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Authors: Katherine Hall Page

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BOOK: The Body in the Bouillon
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“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 voice 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 not the 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 the leftover caviar canapes. 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 canapes 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?
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. It would 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.
Dr. Hubbard galloped by, and presently Faith spotted Denise.
“There's my friend Denise,” she told Tom. “The woman in the black crepe Armani dress over there.”
“Pretty, but not my type. Too fashionable,” Tom commented.
“And I'm not?”
“That doesn't deserve an answer. Let's just say I like to run my fingers through some hair, not an inch of stubble. If I want that, I can stop shaving for a couple of days.”
What was it with men and long hair? If Tom and his ilk had their way, we'd all be Rapunzels, Faith reflected.
“I wonder who that is she's dancing with. I haven't seen him at Hubbard House. Maybe someone she's seeing.”
Denise's partner was handsome in a Richard Gere sort of way, and his tuxedo was a bit more current—and snuggly fitting—than those of the men who were waltzing
around him. They mostly sported the timeless boxy numbers from Brooks dug out from the backs of their closets year after year for occasions like this.
Faith looked over at Tom. He looked good in black—fortunately for his calling—but she had to admit she preferred the well-cut tux from Barney's she had given him their first Christmas together to his robes.
He caught her stare. “Want to dance, honey? It is a ball, remember.”
“Love to,” she replied, and jumped up. “I don't think my card is filled.”
“Lucky, lucky me,” Tom whispered in her ear as he pulled her close.
“Dance me over to Denise—I want to say hello,” Faith instructed him, and veered toward the other couple.
“I was under the impression that the dance floor was the one place where I got to lead, darling, but it looks like I'm wrong there too. Just shove me wherever you want.”
“Martyr,” Faith said, and steered toward Denise.
As they got closer, Faith became aware that Denise was involved in a heated conversation with her partner. Her cheeks were red and she seemed close to tears. When they drew up next to them, Faith heard her say, “Please,
please.
You know I wouldn't ask you unless—” She broke off abruptly at the sight of Faith and composed her face in a welcoming smile.
“How lovely to see you, Faith. And you must be the Reverend Fairchild. I'm so glad you could come and I was able to get you at my table.”
“Yes, we saw. You can tell us everyone's names.” Faith hoped the hint wasn't too blatant, and to cover up asked hastily, “Is Mrs. P. here?”
Surprisingly, Denise's partner answered.
“Mrs. Pendergast! In this crowd! Do you think she got an invite, Denny?” he asked mockingly.
“Of course she did,” Denise answered in a slightly angry tone. “She told me she'd rather put her feet up. I
think her sister-in-law was coming over and they were going to watch their tapes of ‘The Golden Girls' and have a glass or two of Kahlùa. A big night,” she finished on a lighter note.
The music stopped and Dr. Hubbard walked up to the band leader and took the microphone.
“Would you take your seats now, friends? They're going to be serving dinner and you're also going to have to hear from me.”
The crowd moved immediately to the round tables, neither prospect being an unpleasant one, it appeared.
Faith and Tom followed Denise. She still had not introduced them to the man with whom she was dancing, nor did he seem to be seated at her table.
Someone who obviously knew Hubbard House, Faith noted. Could it be Donald Hubbard? But Donald was in his mid to late thirties, and this man was much younger. Besides, there was something about him that suggested a profession other than medicine. She realized what it was. He was tan—and this was the wrong time of year for those doctors who frequented the course or courts to have one. Then she remembered Charmaine had recently come back from a cruise. Perhaps her husband had gone with her.
Faith sat down, and a waiter brought a steaming bowl of what she saw from the menu card was crawfish bisque with Armagnac. She liked eating someone else's cooking as much as and sometimes more than her own—if it was good. She took a sip. This was. The rest of the menu was appropriately festive: Boston Bibb lettuce with pomegranate-seed dressing, beef Wellington, wild rice, and plum pudding for dessert. They were going to have to do a great deal of dancing to burn it all off, she told Tom.
“Don't worry, I'm ready.”
“Neither of you looks like you've ever had to worry about a calorie in your lives, whereas I've been on a diet continuously since I was thirteen.” Denise sighed. She reached into her pocketbook and took out a pack of cigarettes.
“Oh, I almost forgot. No smoking. Roland is quite a crusader.”
Faith had noticed all the signs at Hubbard House with a picture of the bird and “No Puffin'” on them, but assumed it was because of a state requirement. She was thankful for Dr. Hubbard's convictions. She hated to eat with the smell of smoke surrounding her. As to what people wanted to do to themselves elsewhere, that was their own business.
Dr. Hubbard was starting to speak, and the microphone didn't make any untoward noises for him, nor did he find it necessary to test it. He started in with no ado at all.
“Residents of Hubbard House, my charming Pink Ladies, spouses, friends—friends all, I'd like to welcome you to yet another Holly Ball. Although we have already passed the time of year when we give collective thanks, I have always felt that this gathering is my personal thanksgiving. It is the time when we gather together in joy, and as I look out at all of you, I feel enormously thankful—for what you contribute to Hubbard House with your time and other resources, but most of all for the opportunity you grant me to continue doing what I have loved best in my life. As many of you are no doubt aware, Hubbard House came into existence a little over twenty-four years ago. Before that I was a doctor—a country doctor in those long-ago days. It was a wonderful experience—all those night calls.” He paused for the laughter. “But when my dear wife Mary's illness prompted me to look for something that would keep me closer to her side, I knew immediately what I wanted to do. With her invaluable advice, I set about to create a place where one could live as an elderly person with both dignity and security. Where the individual would be cherished from the time he or she entered until leaving. I hope and pray we have accomplished this and will continue to do so for a long time to come.”
He stopped at the thunderous applause, then continued.
“So many others came on board to help us, and many of them are still here raising the sails”—another pause for appreciative laughter. “I'd like to introduce a few of them, though of course they are well known to you. First my esteemed colleague and son, Dr. Donald Hubbard, and his lovely wife, Charmaine.”
They stood to more applause, and Faith got a look at Donald. Roland's wife must have been short, she instantly thought. Otherwise Donald looked quite a bit like the old block. Charmaine had taken his arm and waved.
“Next my daughter, Muriel, without whom … as they say.” Muriel stood up. She was wearing a black taffeta dress with a white collar and small jet buttons down the front. Faith saw her instantly at age eleven, still wearing smocked dresses with sashes. The braces had probably gone on about then too. Poor Muriel—one of those girls who got the lead in
Our Town
in high school and kept playing Emily earnestly ever after.
“And of course Sylvia Vale, my administrative assistant, who was there when we opened our doors.” Sylvia rose and bowed regally.
“John McGuire, the chairman of our board of trustees, who keeps me honest.” A genial, portly man with a fringe of silver hair stood amidst the laughter.
“And finally, two ladies—the pillars of the temple, so to speak—Leandra Rhodes, current president of our Residents' Council, and Bootsie Brennan, the head of our Ladies' Auxiliary—the Pinkest Lady of them all.”
So this was the noxious Cyle's mother—a diminutive creature in rose velvet. Either it was Nice 'n Easy or Cyle hadn't produced any gray hairs in her shining gold locks, which Faith sincerely doubted. Small women like Bootsie, probably weighing all of a hundred pounds, were often heavyweights in other arenas, Faith had learned, and she didn't doubt that Bootsie—and what was that a nickname for?—could take anybody in the room.
Leandra Rhodes—she remembered Denise had mentioned
her. She was tall and stately, with a braided crown of gray tresses. No touching up for her. She wore an ancient, slightly rusty looking turquoise taffeta-and-velvet gown that had seen a great deal of service—most likely first purchased for Waltz Evenings at this very hotel. Her white kid gloves—so difficult to get cleaned nowadays and looking pearly gray even from a distance—came up over her elbows. Faith was not fooled for an instant by the genteel shabbiness. Leandra was a classic Boston lady, a low heeler, with plenty of Adamses, Higginsons, and Shaws gracing the family boughs, just as there were also the fruits of her ancestors' labors stored away in the State Street Bank. She looked like a woman who knew exactly what she—and everyone else—should do.
BOOK: The Body in the Bouillon
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