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Authors: Katherine Hall Page

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But Tom would have said something, especially if he intended to drag her into it. She shook her head. He wouldn't ask her in any case. Pix would do it. Pix always did everything. In fact, it was odd that she wasn't doing it in the first place. Pix Miller was Faith's next-door neighbor, and the Miller family's intimate involvement in two murder investigations, which Faith had literally stumbled into, had forged a bond stronger than either the occasional cup-of-sugar type neighborliness or the “you planted your hedge over my property line” antipathy.
She drove to get Ben, and the job of tearing him away from Lizzie effectively blotted out any and all thought. Today was worse than usual. Lizzie's mother tactfully stood aside as Faith wrestled a screaming Ben into the car. “Don't wanna go! Wanna stay wid Lizzie! Nononononono!” and so on. She gave Arlene Viles a weary smile and backed out of their drive. The only thought that comforted her was that Lizzie would be worse about leaving when she came to play at their house. As she drove to the market, she thought she might suggest this phenomenon to Tom for some kind of sermon. What does it say about human nature that we derive so much comfort from not being last in line? No matter how badly your child might behave, there are always worse ones. And, a friend had told her once, no matter how fat you think you are and how much cellulite is dimpling down your thighs, there's always someone in the Loehmann's dressing room who looks worse. Faith was some years away from these comparisons, yet the point was the same.
Ben had calmed down as soon as Lizzie's house was out of sight, and now her only problem would be to convince him to sit in the cart and not try to “help” by pushing it for her. She grabbed a bunch of bananas as soon as she entered the store, put one in Ben's hand, and strapped him in before he had a chance to protest.
Tom was later than usual, and looking at his expression
when he entered the kitchen, she could see that he was mad, not sad. So no one had died or contracted some serious disease. It was merely some pain in the ass—a congregation being like any other group of individuals.
She put her arms around him. “Come on, let's have a drink and sit in the living room while you tell me all about it. I fed Ben and he's watching a Winnie-the-Pooh tape—that gives us roughly twenty-two minutes of peace.”
“Wonderful, darling—although whatever you've got in the oven smells so delicious, I'm not sure I can concentrate.”
Faith had decided Tom needed some good, solid food—nothing nouvelle—so she'd prepared a pork roast with garlic, rosemary, white wine, and olive oil. There was curried cabbage, fresh applesauce, and a potato galette Lyonnaise to go with it. She poured herself a glass of Georges Duboeuf Beaujolais Nouveau and followed Tom into the living room. Ben was at the far end, mesmerized by Eeyore, and barely acknowledged Tom's kiss.
“All right, what is it? They've discovered the bordello we're running on the side in the parsonage? Or someone got a back issue of
Playgirl
and saw your centerfold? What?”
“Oh, Faith, I wish it were something funny. I really don't know what to do, or rather I do, and the next couple of months are going to be so damned unpleasant. And why now? You know how much I love Christmas.”
Faith did know. Tom's family started getting the cartons of ornaments down from their attic before Halloween—just to check and see if any of the lights needed new bulbs. When the house was finally decorated, there wasn't a corner that had been overlooked. Some year Faith fully expected to find St. Nick toilet paper peeking at her from the roll.
“I also feel a bit petty about it. It shouldn't bother me so much, but he has a way of getting under my skin—and it's only been one day!”
Everything was suddenly clear. “So,” said Faith, “you can't stand your new divinity school intern.”
“I loathe him. So will you. He's arrogant, pompous, self-centered, stupid, and he smells.”
“Well, at least you can tell him to take a bath. Hint around.”
“It's not good old BO. It's some kind of horrible men's cologne.”
“And what is this creature's name?”
“Cyle—as in ‘Kyle,' but spelled with a ‘C'—and you can bet it didn't start out that way. We met this morning to discuss what he would be doing, and he started interviewing me! Before I knew it, he was offering advice about my sermons, ways to keep the congregation alert, and suggestions for a new wing for the parish hall. I began to feel a knot in my stomach that is just starting to go away now.” He took a mouthful of scotch.
“How long will he be here?”
“Until the first of March, and there's no only about it.”
Faith was a little surprised at the intensity of Tom's reaction. Cyle must really be something. Tom was the least judgmental person she knew. Turning the other cheek, living and letting live—this was Tom. At the moment he was sounding more like her.
“I suppose what is actually troubling me is contemplating the kind of damage a person like this will do in the future. Imagine going to him for comfort. The sole thing that is going to make this bearable is for me to finagle my way onto his ordination committee.”
“Why do you suppose he wants to be a minister? He sounds more like someone who thinks of call waiting rather than the ‘call.'”
“I've been wondering the same thing myself—it has to be the idea of a captive audience every week. Maybe I should try to steer him into politics—or TV evangelism.”
“Anywhere but your church.”
“Exactly.”
Tom stretched his long legs out. Winnie-the-Pooh had gone back to the Hundred Acre Wood, and they tucked Ben into bed before sitting down to eat. As they ate, Faith told Tom about her visit to Hubbard House, eliminating Sylvia Vale's mistake but mentioning the tight spot they were in and how she could help.
“I don't see why not,” he said. “I'll be able to pick Ben up occasionally.”
“And I know Pix will help.”
“Have you uncovered any skulduggery yet?”
“Not yet. Everything looks like it's on the very up and up.”
“Which is what I've thought all along. Chat's friend may have been imagining things.” That reminded Faith of Farley's ghost, and she gave Tom a hilarious account of the thoughtful wraith.
They cleaned up the kitchen and soon after climbed into bed.
“Feeling better, sweetheart?” Faith asked softly.
“Almost,” Tom answered, reaching for her under the blankets.
 
Sylvia Vale greeted Faith at the door the next morning with exuberant relief.
“You've come back! That's marvelous. Mrs. Pendergast said you would, yet one never knows.” She sighed. “It used to be so easy to get help in the old days. I've been here since Hubbard House opened, you know.”
“I'll be able to come weekdays until everyone is back. Please don't worry.”
“I won't,” she said brightly, but Faith wasn't sure. Sylvia Vale seemed like someone who enjoyed her worries.
“I'll get to work, then,” Faith said, moving toward the corridor that led to the annex.
“Just a minute.” Sylvia darted into the office and returned with a thick cream-colored envelope. “All the Pink Ladies are invited, of course.”
Faith took the envelope and thanked her, moving more quickly to avoid both the appellation and the possibility of a new, unwelcome, addition to her wardrobe. She ripped open the envelope on her way downstairs. It was a heavily embossed invitation to a dinner dance on December fourteenth at the Copley Plaza in Boston for the benefit of Hubbard House. Two tickets were enclosed. That was next Wednesday. She didn't think they had plans, and it would be a way to see the cast of characters. She hadn't even met Dr. Hubbard yet—father or son. They were sure to be there. She wondered if Denise would be going.
It was raining, and there were more people in for lunch. The kitchen was so busy that Faith barely had time to say hello, much less ask Mrs. P. for the inside dope on Hubbard House. They had started to set out the trays when Mrs. Pendergast said, “Can you do these? I've got some marrow bones and a piece of beef set aside to make soup for tomorrow, and I want to put it on.”
“Oh,” said Faith, with all the ardor of an ingénue who's just heard the star may have twisted an ankle, “let me. I can make a lovely, rich bouillon. It's very nourishing.”
“If you like,” Mrs. Pendergast agreed. “There's some greens and carrots in the fridge you might want.”
Faith did and merrily set about assembling a good strong stock. She'd clarify it in the morning and bring some leeks and Madeira or port to add.
There was enough time for a visit with Farley before she left, and he regaled her with stories of various inhabitants of Aleford—mostty long gone. She tried to steer him toward the Hubbard family, but there didn't seem to be anything of interest there to Farley, except sympathy for Dr. Hubbard—“Poor Roland. Losing Mary so young.” Faith did learn, however, that Millicent Revere McKinley's father had had a lucrative bathtub gin business, and she filed the information away for possible future use.
That night Faith told Tom she definitely had to get back to work. Making such a large amount of stock was a
poignant reminder of Have Faith's past glories when she had had any number of pots going at once.
“It's exhilarating—of course I love to cook for you and Ben, but there's not quite the scope for imagination a banquet offers.”
Tom was amused. “Maybe Mrs. Pendergast will let you do the main course soon if she likes your bouillon—and then who knows what next.”
 
Mrs. Pendergast
did
like Faith's bouillon. Faith offered her a steaming cup after she had added the egg whites, Madeira, leeks, parsley, and other seasonings before straining it.
“Very tasty—and you're right. It does look nourishing. Are you going to bring up Mr. Bowditch's tray today?”
“Yes, I have time, if you don't need me here.” Faith felt as proud of her bouillon as of her first
galantine de lapereau.
Muriel Hubbard was in Farley's room when Faith entered. She was about to take his blood pressure and had his medication in a small paper cup.
“Hello, Mrs. Fairchild, how nice to see you,” she said.
“It's always nice to see Faith,” Farley added gallantly. “What have you brought today besides your charming self, my dear?”
“Vegetable quiche, salad, rolls, fruit compote, and some bouillon I made.”
“That will be a treat. Muriel has one or two necessary things to do with my poor old self; then I will consume it with relish. Can you stay a while?”
“I'm afraid not today, but I will see you on Monday, and you know when you feel up to it, someone will come and get you for church. I'm sure it will be soon.”
Muriel agreed. “Mr. Bowditch will be up and dancing at our annual Hubbard House Christmas party, just like last year, I'm sure.”
“Save me a waltz,” Faith said, and left.
The afternoon was filled with errands, and she was tired by the time she and Ben got home. She was a little surprised to see Tom in his study. He got up and put his arms around her.
“What is it? Tell me quick! My parents …”
“No, darling. It's Farley. He died this afternoon.”
“Oh no! And he seemed so well when I left.”
“I'm afraid they found him face down in your bouillon, Faith dear.”
“My bouillon!” Faith cried. “That's impossible. There couldn't possibly have been anything wrong with it. I tasted it myself. So did Mrs. Pendergast. And what about the rest of Hubbard House? Oh, Tom, don't tell me there's more!”
“Honey, I'm sure it was simply a horrible coincidence. No one else is the least bit sick. Farley had a very weak heart. In fact, it's amazing he'd gone on this long.”
They walked over to the couch and sat down. Ben wriggled between them and, whether from fatigue or the first stirrings of tact, kept quiet and nuzzled Faith's arm.
Meanwhile Faith was reviewing every ingredient in the bouillon and every step in making it. Too much Madeira for a man with a serious heart condition? Mrs. Pendergast hadn't said anything, and she had the part-time dietician's
list of instructions by her side at all times. Besides, there wouldn't have been any alcohol left after the soup was heated.
A sudden thought struck her.
“Tom,”—she could barely get the words out—“do you think he
drowned
in the soup?”
The idea had also occurred to Tom, but he had deemed it more prudent not to mention it.
“I suppose it's possible, darling. But I'm sure it will turn out to be his heart. Dr. Hubbard said he would call back to talk about funeral arrangements, and I'll ask him to let us know the exact cause of death.”
Tom brought his arm around to encircle his little family more closely and looked down at the two heads by his side. Every once in a while he thought he could detect a hint of red in Ben's mop—a little like Tom's own reddish brown hair—but today it shone as golden blond as Faith's, and they could have posed for a Breck shampoo ad.
“They'll never want me back at Hubbard House again,” Faith said soberly.
“Come on now. You're being ridiculous.”
“Well, wouldn't you be if someone had just died in your bouillon?” Faith retorted.
“Of course it's terribly upsetting, but if you're going to volunteer in an old age home, you'll have to get used to the fact of death.” Tom spoke slightly sternly. He didn't want Faith going off the deep end about something that was not in the slightest her fault. Poor Farley could just have well fallen into his mashed potatoes. It was a question of balance—or aim.
“Yes, I know that. I thought of it the first day I was there, but Hubbard House is such an undeathlike place. It's hard to believe all those sturdy people out playing golf and taking courses at Harvard Extension aren't going to keep on living forever.”
“True, it is hard in this case. The residents of Hubbard House represent an admirable—and! I might add very privileged—sector
of the elderly population. They have goals and don't consider that they're through so long as there's a breath left in their bodies.”
“Exactly. And Farley was one of them until only a few hours ago. It still doesn't seem possible that he'd dead. He was fine—a little short of breath, as usual, and that was all. We were talking about dancing together at the Christmas party.”
“Think of it as a good death then. Mercifully sudden.”
Faith felt tears pricking at her eyes. Maybe it would be too difficult to remain at Hubbard House much longer. Assuming that they wanted her back, that is. She wondered how the people who worked there all the time were able to cope with the deaths of those they had grown close to. Her upbringing and continued sojourn in a parish had provided her with strong, difficult-to-define beliefs—Tom referred to her as a combination of pantheism, early Christianity, and anthropotheism, with special emphasis on the “anthro” part—but whatever she was, she thought she should certainly have become used to death by now. She'd been to enough funerals. Yet she wasn't. No matter what she believed lay ahead, it was still the end of this life.
“Farley never married, but he has a number of nieces and nephews and their children, all of whom were devoted to him, I understand. He spoke to me about his wishes regarding a funeral a year or so ago. He wanted to be cremated and buried in Aleford in the Bowditch plot with a simple graveside service. One of his nieces lives in Beverly Farms, so I'll probably have to go up there this evening or tomorrow morning to talk with her.”
“Not tonight, Tom. Go in the morning if you can. Let's have a quiet night here.”
Tom realized he hadn't been home for the entire evening all week. He also realized there was a Celtics game on. But that had nothing to do with it.
“Good idea. There's no rush, since they have been expecting this for years, and I don't feel as pressed as I
might to comfort the bereaved or whatever it is I do. Besides, it's been an incredibly busy week.”
“Besides,” Faith added, “there's a game on. I'll dig out the chips and you drive to the packy for some brew.”
Tom laughed. “I won't watch if there's something you'd rather do or watch yourself,” he offered nobly.
“No, darling. After Cyle, you deserve it.” She stood up and pulled Ben to his feet. “I'll be in the kitchen making soup.”
 
On Sunday Faith sat in church waiting for the lector to find her place and start the lesson. Cyle had lighted the second Advent candle, and that appeared to be the extent to which Tom was willing to allow him to assist in the service. Eventually he'd have to increase his duties—even, God forfend, let him preach—but Tom had told her he didn't want to traumatize the congregation more than was absolutely necessary. It appeared Cyle was a singer, and Tom had immediately thrust him into the choir. Faith looked over her shoulder to the organ loft. She recognized him immediately from Tom's description. He stood gazing down on the congregation with the suggestion of a saintly smile lurking at the corners of his mouth. He was quite pretty. Brown, artfully tousled curls. Big, blue eyes and a pink-and-white complexion. A perfect choirboy. She turned back hastily as Mr. Thompson, the organist and choirmaster, shot her a look with “Why me, oh Lord?” written all over it. Cyle must have been making musical suggestions.
It was a lovely, sunny morning and the church was, as usual in winter, freezing cold. Faith had tried to snare one of the pews with the hot-air registers when she had arrived as a new bride; the usher had gently but firmly steered her to a pew below the pulpit and told her it had always been the minister's family's spot—and always would be, Faith had mentally finished for him. It might not be the most comfortable, but it did have a good view. She could keep
an eye on Tom, her fellow parishioners during the hymns, and the altar. Today the Alliance had decorated it with spruce boughs, holly, pinecones, and a few crimson Christmas roses. They were keeping the poinsettias for the grand finale.
She realized the lesson had started and dutifully turned her attention to Saint Luke: “And there shall be signs in the sun, and in the moon, and in the stars; and upon the earth distress of nations, with perplexity; the sea and the waves roaring.” She stopped listening after “perplexity.” These
were
perplexing times. Forget about the world at large. It was too much to consider, except as a dull throb constantly at the back of one's mind. But what about the perplexity at Hubbard House? What about Farley? Was it possible that something was put into his soup? Bizarre as it might seem, could Howard Perkins have stumbled onto a plot to do away with Farley? Was Howard's own death natural? They had both had heart conditions. Very convenient. But then much of the rest of Hubbard House did too.
No, it didn't make sense. She had learned from Charley MacIsaac and her own painfully direct experience that people get killed because they have something somebody else wants—
cui bono?
—and the somebody else is usually somebody he or she knows. Like the warm body lying next to you at night, plotting while you slumber away. No, this wasn't a murder case. It just didn't feel like one.
She realized she didn't want to leave Hubbard House until she'd learned what Howard had found out. He had had the advantage of living there, but she had the advantage of knowing she was looking for something and not being afraid to pry. If Mrs. P. would let her, she'd be back in the kitchen on Monday morning watching for signs—maybe not in the sun and the moon, but everywhere else.
Tom's family had always had a large Sunday dinner after church. Faith's mother had always served something light and quick—her perennially favorite “nice piece of fish and salad”—before whisking the family off to the Metropolitan
Museum or Carnegie Hall for the second worship service of the day. The Fairchilds played touch football on Sunday afternoons, weather permitting, and sometimes even when it didn't. Faith had scratched the football, but served up a joint-and-Yorkshire-pud type menu to Tom and whatever guests were present every Sunday. These meals were often slightly hilarious—the more serious tasks of the day over and only a hearty dinner and postprandial nap to worry about. Faith couldn't remember Tom indulging in the nap part, but Charley MacIsaac had fallen sound asleep in the big wing chair in the living room on more than one occasion. Today they had invited the church school director, Ms. Albright—Faith wanted to feed her up and keep her healthy—and an old college friend of Tom's, Allen Corcoran, who was in town on business. Faith was more than surprised to see Cyle walk in the door chummily with Tom. She was furious.
“This is Cyle Brennan. Cyle, my wife, Faith.” Tom had the grace to look deeply chagrined.
“An apt choice of name, Mrs. Fairchild.” Cyle smirked.
“I wouldn't know. I didn't choose it,” Faith snapped back. She didn't doubt that whatever his future wife's name was, it would be changed to “Faith” or something else appropriate. Then he would tell people about the coincidence. In fact, Faith's name was preordained. Generations of Sibley women were named Faith, Hope, and Charity after a trio of pious ancestresses, and Faith's father had not chosen to break the tradition. Jane Sibley had averted the possibility of a Charity by stopping at two children—Faith and her sister, Hope.
Tom was making piteously grotesque faces over Cyle's head, and Faith quickly shoved a small glass of sherry into Cyle's hand and parked him in the living room. As the door back into the kitchen swung shut, she turned to Tom, who answered her question before she had a chance to ask it. “Don't blame me, darling. There are strong and powerful forces at work here. I'm going to have to pray harder. I
swear I didn't invite him, but a voice that sounded much like mine was pulled from my throat and issued an invitation. He followed me into the vestry while I was taking my robe off. Maybe I would have been better able to resist if I had kept it on. I'll remember that in the future.”
“And well you should. This is the one and only time he's coming. Bad enough to have the incubus bothering you all week without having him disturb your Sunday dinner too.”
Tom looked gratefully at her. “Now, how can I help?”
“Ben went down for his nap nicely. They must run around a lot in Sunday school, so he's taken care of for the moment. All you have to do is pour some sherry for the others when they arrive and pass these.” She'd made some tiny choux pastry puffs filled with Roquefort cheese and walnuts. “But don't let Cyle start eating them yet or there won't be any for the rest of us.” She left in a huff to lay another place at the table before returning to the kitchen to finish the strong mustardy vinaigrette she would pour over the steamed Brussels sprouts moments before serving. She checked on the crown roast of lamb and gratin Dauphinoise—cheesy potatoes, Tom and Ben called them—and put the butternut squash soufflé in to bake. Every fall she felt a brief regret for all the summer food that wouldn't appear for another year except in some colorized form; then fall food started and there was nothing wrong with squash, apples, sprouts, and the rest of the things one took over the river and through the woods to grandmother's house. The apples were appearing as pie, but with a mille-feuille crust instead of the more traditional one. If anyone asked for cheese, she'd give him a squeeze.
Just as Tom started to carve, the phone rang. This was such an ordinary occurrence in their lives that Faith didn't even get annoyed anymore. It was like ants at a picnic. You lived with it.
BOOK: The Body in the Bouillon
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