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Authors: Katherine Hall Page

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BOOK: The Body in the Bouillon
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Dunne had let her see a list of who was there that night. A few residents had gone away early for the holidays, but virtually everyone else was on the premises. Even Mrs. Pendergast. She had the strength. Faith had watched her knead dough, and the muscles on her upper arms stood out like brand-new tennis balls. But Mrs. Pendergast!
Then there were the Hubbards. They were all there, yet it seemed unlikely they would deal with their employee problems in quite this manner. She suddenly remembered the way Donald had looked at Eddie at the Holly Ball. There was no doubt he was jealous. Could Eddie have been waiting for Charmaine and gotten Donald instead? Who else? Sylvia Vale would do anything for Roland Hubbard and Hubbard House. If she knew what Eddie was up to, would she have resorted to murder to get him to stop?
She scribbled away, stopping to tie Ben's loops of spools. He insisted she put one on. She got him some cookies and milk, a shameless bribe to leave her alone for a while longer.
At the top of the next page she wrote “Leandra.” She was sure whoever had pushed her had wanted something in her purse. John Dunne hadn't ridiculed the idea either when she'd mentioned it to him on the phone. But what? It would have had to be something small enough to fit in Leandra's bag, which was big, but not more so than a breadbox. The bag wouldn't have held a three-volume novel or a baby, for example—however Ernest and important. The classic item would be incriminating letters, but she didn't think those were the kinds of things kleptomaniacs took, although she was by no means expert on this point. She made a note to ask Tom what he knew about the subject and then consult the Aleford library.
She turned a page and wrote “Charmaine.” Dunne continued to be almost positive she had staged the attack on herself. That meant she was trying to divert suspicion away from herself, which revived the theory that Eddie was lying in state waiting for her. But what had she told Donald? Going out for some fun on a snowy evening, darling, don't wait up? She made another note reminding herself to find out if Donald's room had a bath attached or if an occupant would have to leave for his or her ablutions.
She leaned back in the chair and pulled Benjamin onto her lap. He had looped all the rest of the spool necklaces around his own neck. “Ben's a beautiful Christmas tree!” he chortled.
“You're
my
little tree,” Faith said, and hugged him, mindful of the disparity of her actions and thoughts. While her arms twined around her adored son, all she could think of was whether Dunne had been able to trace the knives yet. She'd forgotten to ask him. She also wanted to know if they'd determined whether Eddie had been tied up before or after death. If after, it could have been an attempt to make it look like a woman did it—Eddie didn't seem to be the type to let a man tie him up for fun and games.
Ben struggled to get down, and as she got up to follow him, she was uncomfortably certain that she was a lot
closer to the why of Eddie Russell's murder than the who.
Just before she started to put together the
risotto coi funghi
they were having with broiled bluefish for dinner, she called Millicent Revere McKinley. Millicent would know whatever there was to know about James Hubbard, and Faith was trying to fit him into the puzzle. So far there didn't seem to be a place for his piece.
Ben was watching “Sesame Street,” which providentially popped up on the screen at all hours of the day, and Faith dialed the number, confident that she had a way to make Millicent talk.
“Hello, Millicent? This is Faith Fairchild.”
“Oh?” Millicent managed to convey serious doubt with the interjection—as if perhaps it were someone pretending to be Faith Fairchild, God only knew for what reason.
“Yes,” Faith declared emphatically. “I wanted to ask you something, and I also happened to remember you had asked me for my grandmother's recipe for the sherry nutmeg cake you enjoyed so much at our house.”
Enjoyed so much that she had devoured three large pieces. Faith had a sneaking suspicion that Millicent, bearer of the local WCTU torch, had a weakness for any potent potable confections. She'd also tossed back several helpings of a soufflé Grand Mamier at a Sunday dinner once.
“Of course, I'd love to have the recipe. So handy for the holidays.” Millicent appeared to be weighing the question. She knew this wasn't a case of altruism but your basic tit for tat. Faith had politely but firmly told her the recipe was a closely guarded family secret when she had asked for it. This was partially true. It
had
been a family secret until one of Faith's cousins had submitted it to a contest in
Family Circle
magazine and, as third runner-up (twenty-five dollars), had it printed in the December issue a few years before. But with Millicent it always paid to have something
in the arsenal, and Faith knew a good weapon when she saw it. Now the time had come to use it.
She brought out the Howitzer. “I'll be baking several later this week, and if you're pressed for time as we all are about now, I could make an extra one for you and tuck the recipe in with it.”
Millicent fell. “That would be lovely, dear. So thoughtful of you. Now what were you saying about a question?” There wasn't even the suggestion of a quaver in her voice. Millicent was indomitable even in defeat.
“When we were talking about the Hubbards the other day, you mentioned Donald and Muriel. I wondered if you had known James, the youngest?”
“Is this in connection with that shocking Eddie Russell business—in which I hear, incidentally, you've been rather intimately involved?” Faith had expected Millicent would make a comment like this. She had no doubt that Millicent blamed her for the whole thing, casting the shadow of scandal on such a noble edifice.
“It might be, yes. But I merely wanted to know a bit more about James Hubbard. If you know, that is.”
Millicent knew.
“It almost broke poor Roland Hubbard's heart when James ran away. He was only sixteen. He'd been a worry to his father for years. Couldn't seem to settle down like the other two. Always skipping school to go fishing or whatever. Maybe if his mother had lived, things would have been different. He was a sweet boy, never rude. But he just wouldn't listen to anyone.”
“Where did he go?”
“I believe he went south someplace, Florida. The family never talked about him, of course, but every once in a while some friend would get a postcard from him, and then we'd know where he was and what he was doing.”
Faith could imagine. She knew from Tom that Hattie Johnston, the former postmistress, who had retired the year before Faith had arrived in Aleford, had had her own rules
when it came to the U.S. mail. A postcard was public information and people who wrote them knew they would be read; otherwise they'd write a letter, which was sacrosanct.
“What was he doing? Did he stay in Florida?”
“I don't think I ever heard for sure what he was doing there—at first something with show business, I think. In later years he managed to get some training, and he worked as an aide in various hospitals. Mostly out west and in the south, but I did hear that he had come back to Massachusetts about two years ago.”
“Anything else you can think of?”
“I asked Donald how James was when I heard he'd come back, but Donald said they knew nothing about it and that if James wanted to see them, he knew where to find them. I don't think any of them have been in touch since he went away originally. Roland felt it was up to James to make the first move.”
Millicent apparently thought she had given good value, and the tone of her voice changed slightly. “Would I be able to count on the cake for some friends I'm having for tea on Friday?” She didn't issue an invitation.
“Absolutely,” Faith answered. “And thank you for all your help.”
“Anytime, Faith dear. Now I must be going. Good-bye.”
Faith said good-bye and replaced the receiver. Anytime, ha. Unless Millicent wanted to start whipping up soufflés, in the future it would be back to groveling on the carpet if Faith wanted any information.
 
As she drove into Boston the next morning, Faith had a slight twinge of guilt over not having revealed James Hubbard's whereabouts to John Dunne yesterday. But it disappeared immediately as she turned up the volume on the radio and swiftly flicked through several oldies stations—New Englanders seemed particularly partial to them, and when she drove up from New York, she didn't
have to look at the signs to know she had crossed the border. Whatever station she was tuned to immediately began to play “Time in a Bottle.” Now she located WGBH, the PBS station, and Robert J. Lurtsema's plummy tones filled the air. He was giving a weather report and it sounded like Shakespeare.
Miraculously she found a parking space on Cambridge Street, walked up to Anderson, and started climbing the hill. She had no trouble finding the Winthrop Chambers. It was an old hotel that had been converted to a rooming house. There was a wreath on the door. Someone had stuck a Celtics pennant in it. She walked into the lobby. It didn't look like Hubbard House. There were two ancient Naugahyde club chairs and a scarred coffee table heaped with overflowing ash trays, old newspapers, and magazines. The windows were so dirty that it was difficult to see outside. No one appeared to be around, and just when she was wondering if she'd have to go buy a clipboard and knock on doors pretending to be doing a survey on washday detergent preferences, a door behind the desk opened and a man came out.
“Looking for somebody?”
“Yes. Is James Hubbard here?”
“You the same person who called yesterday?”
“Yes, I am.”
“He said to tell you he'd be in the market.”
“The market?”
“Yeah, he's selling Christmas trees down by Faneuil Hall. He said he'd be looking for you.”
“Thank you very much.”
“No problem. Merry Christmas.”
Faith walked over the hill to the Faneuil Hall Marketplace—the old Haymarket. There had been a market in this spot for three hundred years. The long stone warehouses stretching toward the waterfront, once occupied by meat and dairy wholesalers with names like Capone and Sullivan, were now filled with stores like The Sharper Image,
Ann Taylor, The Gap, and small boutiques selling things in the shape of hearts, stuffed animals, and every possible kind of earring yet devised. The food vendors offered a vast variety of comestibles—pizza by the slice, fruit kebobs, egg rolls, oysters and clams on the half shell. There were still pushcarts, a quaint reminder of the old days, but instead of the strident cries of “Open ‘em up! Open 'em up! Best beans in the market! Best in Boston!” that had echoed in the streets, most of these carts were indoors and sold whimsical rubber stamps and
tchotchkies
made of dough.
It wasn't as hard to find James as she had feared. There were only three men selling trees in the square in front of a large glass-enclosed florist's shop. Two of them appeared to be in their nineties and were probably in their sixties. The one who looked like sixty would have to be James, aged thirty. The five-year-old in the sailor suit sitting on the steps at Hubbard House was now wearing two tattered coats one on top of the other, ancient running shoes, unlaced but not, Faith suspected, as a fashion statement, and a wool cap pulled low over his forehead. James had seen a lot of hard times.
She walked over to him. “James Hubbard? My name is Faith Fairchild. I live in Aleford and I've been doing some volunteer work at Hubbard House. Do you have some time to talk to me?”
James looked at her blearily. Faith was uncomfortable. The contrast between the two of them was enormous and even obscene—she was wearing a warm, clean, Thinsulate-lined coat. Her boots matched her purse and she had on a bright, spanking-new blue wool hat and muffler. She exuded the smell of Guerlain's Mitsouko, which she'd sprayed on after her shower that morning. He gave off a ripe aroma composed of cigarette smoke, the rancid grease of fast food, rum, and his own unwashed body. She wouldn't be surprised if he asked her with words or a look, “Who the hell do you think you are, lady?”
Instead he said, “Hubbard House? You're working at
Hubbard House? Wouldn't do that if I were you. Place is dangerous.” His speech was slurred. He looked over her shoulder as if expecting to see someone else with her. “You came alone? She didn't come?”
“I'm alone, yes,” Faith answered, “Who were you waiting for?”
“Never mind,” he said. “So what do you want with me?” He didn't say this in a belligerent tone, merely one of curiosity, even idle curiosity.
“I wanted to talk to you about Eddie Russell.”
“Eddie? Good old Eddie. Got me away from the place. We joined the circus.” He laughed, and the laughter ended in a fit of coughing. He reached into a pocket and took out a pack of cigarettes. He lit one. He didn't have any gloves on, and his hands were so chapped they were bleeding.
“The circus?” Faith asked.
BOOK: The Body in the Bouillon
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