The Body in the Bouillon (11 page)

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Authors: Katherine Hall Page

BOOK: The Body in the Bouillon
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Faith hastened to enlighten them that her sole contribution had been a bit of seasoning, but she had a sinking feeling that she was destined to go down in the culinary annals of Hubbard House as the Pink Lady who made the good chicken à la king.
“If you're busy, I can show Mrs. Fairchild where she can stay,” Julia offered.
“That's all right, dear, I have time. I'll just pop back downstairs, and why don't you meet me in the living room in half an hour?”
“Thank you, it's very kind of you,” Faith said, wondering if she was expected to go to bed at eight o'clock.
After dinner there was general movement toward the living room and library. Some residents were starting bridge games and one group spread out a Scrabble board with evident familiarity and gusto. Faith made it a point to avoid any and all such activities, much to the disappointment of her husband, who had been raised on Monopoly tournaments and every form of cards known to man. Faith when pressed would play poker, but the line was drawn on anything else.
She looked over the shelves of the library to find something that would help her pass the time yet not keep her awake. She quickly eliminated
Remembrance of Things Past
and
Buddenbrooks,
books she really would read someday, and took down an Agatha Christie she'd already read instead. She could never remember them very well, but there would be enough familiarity so the suspense wouldn't keep her awake.
Leandra was not in the living room yet and Julia Cabot appeared with a small satchel.
“I thought you might like to borrow a nightgown and other sundries,” she said.
“Thank you,” said Faith delightedly. “I was wondering if I would have to sleep in my skivvies. This is so thoughtful
of you.” The two sat down on one of the window seats overlooking the garden. It was impossible to see anything except the whirling snow.
It occurred to Faith that Julia was a good source of information, and if Chat was right—that Eddie or someone else was bilking the residents in some sort of plausible scam—it might be that the Cabots had been approached. How to phrase it?
“Julia, have you ever noticed anything around here, well, that struck you as not quite right? That someone might be on the take, so to speak?” Faith was about to elaborate when Julia turned to her wide-eyed.
“How did you find out? Don't tell me she's stolen something from you too!”
This was a new wrinkle. “Stolen” and “she”? Faith quickly revised her previous scenario and switched from suspicions of Eddie, Charmaine, or who knew who else trying to pluck the sophisticated chickens at Hubbard House to a soon-to-be-revealed (she hoped) pilferer. All those trinkets from Firestone and Parson's carelessly strewn on the tops of all those mahogany dressers. She should have thought of theft in the first place.
“I haven't lost anything, but someone I know may have.” That was a fair assumption to make. Howard might have been a victim.
They were virtually alone in the secluded window seat, but Julia lowered her soft voice ever further. “Ellery and I have discussed it many times. It is a sickness, of course, and I believe both Dr. Hubbard and Muriel are aware of it. At least that's what Mrs. Davidson—she's over there in the blue dress playing bridge—told me.”
So the Hubbards knew and they weren't doing anything about it! This seemed to be a bit excessive shielding of one's own, as well as an exceedingly broadminded view of crime.
“It's been very well established that kleptomania is a psychological disorder,” Julia continued.
“Kleptomania!” Faith exclaimed. “Oh dear, I don't think we're talking about the same thing.” It wasn't going to be so neatly solved after all.
Julia looked at her straight in the eye. “I'm talking about Leandra.” She obviously expected Faith to follow suit when the appearance of the lady in question put an abrupt stop to the conversation.
“Oh, there you are, Mrs. Fairchild. I did say the living room, I believe, but you may not know your way around here very well yet.”
Julia Cabot gave Faith an unmistakably piercing look. “Oh, I'd say Mrs. Fairchild is learning quite a lot about Hubbard House, Leandra.”
“Thank you again,” Faith said hurriedly, and followed Leandra obediently out of the room. As they left the library and went down the hall, she noticed that Leandra carried a handbag the size of a steamer trunk. She fervently hoped it had only rolls in it tonight.
Leandra's problem must be a well-kept secret. If Bootsie Brennan ever found out that Leandra was lifting the teaspoons, she'd be on the phone to Norma Nathan and every other gossip columnist of her ilk in an instant. One of Dr. Hubbard's pillars would be turned to salt in no time flat. Faith shuddered. Poor Leandra.
Poor Leandra was happily leading the way into one of the original houses, Deborah's—the one with Doctor Hubbard's office and the family living quarters. They walked up the imposing double staircase with the Palladian window at the landing. A large antique brass chandelier, suspended from the ceiling, reflected softly in the dark glass. At the top of the stairs, Leandra turned right and opened a door at the end of the hall.
“This is our guest suite.” She forged ahead and switched on the lights. It was a spacious room in the front of the house with the kind of four-poster bed that's so high off the floor, you need a little flight of stairs to get into it. The bed was hung with heavy chintz draperies that
matched the ones at the window. A quilt appliquéd with birds and flowers in the same colors served as a bedspread. The rest of the furniture was determinedly Victorian and also giant sized—a marble-topped bureau, a dressing table, an armoire big enough to conceal a dozen lovers, and a night table with the room's one and only lamp. The ceiling fixture cast an uncertain glow into the shadowy corners.
“The bathroom's in there.” Leandra flung her arm toward a closed door. “Now I'm sure you must be tired, so I'll leave you. See you at breakfast.”
Faith managed to say an appropriate thank you before the door closed firmly. She sat down in a low-slung velvet-covered chair by the window, but got right up again and pressed her face against the window. The glass was freezing, and the sensation was pleasant for a moment. If anything, the snow was coming down harder. She felt like Jane Eyre. It had been a day abounding with tragic heroines. She missed Tom. She missed Ben.
She looked at her watch. Eight thirty. It was going to be a long night.
Julia had put a nightgown, robe, soap, new toothbrush, toothpaste, flashlight, and comb into the bag. Faith was still wearing the slippers and gave a belated thought to the whereabouts of her shoes. It was too early to get ready for bed, though. She opened the bathroom door. The room was tiny—it might have been a closet in another life—but it had all the essentials. She climbed up on the bed and stretched out on top of the spread. The mattress was lumpy. The princess and the pea. She turned on the bedside light and grabbed
The Mysterious Affair at Styles.
Enough pathos and time for some good old-fashioned foul play.
By page six she was asleep, and when she woke up it was past eleven o'clock. She felt curiously relieved. Now she could get up, change, go back to sleep, and head for home by the dawn's early light. Even if she had to snowshoe.
Faith put on the gown and the robe—Vanity Fair, and while not screaming sultry seduction, it did indicate an interest in nightwear other than flannel. She brushed her teeth and went over to the door to the hall, opening it a crack. The only light was coming from the large window. There wasn't a sound anywhere, and all Hubbard House seemed to have settled down for a long winter's nap. She looked back at the bedroom windows. The storm had stopped and the wind died down. The unsullied snow glistened in the moonlight. It looked like the inside of one of those glass snow domes before a child turns it upside down. She closed the door and walked toward the bed.
She could climb in and go to sleep—or she could take the flashlight Julia had thoughtfully provided in case of a power failure and take a look around. She picked up the flashlight and sat down to wait until one o'clock. It was what she had intended ever since Leandra had led her up the stairs.
She almost fell asleep again, but kept herself awake by wondering what she was looking for. Of course Howard could have seen Leandra take something, yet Faith suspected this was one of those in-house secrets. All the residents probably knew about it and simply dropped in on Leandra for a cup of tea and to retrieve whatever knickknack they were missing. The big thing would be to keep it from the Auxiliary. It seemed even Hubbard House had its internecine feuds—just like the parish.
The grandfather clock outside Dr. Hubbard's office struck a single chime and Faith turned off all the lights in her room and crept out the door and down the stairs. Everyone was sure to be asleep by now. The moon was so bright, she didn't need the flashlight and slipped it in the pocket of the bathrobe.
If she remembered correctly from Sylvia's tour, the family apartments and residents' rooms were at the rear. She had already decided that she should start by having a closer look at the offices of both Dr. Hubbards.
Donald's was locked. If she was going to stay in this line of work, she'd have to get some rudimentary instruction in lock picking. You were supposed to be able to open anything with a credit card these days, but it might not be true for older locks. The problem was finding someone to show her how. Aleford adult education tended to run to courses in patchwork and chair caning.
She crossed back to the other side of the foyer. There didn't seem to be any light coming from under Dr. Hubbard's door, but just in case he was in there catching up on his paperwork, she'd have to have a plausible excuse for barging in. Sleepwalking? A bit farfetched. And she knew where the kitchen was, so she couldn't say she was feeling peckish. It would have to be the old headache routine. Desperately seeking aspirin.
Dr. Hubbard was not at his desk or anywhere else in his office. It too was lit by the moonlight streaming through the long windows. She closed the door, stepped in, and turned on the flashlight. A glance at his desktop offered nothing more interesting than a stack of thank-you letters to contributors at the Holly Ball. The drawers were similarly unrevealing, except for the fact that the good doctor had a sweet tooth and keep a cache of Good & Plentys in the lower left side.
There were several wooden file cabinets against one wall, and Faith turned her attention to those. Two were locked and a third was filled with old medical journals. The fourth contained folders, and a glance at the first few indicated that they were resident records. If the cabinet wasn't locked, they couldn't be confidential, Faith reasoned with more than a twinge of guilt. She picked one at random. It belonged to a couple named Ross and contained nothing except a sheet with names to call in an emergency, the length of time they had been at Hubbard House, and a fee schedule. The others all seemed to be the same. The rest of the file drawers were empty. She was beginning to consider going back to bed.
Dr. Hubbard's diplomas hung in a line on one wall. There was a portrait—of his wife, Faith presumed—over the fireplace, and next to the door was a large photo of Hubbard House. She went over to take a closer look. A much younger Dr. Hubbard stood on the porch in front of the main entrance with his arm around his wife. She was tiny and looked quite frail. Several children were sitting on the top stair with urns of geraniums flanking them. Everyone was smiling. She took it down and brought it over to the window for a closer look. It was easy to recognize Muriel. She had the same hairdo and seemed not to have changed at all. It was harder to recognize Donald. He was pudgy and must have moved slightly when the camera clicked, so his face was out of focus. There was a third child, a boy, between them. She turned the picture over. Someone had inscribed it in a neat copperplate: “Hubbard House Opening Day May 15, 1964,” then underneath, “Standing: Dr. Roland Whittemore Hubbard and wife, Mary Howell Hubbard. Sitting, L to R: Muriel Elizabeth Hubbard, age fifteen, James Howell Hubbard, age five, Donald Whittemore Hubbard, age eleven.”
James Howell Hubbard? Another child? Why hadn't anyone mentioned him, Faith wondered. Where was he now? He'd be around thirty, around her age in fact. Surely if he was a member of the family in good standing, he would either have been at the Holly Ball or have been mentioned. My beloved son. Unless he wasn't so beloved or unless he was dead. But if he had died, someone along the line would have mentioned it. Aleford was big on tragedy. Charley would have told her that first day in the Minuteman Café, speaking in hushed tones and talking about what a damned shame it was. No, Faith was convinced. James was someone people didn't talk about, and finding out why was the first solid lead she'd had since meeting Eddie Russell. Eddie Russell, who was about the same age as James.
She carefully put the picture back on the wall and
looked around to see if there were any more revealing family portraits. She opened the one closet in the room. It was filled with folding chairs, stacks of books, and several musty old jackets and coats. Things seemed to have been shoved in with little regard for order. She was beginning to realize that much of New England was like that—tidy on the surface, but when the closet door opened and the contents came tumbling out, watch out.

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