious, tell MacIsaac or your nice state police friend."

  “Of course, Chat. Yet I'm inclined to think it's probably that they weren't getting their evening snacks on time or one of the people working there was a bit rude, although there is that reference to 'the authorities.' "

  “Exactly, and that's why I want you to be cautious. Now, call me when you have something to report. Love to Tom and Ben.”

  And with that Chat hung up abruptly, as was her custom. She could talk your ear off in person, but she hated the phone.

  Faith walked back into the parsonage kitchen. It bore little resemblance to the one she had encountered when she had crossed the threshold as a new bride. Faith could only assume whoever had cooked there prior to her arrival had had no need of counter space, light, a proper stove, or a refrigerator. A properly equipped kitchen to work in was a question not simply of avocation for Faith but of vocation as well. Before her marriage, she was the Faith behind Have Faith, one of Manhattan's most successful catering businesses, lending her culinary talents to the glittering parties she had previously graced with her attractive presence.

  Now that Benjamin was old enough to go to nursery school in the mornings, she had been looking for locations to start the business again. Husband, home, and child were fascinating in their own way, of course, but sometimes a woman needed more. In Faith's case, much more. She was blissfully happy watching infant Ben evolve into toddler Ben and now little-boy Ben, and there was no one she'd rather be with than Tom—usually. However, the four walls of the parsonage, quaintly vine covered though they were, were beginning to move in a little too closely. By chance she'd found a caterer right in Aleford, who called himself Yankee Doodle Kitchens and who was preparing to retire to Florida in February. He was happy to sell her his equipment and arrange for a transfer of the lease, but he would not relinquish the name. He might want to start it up again, he told her, and besides, people associated his work with it. Faith was afraid of that and quickly assured him she would continue to use her old name, as her ecclesiastical mate didn't think it would cast any blasphemic shadows on his surplice. Faith, daughter and granddaughter of ministers, who knew exactly how much glass her house had always been made of, wasn't really so sure of that, but she had been well on her way to a national reputation with articles in Gourmet, House Beautiful, and Bon Appétit and wanted to capitalize on that publicity. She had also continued to market a successful line of Have Faith jams, jellies, chutneys, and all sorts of other good things to eat.

  She took the bread she had been letting rise from the back of the stove, punched it down, and started to knead, filling the room with a strong aroma of cardamom and yeast.

  It was that peculiar time between Thanksgiving and Christmas when all the women's magazines were running articles on how to avoid holiday burnout, suggesting everything from long baths with ice-cold slices of cucumbers over the eyes to transcendental meditation, in the same issues in which they were including patterns for gingerbread models of Chartres Cathedral, replicas of the Ghent altarpiece in needlepoint, and recipes for croquembouche for one hundred.

  Faith was not feeling too stressed—yet. She'd been steadily filling her freezer with yuletide treats, and while she was not like those people who have selected and even wrapped all their presents by Labor Day, her Christmas list was almost finished. Shopping, Christmas or otherwise, was something she did as a matter of course all year. She was a strong believer that what went on the body, or what that body looked at, should be of the same caliber as what went into it. And some of her old habits had died hard, or not at all. She knew about Filene's and Jordan's, and had heard tell of a Bloomingdale's and a Barney's not too far from Aleford, but if it wasn't from Madison, Fifth, or SoHo, it wasn't the genuine article. And besides, shopping in New York gave her a chance to go to Zabar's for lox, whitefish salad, knishes, and all the other comfort foods of home she craved.

  She glanced at the clock. Eleven thirty. Ben was finished at noon and Tom was picking him up, as he did when he didn't have another engagement. Ben's school was in the Congregational church located directly across the green from First Parish, the Fairchilds' church. The two churches looked like bookends with all the old houses bordering the green arranged tidily between them. A liberty pole with an enormous flag and various roughhewn boulders with plaques marking significant events or individuals were the only things on the green itself. Even the path went around, but it was a true common, and in good weather those who worked in the handful of businesses comprising downtown Aleford ate their sandwiches there at lunchtime, and schoolchildren on their way home stopped for a game of Frisbee. Faith had often taken Ben, first to crawl on the blanket of grass and now to run.

  Presently the back door opened and Ben tumbled in shrieking, with Tom close behind. "This time I really am going to c
atch you, Benny Boy!”

  Ben grabbed Faith ecstatically around the knees. "I won, I won!”

  Faith picked him up, gave him a big kiss, stroked his hair, blond like hers and beginning to lose its curl, then asked that timeless maternal question, "What did you do in school today, sweetie?" It received the usual answer, one that varies only among "nothing" and "I don't know" or, in Ben's particular case, total silence. She reflected how silly it was to ask day after day, but knew she would keep on and one day, perhaps when he was in high school, he'd sit down and give a blow-by-blow account of his every waking minute since he'd left her side and then she'd probably not be paying attention.

  Tom held up a blood-red finger painting. "Look what Ben made. Isn't it wonderful?" Their eyes met. Neither of them had any illusions as to their son's precocity or lack thereof. It looked like millions of other two-and-a-half-year-olds' finger paintings. Ben was affectionate, cheerful, sometimes cooperative, and that was enough for them.

  “Sit down and I'll get lunch. I had an interesting call from Chat this morning.”

  Tom would miss supper—much of a minister's life is spent not in prayer but at committee meetings—so Faith had cooked a big lunch, as she often did when his schedule was like this. They'd have something light when he got home, and she'd feed Ben early. With luck, he'd be asleep. Now they sat down to a casserole of boneless chicken breasts she had lightly poached in white wine and layered with zucchini and carrot matchsticks and blue cheese. The juice from the chicken and what was left of the poaching liquid that she had poured over it made a delicious sauce. There was also some nutty basmati rice and steamed pea pods. With the holidays, she was trying to keep an eye on their calories, although Faith was as slender as she had always been and Tom never seemed to fill up his tall, rangy frame. He was trying manfully now.