The Body in the Bouillon ff-3

by Katherine Hall Page

  “Vegetable quiche, salad, rolls, fruit compote, and some bouillon I made."

  “That will be a treat. Muriel has one or two nec- essary 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.”

  Three

  “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 lied 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 thedeep end about something that was not in the slightest her fault. Poor Farley could just as well have 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 un-deathlike 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's 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 anthropothe- ism, 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 for-fend, 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 abo
ut 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 HubbardHouse 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 jointand-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 Charle 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 Lyle Brennan. Lyle, 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 incubusbothering 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 millefeuille 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.

  “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—Farley'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, F
aith 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 thedoctor 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 the 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.