The Body in the Bouillon ff-3 Read online

  When Tom got home, he called Farley's niece, whom he had seen the day before, to talk about funeral arrangements. After a brief conversation, he told Faith, "The funeral is set for Tuesday. I suppose you'll be too busy at Hubbard House to come, but of course the Bowditches will understand."

  “Come on, Tom. It's not like you to be devious. What did she say?"

  “She didn't say anything, but you're right. I was being less than direct. Falling into one's soup as a last mortal act is slightly ludicrous, and it might be better if people were not reminded of it by your presence. Not that anyone in town thinks you had anything to do with it."

  “Balderdash, with an emphasis on the first syllable. It's the bell all over again. When tales are told hundreds of years hence, the one about the minister's wife who desecrated a landmark and was a suspected poisoner is going to be a favorite to pass the time while traveling from planet to planet. I'm surprised Millicent hasn't called. But don't worry, darling. I hadn't planned on attending the funeral and I'm not mad at you for not wanting me there and not saying so, although I probably should be."

  “No, you shouldn't, and if trying not to hurt your wife's feelings ..." Faith closed his mouth with a kiss. The conversation was going nowhere, and with Ben fast asleep, they were wasting precious time.

  Millicent called as they were going upstairs—ostensibly to find out when the service would be. Tom answered the phone and decided not to give Faith a report of the conversation, which was all Faith had predicted and more. There was no question in Millicent's mind. If Farley had had a decent Yankee lunch of Welsh rarebit on toast, her own personal favorite, he'd be alive today.

  * * *

  The next morning Faith was back at Hubbard House. As she drove into the parking lot, she felt increasingly apprehensive about what Mrs. Pendergast would say. She pushed open the kitchen door slowly and peeked in. Mrs. P. turned around. There was no preamble.

  “Now it wasn't your fault. What you need to do is forget about the whole thing and get busy with this fruit cup here.”

  Faith walked across the room toward her.

  “Of course," she continued, "can't say anybody ever dropped dead in my food.”

  She could kiss any idea of further food preparation good-bye, Faith realized, and reluctantly let go of her lofty plans for a culinary revolution at Hubbard House.

  Denise arrived by the time Faith and Mrs. Pendergast had started to set out the breads and again offered to help. She put her hand on Faith's shoulder.

  “I heard about the soup mishap. I hope you're not feeling upset about it. Farley had some good innings."

  “I know, but I do feel a little guilty, although I realize it had nothing to do with what he was eat- ing., "It's always so difficult when someone here dies. I don't say 'passes on' or 'goes to his maker.' It's death, and I'd like to say I don't plan on going, but unfortunately I know better. One of the ways I have gotten to know better is by being here. So many of the residents have made their peace with life—or death, depending on your point of view.

  They're not eager to go, yet accepting. Quite a few of them work for Hospice and help see each other out. I'd like to have a good friend by my side when I'm near the end."

  “And you will," Faith assured her. They worked for a while in companionable silence; then Faith thought the time had come to ask some questions about the Hubbards.

  “I met Muriel Hubbard the other day, but none of the rest of the family. Do you know them well?"

  “I know them, but I wouldn't say well. We're all so busy doing our own individual things here that we don't get to know each other unless we see one another outside. And that lets Muriel out right away. I don't think she ever leaves the place except for an occasional shopping trip and church. In fact, she may even do her shopping by mail, so it's just church. I'll be surprised if she's at the Holly Ball Wednesday night. She usually stays here to keep an eye on things. You're going though, I hope.”

  Faith had forgotten the benefit was called the Holly Ball. She'd talked it over with Tom and they were going. She wanted to get a look at the attendees, and he thought they should show their support for Hubbard House—and he always liked to dance with Faith.

  Denise continued to talk about the Hubbards. "I see Dr. Hubbard quite a bit coming and going. He's a sweetie, and I don't see how this place could exist without him. It's not just that he knows everyone by name, but he really knows them—their aches and pains, sorrows and joys.

  Donald is a good doctor, but he doesn't have the same charisma."

  “What's Donald's wife like? Does she work here too?"

  “Charmaine? No, she doesn't work here. She'll be at the ball and you can judge her for yourself. She got back from her latest cruise or spa last week, so she's in town."

  “Is she French—'Charmaine'?”

  Denise laughed. "She might like to be taken for French, but she actually sounds more like a Georgia peach, although I have it on good authority that the Molloys, that's her maiden—and I use the term loosely—name, were never south of Providence.”

  They finished the baskets and Denise left. She promised to put Faith and Tom at her table. "If Leandra lets me," she added.

  “Who's Leandra?" Faith asked.

  “You'll find out Wednesday night," Denise answered, and vanished out the door.

  The kitchen was oddly still after she left, and Faith felt a heaviness in the air, which the pungent smell of overdone veal did nothing to lighten.

  “Why are you so interested in the Hubbards?" Mrs. Pendergast didn't beat around any bushes.

  Faith was momentarily taken aback.

  “I'm interested in Hubbard House. That's all. You remember I told you my aunt was considering moving here, and of course I want to tell her everything I can."

  “Indeed." Mrs. Pendergast looked skeptical. "Well, tell your aunt"—her inflection suggested strong doubts as to the existence of said aunt—"that she won't find a better-run, better-staffed retirement home in the country, and the Hubbards, all of them, are what make it that way.”

  So there.

  Faith felt her hand smarting, though an actual ruler had not been produced. She didn't have Farley's tray to take up, so she mumbled "Good-bye" and headed for the door.

  “See you tomorrow," Mrs. P. boomed at her retreating back.

  Upstairs, her backbone was instantly restored, and she thought she would take Dr. Hubbard up on his offer to meet him. Sylvia Vale was outside her office putting a fresh sprig of freesia in the vase. It was white again, and it appeared that much about Hubbard House was unvarying. Sylvia, however, had changed her navy suit and was resplendent in a purple, gold, and green print silk shirtwaist dress.

  In response to Faith's request, she answered, "Of course. I should have taken you to meet Dr. Hubbard when you came, but Mrs. Pendergast was so insistent on having you report to the kitchen immediately that I never did get a chance. We'll do it right now." She tripped off on high heels that were dyed to match the green of her dress, and Faith followed.

  Dr. Hubbard's office was in the front corner of one of the original Aldrich houses.

  “This was the library of Deborah's house—that was the name of the daughter Nathaniel Aldrich,the original owner, built the house for. We still call the houses Nathaniel's and Deborah's, as the Aldrichs always did. Dr. Hubbard has kept this house very much as it was. His son's office is across the hall, and there's an apartment where Dr. Hubbard lives now at the rear of the house. Upstairs we have several residents' rooms, a room for guests who may be visiting relatives or friends here, and Muriel's apartment.”

  Faith realized she should have come to Sylvia Vale in the first place. If she could keep her talking, she'd tell Faith about every nook and cranny and every occupant at HH.

  “I have a small nest in Byford center," Sylvia prattled on, and Faith was struck by an image of Sylvia in her colorful plumage perched in a nest like Big Bird in the middle of Byford Common.

  Sylvia knocked at the door, and a v
oice Faith instantly recognized from both her conversation and Tom's earlier description as belonging to Roland Hubbard answered, "Come in." They did.

  “Dr. Hubbard, this is Mrs. Fairchild, who has been so kind about helping us out.”

  Roland Hubbard rose from behind his mahogany Duncan Phyfe desk and walked around it toward Faith, his hand already extended. He was a tall, powerful-looking man with a thick shock of white hair and deep blue eyes. A patrician. He took her hand and covered it with his other in a lingering grasp. She had never decided whether she liked this kind of handshake or not. It was difficult to terminate, but then wasn't it also more personal than the other—an American equivalent to being kissed on both cheeks? Dr. Hubbard dropped her hand.

  “I'm happy I can help you, and I hope I can do so occasionally in the future. I'll be starting my business after the new year—I'm a caterer—but I'm sure there will be time to come here also." She was not sure when, yet it seemed like the right thing to say. After all, you couldn't very well tell the head of Hubbard House that you were here only to investigate, and when you had discovered whatever the matter was, you'd be history.

  “Anything you can do, my dear. We old folks appreciate seeing a young thing around the place. Of course, I say that facetiously. Even though the average age here is seventy-nine, I don't think many of us would describe ourselves as 'old', rather 'seasoned.' And we are the fastest-growing segment of the population, which suggests a certain liveliness. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm afraid much of my job is paperwork and I'm trying to clear my desk of this Everest before Wednesday's frolic."

  “Of course, Dr. Hubbard." Sylvia looked up at him, her eyes slightly dilated with pure devotion. "It was good of you to take the time.”

  So it was like that, Faith thought. Sylvia bustled her out the door and back into the annex. "A truly selfless man," she told Faith. "He lives completely for others."

  “How nice," Faith commented. There didn't seem to be any other appropriate comment to make. She could understand the fascination, if notthe devotion. Roland Hubbard was extremely well preserved, and while his voice did not have tones of liquid gold, its sharp Yankee clip was softened by the warmth he injected into it. The way he had of looking straight into one's eyes, the "I'm talking to only you" manner, was indeed seductive.

  “Incidentally, have you seen the dining room?" Sylvia laughed preparatory to making a joke. "It would be a bare cupboard without you!"

  “No, I haven't seen it," Faith replied, and hoped Sylvia had time to give her a tour.

  Sylvia did seem to have time, and showed Faith the elegant dining room with curved windows overlooking a garden and large deck. "During the summer months, we eat out on the deck that Doctor Hubbard added. It's almost like a resort!" Sylvia told her. There was also a small dining room off to the side for the residents to use for private parties and a good-sized library on the other side. They walked back through the living room.

  “This was one of the few changes the Hubbards made. Originally part of it was the entrance hall." She gestured to the left and pointed back at the grand spiral staircase toward the rear of the room. "The wall between the hall and the Aldrich living room was removed to make a larger space." Faith commented that it was a beautiful room, and Sylvia agreed.

  “You know the basement, and I understand you've also seen our nursing wing." Sylvia tactfully omitted any further comment. "This corridor connects the annex with the other house. Upstairs in this house is devoted to residents' apartments and rooms. So important to have one's own space and possessions, I think. I'd hate to end up with nothing except a locker and a bed. But Dr. Hubbard has assured me that there will always be a place for me here."

  “And certainly you don't need to think about that for a long time," Faith assured her. Sylvia looked to be in her mid-fifties. She brightened at Faith's remark. "Thank you, my dear. But I'm not as young as all that.”

  Maybe sixty, Faith amended to herself.

  She went home after retrieving Ben from school and spent the rest of the afternoon cooking and cleaning. Tom was leading a study group on the Apocrypha and trudged in wearily at nine o'clock. He was ready for bed. The Holly Ball was beginning to look like not only an investigative outing but a welcome break in Faith's domestic routine. It was definitely time to get out of the house.

  Wednesday Faith rushed through her chores at Hubbard House. She was trying a new hairdresser, not Denise's but one she had gotten from a perfect stranger whose cut she'd admired in the checkout line at the Star Market.

  Just as Faith was leaving, a woman burst through the door and ran over to Mrs. Pendergast. "Mrs. P., you absolutely saved my life! Here, I brought you these." She thrust a slightly wilted centerpiece of roses and orchids into Mrs. Pendergast's hands. "It was from the table, and I thought you might be able to use these for lunch." She put a brown paper bag on the counter. "They're theleftover caviar canapés. It's my way of saying thanks.”

  Mrs. Pendergast wasn't rushing to make any introductions, so Faith did the honors herself.

  “Hello, I'm Faith Fairchild, a volunteer here."

  “How sweet of you, I'm Charmaine Hubbard. I'd love to stay and chat, but I have a million things to do to get ready for tonight. Hope to see you there." And she was gone with one final wave from the door before exiting.

  So this was Charmaine. Charmaine—a woman fighting an all-out battle against advancing years armed with turquoise Spandex and plenty of mousse. So far she hadn't been doing too badly. Very svelte, and a mane of glistening streaked hair. If there had been tucks, they were out of sight. She looked a little like Charo, or Farrah Fawcett when she had a mane of hair, and the faint southern accent, real or assumed, gave her a perennially youthful allure.

  Faith knew better than to ask Mrs. Pendergast a direct question. But even Mrs. Pendergast, faithful unto death, couldn't stifle her annoyance. She was emptying the contents of the bag into the garbage disposal and muttering aloud, very aloud, "As if I'd serve leftover soggy fish egg canapés nobody wanted to eat in the first place to my ladies and gentlemen!" She looked over her shoulder at Faith with a slight grin. "Called me up in tears last night about seven o'clock. The fancy chef she'd hired to do her dinner party couldn't figure out how to turn on her oven, and she'd never done it either. I had to drop everything and go over. They were both in a tizzy. He was carrying on about his cream brewlays or some such thing and she was wailing that the guests were arriving. I guess they never heard of a match.”

  Where was Donald while all this was going on? Faith wondered in passing, but this thought was quickly overshadowed by one of greater interest.

  What would Charmaine wear to the ball?

  Four

  The Copley's rococo Oval Room, complete with cloud ceiling, had been partly transformed into a winter wonderland. The rosy-pink walls were decked with holly, and each round table sported a seasonal centerpiece. A nearsighted person taking off his or her glasses would have seen a warm blur of green, gold, silver, and white with flashes of red. Alberta balsams in large tubs were decorated with small twinkling white lights and scattered throughout the room. The balsams mixed pleasantly with the other scents emanating from the hors d'oeuvres buffet and the napes of female necks.

  Faith had no trouble spotting Charmaine. She had obviously decided to combine the time of the year with the spirit of the place and looked like a Watteau shepherdess who had come across a bolt of cloth of gold and tinsel trim while keeping watch over her flock by night. Her gown started as a sparkling bustier and ended as layers of filmy white net. She wore a pair of enormous white satin leg-o'-mutton sleeves halfway down her arms and unaccountably carried a small silver basket containing one red rose. Long earrings of tiny silver bells dangled almost to her shoulders, and she was tinkling her way merrily across the dance floor greeting one and all. She had probably wanted to appear in the enormous scallop shell the Copley kept on hand for brides, Faith thought, but even tan, tawny Charmaine couldn't justify that at the Holly Ball.
/>   “Are we going to try to find our table—it's number twenty-four—or do you want to stand here and check out what everybody's wearing a little longer?" Tom asked her.

  “Let's find our table, then dance and check out what everybody's wearing.”

  Faith herself had opted for a deceptively simple Isaac Mizrahi silk gabardine sheath. It was short, demurely covered her collarbones with a ruffle, then plunged almost to the waist in back. It was red, and she'd bought it for the holidays. She hadn't expected to get an opportunity to wear it around Aleford much, and it was another reason she was pleased about the ball.

  They found their seats, and Faith could see from the place cards that they were indeed at Denise's table, but Denise herself was nowhere in sight. Itwould have been difficult to spot anyone other than Charmaine in the crowd. There were about four hundred people—volunteers, Hubbard House residents, and benefactors eating, drinking, chatting, and/or kicking up their pumps. The din was uproarious, and the proper Bostonians (and those from outlying suburbs) were having a grand old time. Sylvia Vale floated by swathed in scarlet tulle with an elaborate matching turban that might have led some observers to believe she either had read the invitation incorrectly and thought it was a costume ball or was part of the entertainment—Madame Glenda and her Magic Doves. Sylvia waved to Faith and mouthed "See you later" with her Cupid's-bow lips.

  “And I thought I might not have fun," Tom commented. "First lead me to the goodies, then lead me to the band.”

  They inched their way across the dance floor to the food. Faith cast a professional eye on the buffet. There was a nice assortment of hot and cold hors d'oeuvres, and waiters were constantly bringing more, so none of the trays had either a ravaged look or the forlorn lack of appeal a full tray presents when others are empty—leading to the inevitable question of why no one wanted to eat whatever was on it. (This tended to happen with the fish-paste cocktail sandwiches at certain local functions Faith had reluctantly attended.) They filled their plates, got some champagne, and sat down to watch the action from the pretty little gold bamboo chairs the Copley had thoughtfully placed along the sidelines.