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Authors: Katherine Hall Page

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BOOK: The Body in the Bouillon
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Tom and Faith had been listening intently. The shadows were lengthening in the yard, but Faith didn't want to interrupt things by turning on the lights. Instead she reached across the table and put her hand on Denise's.
“Oh, Denise, I'm so sorry. I wish I had known you sooner. You've been in so much pain.”
Denise seemed to falter again, then resumed speaking. “At first it was simple. I'd give him the money and he'd give me the drugs. Then he began to increase the price, and finally he began to really do a number on me by telling me he couldn't get any for a few days before coming through. I knew it was blackmail and I knew he was a liar and a sadist, but there was nothing I could do about it. When I heard he was dead, I went crazy. Fortunately Joel is away on a school ski trip. I haven't slept and I've tom the house apart looking for places I might have stashed some.”
It was now so dark, Faith had to turn on the lights, and she took the teapot to add some hot water. Tom moved his chair closer to Denise.
“I was meeting Charmaine because I always assumed they were in it together. I'm pretty sure he got the stuff from her that night at the Holly Ball.”
Faith remembered the mystery of the missing pocketbook—that big pocketbook, big enough to hold several CVS branches.
“So Eddie had something to do with the lights going off?”
“He liked to be dramatic. Told me to meet him by the main switch, and when he pulled it, he handed me some pills. He was like a kid that way.”
Denise was talked out. She sat with her hands around the cup for warmth. Her face was lined and she looked about fifty years older than usual.
Tom spoke. “You know that Faith and I will do everything to help you. Which means talking to the police and then a treatment program, if that's what you want. The
important thing for you to remember is you're not going to be alone.”
Denise put her head down on the table and sobbed like a child. Faith stood behind her and stroked her head.
 
A few hours later Dunne had left and Tom was driving Denise to McLean's Hospital. Faith was back in the kitchen waiting for her husband's return. She was idly leafing through her recipe file looking for something new to do with squash—squash tortellini in brown butter?—but her mind strayed to Hubbard House, as usual. She'd started to phone Aunt Chat earlier with an update and decided it was too complicated to explain except in person. Instead she'd written on a postcard of the Aleford green:
Think I know some of what was troubling Howard. Tell
you all about it at Christmas.
Love and kisses, Faith.
Denise's story had been deeply upsetting, but she seemed to sincerely want to end her dependency, and Faith sensed she had the strength to do so. It was impossible to avoid the thought that her relationship to Eddie gave her a strong motive for murdering him, but Faith pushed it from her mind. Denise had been at home on Friday night, no doubt in no condition to drive. Faith wondered when Joel had left for his trip. It would be nice if Denise could have a tidy little alibi.
Since she'd first heard that Eddie was a skilled practitioner in the art of blackmail, Faith had known other victims would surface. The question now was who next? She remembered the assurance with which Julia Cabot had spoken at lunch when she'd mentioned that it wouldn't be easy to solve the crime. What did she know? Faith closed her recipe file and decided to wait for Tom in bed. She was exhausted.
Upstairs she pulled the covers over her shoulders, leaving
the light on so Tom could find his way. Just before she dozed off, she thought of what Dunne had said to her at the door away from the others as he was leaving. She'd looked at him quizzically. “So who's your favorite for the attack on Charmaine? Could be a pretty broad field.”
He'd laughed. “You don't really think Charmaine would let someone else mess up her hair, do you? The question is, why does she want us to think so? Now, say good night, Faith.”
And she had.
Leandra Rhodes was almost late for dinner. Her husband, Merwin, was in town meeting an old classmate at the Harvard Club, and she'd been struggling with the zipper on the back of her dress for ten minutes. She refused to give in and finally pulled it up triumphantly with the aid of a safety pin and a long piece of string. She hurried out of her room and stopped for a moment at the top of the stairs to catch her breath. She put her hand out and stroked the smooth banister. She doubted whether there were many craftspeople left, even in New England, who could carve such a spiral. But it wouldn't do to dilly-dally now, and she looped the pocketbook that never left her side securely over her arm and started down.
Down, down, down. Tumbling down until she came to a dead stop in a heap at the bottom.
 
 
“I don't like it. Sure it's possible that an old lady in a rush to get to dinner could trip over the pocketbook she's dropped, and fall down the stairs all by herself, but it's the timing. Too much going on at that place.”
Faith agreed with Detective Dunne, who had just called to tell her about Leandra's accident the night before.
“Leandra was not the type of lady who trips. She would never put a foot wrong, literally or figuratively. Has she been able to say anything about what happened?”
“No, it's a miracle she's even alive. She's in the intensive care unit over at Mass General and hasn't regained consciousness.”
“Of course, if it wasn't an accident, it means she was pushed, which is a horrible thought. And why would anyone want to hurt her?”
Faith imagined Bootsie Brennan might have entertained less than charitable thoughts about Leandra from time to time, but as a sparring partner Leandra was without equal, and on some level Bootsie must have recognized that. Besides, noxious as she was, Bootsie didn't seem like the type of woman who attempts murder—unless it was for a very good reason, like someone maligning her son. All these types. It reminded Faith of those old Peck and Peck ads, “There's a certain kind of woman who …” She and her friends at Dalton had had fun making up all sorts of lewd, and to eleven-year-olds hysterical, endings contrary to the image presented of the woman who chairs a meeting of the SEC but also bakes the best angel food cake in the neighborhood.
“All these types.” Faith realized she was saying it out loud.
“What's that?” Dunne asked.
“I was just thinking about the cast of characters we're assembling.”
“Look, why don't you go up again today and see
what's in the wind? I'll try to come by your house later this afternoon.”
Faith had been planning to go to Hubbard House anyway and was happy to have the official blessing.
“Fine,” she replied. “I'll see you later.”
She broke the news to Tom and set off on her familiar route. The snow hadn't melted much, and it was getting dirty only by the side of the road. If you looked beyond, it was still like a scene from the top of a fruitcake tin.
Faith walked into the kitchen and headed for the closet to get an apron. Mrs. Pendergast was stirring a huge pot of milk on the stove.
“Cup custard. That's the kind of thing they'll want today.”
“Comfort food?” Faith remarked.
Mrs. P. patted her waist. “To me most food could be called that, but that's right. Nice, soothing food. Nothing complicated. Now say hello to Mrs. Fairchild, Gladys.” She called over her shoulder.
Faith hadn't noticed that there was another person in the kitchen. A cheerful-looking, middle-aged woman, her hair imprisoned in a hairnet guarded by several dozen bobby pins, came bustling over with her hand outstretched.
“Glad to meet you. I hear you really held down the fort while I was sick. Feel fine now, but was I bad. I think I had all those flus at once—Hong Kong, Taiwan, whatever. Sick as a dog. Couldn't keep a mouthful down for over a week. I tell you—”
Faith wasn't sure she wanted to be told. “It's very nice to meet you. I was happy I could help.” She looked at Mrs. Pendergast a bit wistfully. “I suppose you won't be needing me anymore, Violet.” The name came easily.
Violet put an arm around Faith's shoulder while she continued to stir her custard. “Now, Faith, Gladys and I will manage. It's been a real pleasure to get to know you, and you come up whenever you want. I expect you need some
time now to do all the things you should have been doing while you were here. Now, scoot and we'll see you Friday night.”
“Friday night?”
“The Christmas party. It's lots of fun. And I'd say we could all use a little about now.”
“I'll try to come. It depends on what my husband's commitments are. This is a busy time for him.”
“Of course, but just come for a moment. I'm making all my specialties.”
Faith wasn't sure how much of an incentive Violet's specialties were—probably confections from the trusty cookbook like peanut penuche, marshmallow tea cookies, and mosaic finger sandwiches, besides all the regular Christmas favorites like nut balls—these last unknown to Faith until a parishioner had offered her one last Christmas saying ingenuously, “Have a nut ball? They're my husband's and they're delicious.”
She wandered upstairs in search of Julia Cabot. She'd talk to her, then get home before lunch. Tom would be pleased. What was in the wind was boiled dinner, and she didn't think she'd add to her knowledge of what was going on at Hubbard House by eating there. It would be more productive to sit down with John later and go over everything they knew so far—and she was pretty sure there was a lot he hadn't shared. Plus she had something to tell him too. She'd figured out a motive for the attack on Leandra.
It was possible that Leandra had dropped her pocketbook as she hastened to dinner, then lost her balance as she reached down to pick it up from the stair. But it was more likely that someone had grabbed the purse from her arm and pushed her. It would have been the only way to get it and its contents. Faith realized the unfortunate relevance of Leandra's kleptomania now. She had taken something that incriminated someone, and that person was prepared to murder again to get it back. Leandra never let the old black calfskin satchel—circa 1952, a testament to
the importance of buying quality merchandise—out of her sight. It would have been too risky to try to get it at night with her husband in bed by her side, nor could the killer do what everyone else did, which was to ask Merwin for whatever they were missing. “Have you happened to see my fountain pen lying around?”
So the murderer had to be someone who was at Hubbard House both nights. It was slim, but it was the only thing that made sense so far.
Faith decided to call Tom and tell him she would pick Ben up. Humming a few bars of “Deck Us All with Boston Charley,” her Pogo-loving father's favorite carol, she pushed open the door of Sylvia Vale's office. Muriel was on the phone.
“Now, James, you've got to go—” She looked up, startled. “I'll have to get back to you on that, I'm afraid. Why don't you give me a number where you can be reached?” She jotted the number on a pad. “Thank you very much. I'll call you as soon as I can. Good-bye.” She hung up. Her cheeks were flushed. She tore the paper from the pad and pushed it into her pocket.
“I'm sorry to be interrupting,” Faith said. “I wanted to use the phone, but I can find another one.”
“Oh no, you're not interrupting at all. Just one of those hospital supply salesmen. They're so persistent. How are you, Mrs. Fairchild?”
“I'm fine, but I'm sorry to say this is my last day at Hubbard House. The kitchen staff is back in full force.”
“Oh, yes, I heard Gladys was better. We're terribly grateful to you for pitching in, and I hope you'll join us on Friday for the Christmas party here.”
“I'm going to try to come for at least a little while. I remember the last time I saw Farley, you were talking about it.”
“Yes.” Muriel's face darkened. “I miss Farley. It's always a problem with this job. You get so fond of people and
then they go. But, of course, you will be back to see us often, I hope.”
“Of course.”
“I'll leave you to your call, then. See you Friday.”
“Oh,” Faith remembered as she was leaving, “I was sorry to hear about Leandra Rhodes' fall. Have you heard how she is getting on? And Mrs. Hubbard too?”
“It has been a dreadful week,” Muriel said, obviously not a woman prone to exaggeration even when life around her was. “Charmaine is fine. Donald took her for X rays, but we don't have good news about Leandra. She's still in danger.”
“Oh dear,” Faith said.
“Perhaps we'll have better news by Friday.” Little Muriel Sunshine brightened and left, closing the door behind her.
Left to go call James back, Faith thought. She took a pencil from the desk and drew lightly across the impression made on the rest of the pad when Muriel had written the telephone number on the top sheet. Faith had seen Cary Grant do it in
North by Northwest
about sixty times, and she was pleased to find it worked just as well for her as it did for him. She'd have to hope James was not holed up in Mount Rushmore or its equivalent.
Then she called Tom and left a message with the parish secretary. She'd wait until she got home to try to find James. The Hubbard House office was all too public.
Julia Cabot was not one of the people whiling away the time before lunch reading in front of the fire in the living room. Faith remembered that she had said she was still working, but it might not be every day. There was a list of room and cottage numbers in the office by the phone, and Faith returned to see where the Cabots were. Number 20 in Nathaniel's house. She walked back to the staircase. It was hard to climb, knowing that Leandra had so recently made her descent here. Faith tried to block the picture
from her mind of the old lady falling helplessly down the stairs, a well-groomed, well-bred rag doll.
Faith was glad to reach the corridor and soon found number 20, in the front of the house. She knocked on the door, which was immediately opened by Julia. “Why, Faith, how nice to see you. Please come in. Can you join us for lunch?”
“No, thank you, I have to pick Benjamin up soon. I just wanted to stop and say good-bye. The kitchen is up to full muster again.”
Faith entered the room. It was large and partially divided by open shelves that were filled with Staffordshire figures. One side of the room was furnished as a living room with beautiful antiques. On the other side Faith glimpsed an IBM PC perched on top of an ornate Louis XIV desk. Julia followed her gaze.
“It is a little mismatched, obviously. But it means I can work at home when I want to. And the china is a passion we share, although I think Ellery mostly likes to use it as an excuse to go to England.” She glanced fondly at her husband, who had been sitting in a comfortable-looking armchair by the window reading the paper. A pretty little tree decorated with small colored lights and blown-glass oma-ments was at his side. He'd sprung to his feet as Faith came in.
“I'm sorry you're leaving,” Julia continued, “but I'm sure we'll see each other again. You and your husband.”
“We'd like that.”
“But do sit down for a moment, can you?”
“Yes,” urged Ellery, indicating a chair. “Come here by the window. The view is splendid.”
Faith walked toward him. “I do have time to stay a few minutes.”
The view was wonderful, and Faith had a sudden desire to see what the fields and woodlands in front of her looked like with each season. In her other life she had been more than content to chart the changing solstices and equinoxes
by Bergdorf's window displays. If she wasn't careful, she'd soon be taking long walks and starting a life list of birds.
“I suppose you've heard the terrible news about our friend Leandra Rhodes,” Ellery commented.
BOOK: The Body in the Bouillon
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