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Authors: Katherine Hall Page

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BOOK: The Body in the Bouillon
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“I'll get that, honey. Please start.”
It was Dr. Hubbard. Faith wasn't sure what to say or
ask, but he solved the problem for her by dominating the entire conversation.
“Sorry to bother you, but your husband was anxious for the results of the autopsy. Had to do it because of the soup, you know.” He gave a brief laugh, although Faith failed to find anything funny about it. Perhaps if it hadn't been her particular bouillon …
“Anyway, tell Reverend Fairchild it was cardiac failure—Parley's ticker—just as we thought, and we wouldn't have had any bother if he'd fallen backward, but Farley always did like to do things his way.” Another laugh.
“You can have the funeral anytime you want now. Well, I'll let you go. Drop by and introduce yourself when you come tomorrow. We're enormously grateful for your help, and I hope we'll see both you and your husband at our little shindig on Wednesday.”
Faith thanked him and walked back to the table filled with relief and intense curiosity to meet the man behind the voice.
They were all tucking into their lamb and listening to Cyle expound on transubstantiation with varying degrees of lack of interest. Faith hastened to interrupt him with the news. Cyle took a bite of potato, carefully finished chewing, then commented, “It's so sad to see that generation going. We'll not see their like again, I fear.”
What did this boy read? Faith wondered. Frances Hodgson Burnett?
“I was especially fond of old Farley. He seemed to be in perfect health last week when I saw him.” Cyle fixed Faith with a mildly accusatory eye. Had he heard about the bouillon?
“I didn't know you were acquainted with Mr. Bowditch,” Tom said, his back up at “old Farley.”
“I wasn't until he went to Hubbard House. The mater is one of their Pink Ladies—that's what they call the volunteers—and I've always made it a point to visit and help in any way I can.”
Tom had trouble hiding a grin. Faith had neglected to tell him about the Pink Ladies, and she knew he couldn't wait to tease her about her new moniker.
Cyle continued to address the air. “Yes, men like Farley are a vanishing breed.”
Which considering their ages is no surprise, Faith almost replied.
“Men who know the true meaning of service. Who are devoted to their brothers.”
“And sisters?” Faith murmured. Pamela Albright's lips twitched.
“I happen to know we're in for a little windfall, Tom. Farley mentioned it to me—in confidence, but sadly that no longer applies,” Cyle said fatuously. “And Hubbard House too, of course. Farley was devoted to Hubbard House.”
The Reverend Fairchild had had enough.
“Catch the Celtics Friday night, Allen?”
It was a pleasant lunch despite Cyle's presence, but they all breathed a collective sigh of relief when he announced he had to leave before coffee as he had an appointment.
“So sorry,” Faith said crisply, and suggested to the others that they take their cups into the living room. If he had such an important appointment, why had he wheedled his way into dinner in the first place? Nowhere else to go? With a passing thought that quickly evaporated in the winter air as to what this appointment might be, Faith led the way through the door into the living room. Tom hastened to see Cyle out.
Allen sprawled comfortably on the couch. “Talkative young bastard, excuse the language,” he commented as the front door closed. They all exploded in laughter.
“I have half a mind to put him in charge of the pageant. He has so many ideas about how it should be done correctly,” Pamela said.
“At least get him sewing on the angels' robes,” Faith advised. “So long as he's here, let him be useful.”
Allen stood up. “Come on, Tom, the classy hotel they're putting me up in gives me guest privileges at some health club. Let's go knock a few squash balls around. You can give yours whatever name you want and I have a few for mine. Then we can hit the steam room and our troubles will melt away.” Allen was a lawyer, and according to Tom, he wasn't particularly pleased with the way the case he was working on in Boston was going.
“Sounds like heaven,” Tom said. “Give me a minute to help Faith and I'm your man.”
“I'll help too—it's the least I can do for such a delicious repast,” Allen offered.
“No, go on—it sounds like exactly what the doctor ordered, or would have, and I'm going to clean up in a leisurely way—there isn't that much to do.”
“Are you sure, Faith? Otherwise I have to be going too,” Pamela said.
“Oh, stay—not to clean up, but have another cup of coffee.”
“I really can't. I shouldn't even have taken the time for lunch, but I can never resist one of your invitations.”
They left, and Faith reveled in the solitude of the house for almost fifteen minutes before Ben awoke and she took him to the playground. Life at two and a half was an endless round of pleasure.
She wanted to get out of the house too, she realized. She'd been spending every spare moment finishing she Christmas cards, and last night she and Tom had wrestled with the tree lights for an hour before even starting to trim the balsam fir Faith preferred for the smell that filled the room. A service that untangled the lines, replaced missing bulbs, and strung the lights on the tree so the wires didn't show would make a fortune. She was sure something like it must exist in New York: S.O.S. Tree Lite, or Baby Let Us Light Your Tree.
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 eating.”
“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.
BOOK: The Body in the Bouillon
11.42Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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