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Authors: Katherine Hall Page

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Faith turned and realized that Eddie Russell had slithered up to her side. “Ready for our dance? You promised, remember?” He smiled, and he did have a captivating smile. Tom was still wrapped up replaying the Norwell-Hanover Thanksgiving game of 1976, so she decided to dance with Eddie. Purely for research; the man was such a sleaze.
“I do remember. I didn't promise, but let's dance anyway.”
They walked to the dance floor and started to dance. The orchestra provided a plaintive rendition of “Memories” and Eddie went into his dancing mode, closing his eyes slightly and humming tunefully along with the music. He began to pull her closer in gradually increasing increments, and at the same time his hand began to ascend from her silk-covered waist to her bare back. At the first touch of
vertebrae, Faith said, “Get your hand off my back, Edsel dear, and don't do it again.”
“Come on, Faith, you didn't wear a dress like this for no reason.”
Faith stopped dancing and stepped back, still in his arms.
“Why don't you go do to yourself what you have in mind to do to me?” she told him succinctly.
It took him a moment to get it, and he flushed angrily. She was walking away by then.
“Is that any way for a minister's wife to talk?” he called after her.
“Probably not,” she answered, and went to find Tom. Definitely time to go home.
They said good night to Denise, who had gotten a strong second wind somewhere and slowed her hectic recreation of the twist to beg them to stay. “You can't go yet! The party's just starting and the band is playing all these oldies. I've requested a hustle next. It's such a hoot!” She seemed genuinely excited about the prospect, but the Fairchilds, less enthusiastic, said good night again and threaded their way through the writhing dancers.
Out on the sidewalk, while they waited for their car to be brought around, they were joined by Donald and Charmaine. Charmaine was leaning on Donald's arm ever so slightly and had a determinedly gallant look on her face. What exactly was it she had survived? Faith wondered. Their car arrived first and Donald tenderly helped her in. “She's very tired,” he told them, and drove off quickly.
Tom and Faith laughed. “After your description of her with the moldly leftovers, I didn't think Charmaine could provide much more amusement, but I should have known better. Women like that are a never-ending source.”
They got into the car to drive home, first detouring to drive past the lights on Boston Common. Garlands of red, blue, green, and gold were strung in the bare tree branches like jeweled necklaces, gaudy but beautiful trimmings
against the sedate brick townhouses lining Beacon Street behind them. A parking space appeared—too good to waste—and Tom and Faith walked up to the state house totally surrounded by the ancient trees and their unaccustomed diadems. They strolled back to the car reluctantly, and as they turned west on Storrow Drive away from the distraction of the lights, Faith realized that Charmaine hadn't been carrying her enormous purse. Nor had Donald. She didn't seem the type to forget her essentials. Nor mislay them. It was puzzling.
 
The next morning—or actually the same morning—arrived too soon, but they managed to get themselves up and even dressed and fed. Ben was revoltingly cheerful.
“I must be getting old,” Tom said. “I used to get by on a lot less sleep than this and be loaded for bear the following morning.”
“What a curious expression that is,” Faith commented. “But it's true—I really feel it the next morning when I've been out late. I blame Benjamin and all the sleep deprivation we suffered when he was a baby. We just haven't caught up. One good thing though: when we're in our eighties, we won't need so much sleep and we can stay out as late as we want.”
“Great. By the way, were you also thinking of waiting until then for Ben the Sequel?” Tom had been subtly and not so subtly hinting for some months that it was sibling time for Ben.
“You never know.” Faith smiled and got into her car. She was not opposed to having another baby. It was just hard to cross that bridge from nice idea to fact. And it wasn't as if they were not trying. They just weren't
trying—
and all the unspontaneous counting of days that involved.
Mrs. Pendergast was already up to the salads when Faith arrived and, contrary to all Faith's expectation, was full of curiosity about the ball. She wanted to know what everyone had been wearing, what they had eaten, what Dr.
Hubbard had said in his speech, and so forth. Faith was happy to oblige and was rewarded by an unguarded comment or two from Mrs. P.
After Faith had described the gowns of Leandra Rhodes and Bootsie Brennan, Mrs. Pendergast chuckled. “Those two! They hate each other like poison. Each thinks the other is purposely working against her. You should have seen the fur fly when Mrs. Rhodes started a fund drive sponsored by the Residents' Council to buy books for the library. Well, according to Mrs. Brennan, that was taking over the job of the Auxiliary. They were the only ones who were supposed to raise money for Hubbard House. Mrs. Rhodes said if so why weren't they doing a better job of stocking the library, and Mrs. Brennan said it was her impression that most residents had their own books, and finally the whole thing ended up in Dr. Hubbard's lap, as usual, and he just put them both in charge of the thing, as usual. So Mrs. Rhodes gets all the residents to donate what they can and Mrs. Brennan goes outside. It's pretty even. Then Mrs. Brennan's son comes up with some huge secret donation and it looked like she'd won. But Mrs. Rhodes turned around and got a secret one herself. Of course everybody figured out soon enough it was their own money.”
Faith laughed. “It sounds like it must be some library. I'll have to take a closer look.”
“It is, but they raised so much money that in the end they decided to put most of it in the general fund, because you know—though I hate to say it—the people here do have their own books or go over to the town library, and they never really needed so many books in the first place.”
“Why do you hate to say it?” Faith asked.
Mrs. Pendergast looked over her shoulder and muttered under her breath, “Never cared much for Mrs. Brennan—Bootsie, what kind of name is that for a woman anyway? Even for a cat it's going some. Always wanting to
know ‘What are we giving them today, Mrs. P.?' She's never scraped a carrot in her life, that one.”
Faith sympathized. It looked like Cyle and the mater were cut from the same cloth. “What does Mr. Brennan do?” she asked Mrs. Pendergast, although Tom would know.
“It's what he did. Died and left a rich widow a year after they were married. Right after his son was born.”
Faith stifled the remark that was called for—something along the lines of “took one look,” or “how did he stand it a year?”—and got busy with the bread.
Mrs. Pendergast had had enough of true confessions. “There's snow in the air. Smelled like it when I went to start my car this morning.”
Two years ago Faith would have scoffed at the quaintness of this archetypal New England prophecy, but she thought it smelled like snow herself this morning. There was a kind of smell, or lack of smell. The air was dry, odorless, and empty—waiting to be filled with flakes.
“Anyhow,” Mrs. P. continued in the same folksy vein, “it's time for some more snow. You know what they say: ‘A green Christmas means a full graveyard come spring.'”
Faith wondered what cheerful soul had first made this observation and decided to ignore the homily in favor of the here and now. “Should we make up some stew and a few soups in case the weather gets bad and the weekend help can't get here?” she asked.
“I've already done a beef stew and it's in the freezer. If you want to help with some soup, that would be getting it done. But”—she looked over her ridiculous diamante glasses at Faith—“no bouillon.”
It was three o'clock. Ben had awakened from his nap, and Faith was restless. Too early to start dinner, and she didn't feel like doing any of the things she had to do. Like iron. She knew not what worldly goods she might bequeath to her children, yet of one thing she was sure. There would be a basket of ironing sitting in the closet.
“Want to go see Pix and play with the dogs?” she asked Ben, confident of his response. There was nothing Benjamin liked better than rolling around on the Millers' kitchen floor with their golden retrievers. It wasn't necessary to bundle him up too much for the quick dash across the driveway, and soon she was knocking at Pix's kitchen door.
“Are you busy? Or would you like some company?” Faith asked.
“I'd love an excuse to stop. Every time I add these up, I get a different number.” She pointed to a pile of papers on the kitchen table. “It's the final tally for the cookie sales. We have to make sure the number of boxes sold equals the number delivered and paid for.”
Pix was the town coordinator for the Girl Scout cookie drive again, even though Samantha hadn't been a scout for some time. It was one of those jobs that, once having fallen to Pix, stuck. She was active in everything from the preschool PTA to Meals on Wheels. All the organizations in town knew a good thing when they saw it, and she was the original girl who couldn't say no.
“Don't you ever think of shedding a few of these responsibilities?” Faith wondered.
“Believe me I try, but they say ‘just one more year' and I agree. But this really
is
the last year for the cookies. Sam was very annoyed at having his precious Porsche outside while the Tagalongs and Trefoils were in the garage.”
Sam Miller, a Boston lawyer, had purchased the sports car as a defiant gesture toward the depredations of middle age when he had turned forty several years earlier. The other less benign gesture—the prerequisite affair with a younger woman—made at the same time had fortunately not been repeated, nor did it seem likely that it would.
“Give me your calculator and let me help you with this. If there's one thing I'm good at, it's settling accounts,” Faith offered.
Pix put a cookie in each of Ben's hands and placed him high up on a stool so the dogs wouldn't eat the cookies before he could, then put a plate of them on the table. She poured two mugs of coffee and they settled down to work. Faith had become used to drinking bottomless mugs of coffee in Aleford's suburban kitchens. Her espresso days were definitely over, she thought with a slight inward sigh.
The job was soon done.
“You're a wizard, Faith. It would have taken me hours to do it.”
“It's good practice for February, when I start the business again. My profit depends on calculations like this.”
“I can't wait. I'll never have to cook for another dinner party again.” Pix, who had shot the rapids whitewater canoeing coast to coast, regularly skied the bowl at Tuckerman Ravine, and had taught her teenage son to drive, went completely to pieces at the prospect of entertaining in Aleford.
“I've told you. I'd be happy to get everything ready for you anytime. You don't have to hire me,” Faith protested.
“No, you're a professional. It's your bread and butter, so I'll wait my turn.”
Ben was opening Pix's cupboards and soon became engrossed in her museum-quality and -quantity Tupperware collection. There was a shape and size for every food yet discovered. Faith knew Pix didn't mind the mess.
Pix was the only person, apart from Tom and Charley MacIsaac, whom Faith had told about Howard Perkins' letter and Chat's call. Pix had lived in Aleford all her life, but her ear had always been kept to a different kind of ground than Millicent's or even the chief's. A camping ground. Still, she might know something about some of the people Faith had met the night before, and she started off by asking about the younger Hubbards.
“Of course I know Charmaine and Donald. They've lived in town since they got married, which must have been about ten years ago,” Pix responded. “But our paths don't cross very often. Besides, Charmaine is away a lot. They don't have any children, so I guess she gets bored around here. She's always off to Florida or on a cruise somewhere.”
“Boring stuff like that,” said Faith.
“Well, boring to me. Muriel was a couple of years behind me in school. I always felt sorry for her. It wasn't that she was unattractive, but she was so serious no one ever dated her much, and she didn't even have many girlfriends,
except for a few who were in Future Nurses. I remember her mostly rushing to class with a big stack of books—all by herself.”
“What about someone named Edsel Russell? Ever run into him?”
“His older brother was in Sam's and my graduating class, but I don't know Eddie. There's a big age difference.”
“You mean Eddie Russell is from Aleford! I should have guessed,” Faith exclaimed.
“He's from Aleford, though he hasn't been here much. He left when he was a teenager. I don't know if he ever finished school. His father, Stanley, ran off when the kids were young, and his mother died about ten years ago, so there was nothing back here for him. His brother, Stanley Junior, is a career Army man. He's at some base in Texas.”
“I wonder why Eddie came back to Aleford,” Faith mused.
“I can't tell you that, but I can tell you how. It was pretty hot gossip at the time—about two years ago. Charmaine met him down in Boca Raton. He was the golf pro or something like that at the resort where she was staying. Hubbard House had an opening, and he must have needed a job.”
“And maybe Charmaine decided he could be of service in other ways?”
“It
has
been hinted. She's not known for her devotion to Donald, and a lot of people wonder why he ever puts up with her.”
“Love, my dear, blind infatuation. It sticks out all over him.”
“Last night must have been very interesting then. Tell me, what did Charmaine wear? Anybody who wears a chartreuse body suit and a lace T-shirt to do her marketing in was bound to look pretty spectacular at the ball.”
Faith filled her in, and they spent some more time talking about the Hubbards and Eddie Russell, in particular, but it was speculation that didn't take them anywhere.
Faith stood up. “I've got to go and get supper ready. Let me know if you remember anything more about the Hubbards or Eddie. I have a hunch that whatever Howard found out has to do with Charmaine and Eddie. Maybe they're operating some sort of scam using Hubbard House as a front—kickbacks from the hospital suppliers, that's a possibility, or doctoring the books. From the giant Rolex Eddie was sporting, it's my guess he likes a healthy cash flow.”
“But Dr. Hubbard or Muriel would know if something like that was going on. Besides, it isn't likely they'd let Charmaine anywhere near the books, and Eddie would only have access to transactions dealing with maintenance. Of course, that could be pretty lucrative.”
Faith made a face. “Don't be so logical. Charmaine and Eddie are the only leads I've been able to come up with so far, slim though they be. Well, there's still plenty of time before Christmas to find out. Although I would have liked to have more to report to Chat. She's calling tonight. I got a letter from her yesterday announcing the fact so that she'll be sure to find me home, I suppose.”
“Anyway, you're having fun, aren't you?”
“Yes, I suppose I am. I like the people at Hubbard House, even though some of them are a bit like characters from that game Clue. The cook, Charmaine, Sylvia Vale, Leandra Rhodes—her name may not be Mustard, but I heard at the ball her husband is a colonel, retired, and he
does
have a mustache.”
“Just so you don't find a body in the conservatory with a candlestick next to it.”
“Don't worry. Whatever this is, it isn't murder.”
She slipped Ben back into his polar-fleece jacket and headed for the door. The dogs began to bark in disappointment. Ben started to join them.
“He has got to stop identifying with your dogs so totally,” Faith said. “When Lizzie was over the other day, they were running from bush to bush lifting their legs and falling down convulsed with laughter.”
Pix was convulsed herself, and they left her surrounded by her canine children, Dusty, Arty, and Hanky.
 
Chat did call that night and seemed satisfied by Faith's description of her activities to date. After Faith told her about Eddie and Charmaine, she commented, “They sound like the types who go around selling shares in nonexistent diamond mines—not literally, because the residents of Hubbard House seem too savvy for that, but its equivalent. Perhaps this delightful duo approached Howard, or someone else told him about a scheme. Try to see if you can get close to them and maybe they'll try to rope you in. Act dumb and naive. I know that's a stretch, dear.”
“The idea of getting any closer to Eddie than the next county is pretty loathsome, but for the moment it's all I have to go on.”
“In any case, it doesn't appear that anything at Hubbard House is going to place your pretty little head in peril, and you're leaving Benjamin at home, so he's safe—as opposed to your last escapade. I may have a large number of nieces, but you know you're my favorite and I wouldn't want to be the cause, though indirect, of any harm.”
“Hope told me you told her
she
was your favorite niece,” Faith chided.
“And so she is. You all are. Now, this is costing me a fortune and I'm saving all my pennies for Christmas gifts.”
“I hope you haven't changed your mind about coming to Aleford for Christmas, instead of going to Darien with Mom and Dad—especially if you are doing all that shopping.”
“No, I'll be with you. But I simply can't understand why your sister and Quentin are dragging poor Jane and Theodore all the way to Connecticut on Christmas Day to be with Quentin's parents when it is Theodore's busiest time of the year.”
“Because Hope thought it would be nice for the two
families to be together. Remember, come January we'll all be related by marriage.”
“Well, much as I love her, I think it's a bit selfish, and besides, I was used to going to them for Christmas Day.”
Faith thought it was a bit selfish of Hope herself. After Christmas Eve and Christmas Day services, Theodore Sibley was always exhausted and had been known to doze off while carving. But she also knew how delighted her parents were with the upcoming nuptials, and they had met Quentin Lewis' parents only once before.
“You were invited, Chat,” Faith reminded her.
“I'm just beginning to get used to Quentin. I certainly don't want to meet any more of them before the wedding.”
Hope's fiancé's Filofax was filled in up to and beyond the year 2000, and fortunately Hope fitted into the general scheme of things. Since Hope herself had been reading
The Wall Street Journal
and
Forbes
since early adolescence, they had everything in common. The one thing that made it all palatable so far as Faith was concerned was that the two of them were crazy about each other.
“We're just happy you're going to be here, Chat.”
“That's kind of you, dear. I'll get you something especially nice, and don't worry, I'll stop at Dean & DeLuca before I get on the plane and bring as much as my poor old arms can carry. Now good-bye.”
She hung up before Faith had a chance to express her delight and thanks. She was very happy that Chat was coming. With a husband and father in the business, holidays could not be spent en famille, and even though Tom's family would be with them, she liked having a member of her own tribe around.
 
“It's already beginning to snow,” Tom commented the next morning as he looked out the kitchen window. “Are you sure you ought to go over to Byford today? Those back roads could get pretty treacherous before noon.”
BOOK: The Body in the Bouillon
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