The Body in the Bouillon ff-3

by Katherine Hall Page

  “Merry Christmas, Faith. Ellery will be down in a moment. He always has trouble with his studs and insisted I go ahead.”

  Most of the men were in black tie, elegant, courtly, and like the women in the pretty once-ayear Christmas gowns, very well preserved.

  “Merry Christmas, Julia." Faith paused. It was hard to know what to say next. Since she hadwalked into the room, she'd had an odd sensation that none of the events of the past week had occurred. That Eddie, Leandra, Muriel—and maybe even James, the prodigal, would come through the door and it all would have been a dream. Something to mention briefly in the golden glow of the room, so whoever you were speaking to could laugh incredulously at such a phantasm and make it disappear.

  Julia didn't laugh. She spoke into the pause. "It seems so odd to be here like this, yet there isn't anything else to do but go on. This is what Roland wants—and all of us agree. He spoke to Ellery and told him what had happened and asked that he tell everyone else. Poor Muriel. I had no idea she was so unhappy.”

  Faith hadn't considered things from this angle, but of course Muriel was unhappy. Living in such isolation. Easy pickings for someone like Eddie Russell.

  Julia continued. "Some of us knew about James. I did, because Ellery mentioned once that there was another child. Roland lost two children on Wednesday. I don't know how he can bear it."

  “Where is he tonight?"

  “Sylvia said he would look in later for a few minutes. She was able to convince him it wasn't necessary for him to be here all the time. That people understood."

  “I was glad to hear that Leandra is going to be all right."

  “Yes, I saw her yesterday. She's demanding to come home, so I'd say she's mending fast. I think I'd like to be like her—or like her in that way—when I grow up."

  “Me too," Faith agreed, and the two women laughed.

  Faith recognized some of the Pink Ladies from the Holly Ball. Denise wouldn't be waltzing in tonight, but she was going to be all right. Tom had been to see her on Tuesday and she had called Faith just this morning. Joel was staying with Joan and Bill Winter, Denise's neighbors, and visited her every day. The thing she had feared most—that he would hate and reject her—had not happened, and they were both going into therapy. She told Faith it was going to be the happiest new year of her life.

  Faith finished her Dream Puff, aware of Mrs. P.'s eagle eye from across the room. She saw Sylvia Vale and excused herself from Julia to say merry Christmas. A few minutes more, then she could leave.

  As she crossed the room, something that looked like a Christmas package all wrapped up in shiny paper and ribbons swooped down upon her.

  “Mrs. Fairchild! So glad you could come, and I do hope we can keep you on our roster of volunteers?" It was Bootsie.

  “I am going to be busy starting my catering business again, but I would be happy to help out if you get stuck." Faith was beginn'ng to count the days until Mr. Dandy—not his real name, she suspected and hoped—of Yankee Doodle Kitchens left for Florida and she could hang her toque out.

  “That's so kind of you." Bootsie lowered hervoice and slipped her arm through Faith's, drawing her to one side, and enveloping her in a slightly nauseating cloud of Beautiful. The woman must bathe in it, Faith thought. Like mother, like son.

  “And I'd like to thank you and the reverend for being so good to my boy. He's been having a hard time lately. Girl trouble, I suspect, but then a mother's always the last to know." Faith was fairly certain this was true in Bootsie's case.

  The woman was still talking, and suddenly Faith's ears opened wide and it was all she could do to stop herself from bursting into the Hallelujah Chorus. "I'm not supposed to mention anything until he's had a chance to talk to your husband, Tom. I hope I can call him that. I always think of him that way, since that's how Cyle speaks of him. Maybe Reverend Tom, but that sounds like one of those TV shows. But Cyle has begun to have doubts. I know you'll be as shocked as I was, though I did wonder in the beginning when he had been an economics major why he wanted to go into the ministry. He's going to take some time off and think about it all.”

  Faith wanted to get this straight. The torrent of words, the perfume, and maybe the combination of Dream Puffs and claret cup were starting to make her feel sick. "Are you saying that Cyle is dropping out of divinity school?"

  “Well, maybe not permanently, but for now, yes." Hosanna.

  Faith pried herself loose from Bootsie and went to find Sylvia. She definitely had to go home, or lie down, or find a bathroom, or throw up. The only other time she ever remembered feeling like this was before Ben was born.

  She stopped dead in her tracks and did some counting. My God, she thought, I'm pregnant! She had never had morning sickness, just night. Her joy was slightly clouded by the memory. Then she felt happy—what a Christmas present for Tomconflicted—what about the business?—strongI'll manage—and terrified. She looked for a chair, then decided she'd better go call Tom to come get her. It was early and he could pop Ben in the car. There was no way she could drive feeling like this.

  She left the room, which was now filled with all the residents, volunteers, family, and friends. There was plenty of laughter, and couples were starting to dance.

  Tom answered on the fourth ring. It must be a close game.

  “Honey, I'm sorry to bother you, but do you think you could come and pick me up? I'm not feeling well. A bit mal de mer."

  “Faith! Do you think this could be—"

  “Possibly" His elation leaped over the wires, but the room was beginning to spin and she wanted him to come quickly. "In fact, more than possibly. We'll talk about it later. I'm going to go upstairs and lie down until you come. I'll come down in, what, about twenty minutes? No, thirty—you've got to get Ben into his snowsuit."

  “Oh, darling, this is the best news. I can't believe it. I won't keep you. Go take care of yourselfand we'll be there as fast as we can. I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  Faith hung up the phone and staggered to the elevator. She'd go into the annex and find an empty room. The guest room had lost whatever appeal it might have once had. First she got her coat. She seemed to be freezing.

  Upstairs nothing was stirring, not even a mouse. She opened a door and peeked into the darkened room. Something white and filmy was silhouetted against the window. It was hovering over the bed.

  Farley's ghost!

  She started to back out of the door and run. The ghost stood up. It wasn't Christmas Past. It was Roland Hubbard.

  Roland Hubbard in a turn-of-the-century nurse's uniform complete with wimple.

  Ten

  Dr. Hubbard raced to the door, grabbed Faith, pulled her into the room, and pushed her down in a chair by the window. He had a syringe in his hand and was clearly not indulging in just a little harmless cross dressing.

  “What are you doing here, Mrs. Fairchild?" he hissed angrily.

  “I was feeling a—"

  “Shhh, we don't want to wake the patient.”

  Faith lowered her voice to a whisper. It wasn't hard. "I was feeling a little sick and came up here to lie down, but I'll go to another room. I'm sorry I disturbed you.”

  She attempted to get out of the chair. He pushed her back down and kept his hand flat against hersternum. It was hard to breathe, and she thought she might be sick.

  “What to do? What to do?" he was muttering to himself. He looked over at the sleeping figure in the bed. "The angels will come another night, my dear Geoffrey.”

  The first shock had worn off, but Faith was still having trouble believing what she was seeing—Dr. Roland Hubbard, eminent physician, dressed as a nurse and nuttier than the fruitcake Mrs. Pendergast was pressing on one and all downstairs. James had said Hubbard House was a nut house and James had been right. Only she would have preferred to verify this knowledge second, third, or tenth hand.

  “Dr. Hubbard," she whispered in what she hoped was a reasonable tone, "please let me up. You're hurting me.”<
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  The pressure on her chest lightened, yet he didn't remove his hand. He looked about the room and darted over to the sink for a towel. She jumped up, but he caught her before she could reach the door.

  “Now, you must do exactly as I say," he scolded her. "I don't want to be forced to use this." He waved the syringe in her face and she could see it was full—full of something that would not be terribly good for her, and he should know. He was the doctor.

  He was tying the towel as a gag around her mouth before she had a chance to say—or whisper—anything to warn him.

  There was nothing she could do. She threw up.

  Dream Puffs, claret cup, the angel hair pasta with shrimp she'd had for supper—all came forth, most of it in the sink where he rushed her immediately, but some on herself and the floor. The room instantly took on that horrible odor parents have nightmares about—the odor preceded by a certain cough and cries for help, galvanizing the most deeply asleep mother and father to instant action. Faith's own mother was miles away, but Dr. Hubbard was doing his best to substitute.

  She'd assumed he would be infuriated, but he was almost tender. He handed her a glass of water to rinse her mouth, helped her off with her spattered coat, and gave her a fresh towel.

  “Feeling better?”

  She looked at him in astonishment. It was Nurse Jane Fuzzy Wuzzy come to life.

  “Yes, thank you."

  “Can't use a gag," he said to himsef—or one of them. "Come on, then. If you make a sound, I'll use this." He held up the syringe again. Faith nodded. She had no intention of joining the angels.

  They moved out into the corridor after Dr. Hubbard had opened the door and looked cautiously up and down. Everything was dark.

  He pushed her along past the elevator and opened a door leading to the second floor of the next house. She walked as slowly as she dared. When Tom arrived and didn't find her in the living room or at the party, he'd come upstairs to look. It was too soon to expect him, but the knowledge that he was on his way was keeping her from total terror. She considered telling Roland shemight be pregnant, but decided to keep this news in case she needed to make a last desperate plea. Total terror began to manifest itself at the thought, and she closed her eyes and took a breath. Tom. Tom would be here soon.

  They were near the staircase. Pale streaks of the waning moon caught the pattern of the oriental carpet tread. The chandelier glowed softly, and Dr. Hubbard was guiding her with a sure hand.

  Please, Faith prayed, not the guest room.

  It wasn't. They descended the stairs.

  It was going to be his office.

  He opened the door and turned on the light, then reached into his pocket for his keys and locked the deadbolt at the top.

  “Sit down," he said in his normal volume. It sounded so loud, Faith was sure someone must hear it.

  He took a seat on the other side on the desk and appeared to be lost in thought. Finally he pulled his chair in and leaned forward, bringing the fingertips of both hands together. She was ready for the prognosis.

  “Unfortunately, it is sometimes necessary in life to sacrifice the needs and well-being of one person for the greater good of the community. When it is a young person such as yourself, a decision like this assumes tragic proportions. But you do see that I have no choice.”

  Faith didn't see at all.

  “I'm not sure I understand what you're talking about, Dr. Hubbard. Or, in fact, what is going on here at all."

  “Faith," he replied sorrowfully, "put simply, you know too much." He should have looked more absurd in his outfit, but the solemn surety in his voice overshadowed all else.

  She tried to reassure him. "I don't know anything. You've been under a great strain, which explains the way you're dressed, but—"

  “Do you have any idea how much it costs to keep Hubbard House going, young lady?”

  She was more than willing to change the subject—only she wasn't sure this was what was happening. Still, so long as he was on one side of the desk and she on the other, she was safe from that booster shot lying conveniently close to his hand on the desk blotter.

  “No, I don't."

  “A great deal of money." So this wasn't going to be an itemized rundown of all it took to keep Hubbard House going: Q-tips, baked beans, vitamin C pills. Faith was a little disappointed.

  “For years we have sought to keep afloat with our fees, private donations, a grant here and there, whatever the government can occasionally spare. It hasn't been easy."

  “I'm sure not," Faith murmured. Where was Tom?

  “Not easy at all. But no one is turned out, and we have not relaxed our standards. Not for a minute.”

  Faith thought of the flowers from Winston's. Maybe a few less posies and a few more pennies saved?

  “We have established a certain quality of life here, and I intend it to remain that way so long as I'm here. Although Donald, of course, feels as I do and will carry on after me.”

  Faith nodded. She didn't feel sick anymore. Just scared. She was pretty sure where this line of thought was going.

  “That's why I had to do it." He stood up, remembering to grab the syringe, and went over to his wife's portrait. "A wonderful woman. The best wife any man could have had. She would have agreed with me completely." He swung around and looked Faith squarely in the eye. "I had no choice, don't you see?"

  “Absolutely, whatever you did I'm sure you thought was for the best."

  “It was for the best. I only picked people who were very close to leaving us anyway. In a few instances they were individuals who had expressed a wish to be relieved of their sufferings. And months would go by when I didn't have to make any night visits at all. But this fall has been bad. Contributions down. Expenses up. Of course it's a hard time of year in any case, lots of flu, pneumonia. Nothing odd about a ninety-four-year-old dying peacefully in his sleep.

  “Farley thought I was a ghost. He would insist on keeping his window open and then kicking his covers off. I always checked in on him." He gave an affectionate laugh and reached up to remove his cap and veil. He unbuttoned the uniform, and Faith was obscurely relieved to observe that he hadn't deemed it necessary to wear ladies' undergarments as well. He had his own shirt and trousers on underneath. "This was Mother's uni- form. In case someone did wake up before the morphine took effect, I wanted them to be comforted and not startled.”

  Not startled! At the moment Faith could think of few things less startling than seeing Dr. Hubbard in Florence Nightingale drag with an empty syringe in hand bending over one's bed.

  “It was a painless and rapid method, a simple overdose."

  “These then were residents who had left bequests to Hubbard House?" She asked more to keep the conversational ball rolling than from any lack of certainty, since as long as the ball was in play, the game wasn't over. She hadn't watched all those basketball games for nothing.

  “Not all of them, of course. That would have been foolhardy. I had to help some on as a little window dressing, so to speak. Though until poor Farley fell into your bouillon, we haven't had an autopsy here for years. It's not the sector of the population that calls for them, you know, especially these days. There's barely money in the state for homicide victims.”

  Faith wasn't interested in the always-dismal state of the state's coffers. "Farley!" She was genuinely indignant. Then there had never been any question of its being her bouillon.

  “Oh no, my dear. Completely natural, although the morphine would have been hard to detect if it had been me. No one would have been looking for it, you see. No, Farley was his own doing. Nothing to do with either you or me." , Faith rubbed her eyes. She was very tired, andsitting with a madman discussing which of them might have killed someone wasn't alleviating her weariness. She suddenly thought of Howard Perkins. The start of this whole business. Had he been visited by this angel of mercy killing too? She had to know—or she'd never be able to face Aunt Chat again. Oh, that she could face her now!

&nbs
p; “What about Howard Perkins?"

  “Howard Perkins? Did you know him? Charming man and with us for such a short time. He should have moved here years earlier. It's very difficult for me to understand why anyone would want to stay in New York, but then he would go on so about his beloved opera and the museums. What about him?"

  “Did you—rather, was he ... ?" Faith searched for some polite equivalent to "murder him.”

  Roland caught her meaning. "Oh no, he had a very bad heart. Besides, he was leaving everything to some woman in New Jersey, and I certainly wouldn't have used him as camouflage when he had joined us so recently." Dr. Hubbard sounded offended at the kind of thoughts Faith had been harboring.

  Her lassitude increased. She was almost beginning to relax. Tom would arrive, find her, and the good doctor would join his daughter in a nicely furnished padded cell.

  Then Roland's next words sent a megadose of adrenaline coursing through her veins and any notion of fatigue disappeared at once.

  “But we stray and time is passing quickly. I must put in an appearance at our little party, and this could take a while. I really am so very, very sorry that I have to kill you.”

  He went to the closet and put on his coat, then reached up on the shef and took a gun from an ancient Wright's Arch Preserver shoebox.

  “It will be much nicer for you if you cooperate and I can see you out the normal way, but I'll bring this just in case.”

  Normal? Just in case? Did words have meaning anymore?

  Faith began to think rapidly. She had no idea where they were going, but it was obviously outside. How would he explain her lack of a coat? Once again she was going to freeze because of one of the Hubbards. But she had underestimated Roland.

  “I'm going to give you one of my overcoats. You notice I say 'give' and not 'lend.' I don't expect that I will get it back. I'll explain that I gave it to you to wear home, since yours was soiled. This was after I came across you being ill in one of the rooms. You insisted you were fit enough to drive and I didn't like to quarrel with a lady. Of course, I should have insisted, but then you are so stubborn.”