The Body in the Bouillon

THE BODY IN BOUILLON

BY

KATHERINE HALL PAGE

Prologue

This is the story of a house, Hubbard House—or, to be more precise, two early-nineteenth-century houses connected by a twentieth-century addition faithful to the period. Nathaniel Aldrich, the original owner, had amassed a considerable fortune shipping "West Indies Goods," to use the more genteel label of the time for rum, and he built a large house outside Boston in the countryside. He believed the air would be more salubrious for the large family he intended. But he had only one child, a daughter, and when she married, he built a replica of his house next door, unwilling to part from her. The only difference between the two houses was the staircases. Nathaniel's house, as it continued to be called forever after, was graced with a magnificent staircase spiraling up two stories from the rear of the large entrance hall. In deference to his daughter's fear of heights, the staircase in her house, Deborah's house, was a double one, proceeding in elegant, gentle stages from floor to floor.

The last Aldrich died, the estate was put up for auction, and Nathaniel and Deborah's houses became Hubbard House. The staircases remained untouched, but the enormous pier glass Nathaniel had placed across from the staircase to reassure his daughter as she descended the steps was sold to a couple from New Hampshire. Dr. Hubbard was afraid it might break.

It was after eleven o'clock at the Hubbard House Life Care Retirement Home. The doors were locked and most of the residents in the main building and outlying cottages were asleep.

Naomi Porter was dreaming she was at the Chelsea Flower Show in London. One of the Queen's gardeners was asking her advice about orchids. Her husband, Danforth, who had been such a whiz at double digging when they had had their own extensive garden instead of the small greenhouse off the living room now, snored dreamlessly at her side.

Leandra Rhodes was also asleep, but her husband, Merwin, was not. They had been married over fifty years, and he had always acceded to her demand that the light be out when she wanted to go to sleep. Lying in the dark, reviewing the day's events, had become such a habit that he eventually considered it essential. As soon as she had dropped off, he'd switch the lamp on and read. She never knew.

Fingers of light shone beneath other doors, but by the time the clock chimed midnight, everything was in darkness. This was New England, and old adages retained their currency. If one wasn't early to bed, one wouldn't be early to rise.

Those in the hospital annex slept more fitfully, aware perhaps of the ailments and frailties that had placed them there for a long or short stay. A ghostly figure in white slipped silently from one of the rooms, entered another farther down the corridor, and noiselessly shut the window. The curtains grew still at once. The room's occupant had tossed most of his blankets on the floor, and these were carefully replaced before the figure went to the door, opened it a crack, looked out, and then walked softly away.

Beyond the cottages in an apartment above the garage housing the vehicles and equipment, which kept Hubbard House so faultlessly maintained inside and out, Eddie Russell was quite awake. The night was still young.

He was stretched out naked on top of his bed facing a large-screen TV and flicking through the home shopping channels with the remote. Images of jewelry, collectors' plates, fuzz busters, and cookware raced across the screen. He stopped at some earrings. A voice urged, "Just in time for those special holiday occasions. The office party, an open house. Filigree peacock earrings, eighteen-carat gold. Two inches long and one inch wide. Three layers of feathers that move as you move, and a French clasp to make sure you'll never lose them. Tonight only we're offering this exquisite item with a retail value of $455 for $183.18, plus $3.75 for shipping and handling. Or, if you prefer, the easy-pay plan—three payments of $61.06 each.”

Eddie rolled over and reached for his drink—Chivas on the rocks. "Want some earrings, baby? They'd look great on your lobes." He nibbled the one nearest to him, then gave it a sharper bite.

“Eddie! You're hurting me," his partner squealed in delight.

“Come on, want some earrings? Take down the number and I'll get them for you."

“Oh, honey, you're so good to me.”

Eddie smiled. "That's because you're so good to me.”

The earrings were going to be a good-bye gift.

One

“I'm not going to tell you anything unless you do exactly as I say and do not get involved any further than is necessary for my peace of mind. I want you to promise, Faith.”

Faith Sibley Fairchild considered for a moment. Her Aunt Chat, short for Charity, was using her most uppish aunt voice. The only way to find out why she had called all the way from New Jersey to Massachusetts—and before the rates went down—was to agree with Chat's no uncertain terms. But, Faith reflected as she dutifully swore, peace of mind could cover quite a bit of territory.

“I don't know if you remember my old friend Howard Perkins. He moved to a retirement home near you last month. I had meant to tell you, so you could go and see how he was.”

This didn't seem like much to ask, and Faith was puzzled about the oath. Going to pay a call on Howard Perkins, whom she vaguely remembered as a dapper colleague of Chat's in the advertising business, wasn't even up there with the secret of the Rainbow Girls. Why all the cloak and dagger?

“No problem, just tell me the name of the place and I'll be happy to run over—today, if you like."

“I said 'was,' Faith. Howard died last week. He had a very serious heart condition and certainly should have stayed in his apartment, but he wanted to spend his last years in New England, where he'd grown up. The move was a strain, and then there's all that abominable weather you have.”

Chat sounded bitter. She had lived in Manhattan all her adult life and moved out to Mendham, New Jersey—a sensible distance away—when she'd retired as head of her own lucrative ad agency. Faith, a native New Yorker herself, was torn between loyalty to her new home in the small village of Aleford and tacit agreement with Chat as to the climate and even the virtues of city life. She'd been in Aleford for more than three years, and she still missed New York. She wondered what Howard had done with his apartment. Like Chat's old one, it had been in the San Remo on the West Side. Not that the Reverend Thomas Fairchild, Faith's husband, would ever entertain the idea of even a pied-à-terre anywhere except in his own backyard, but Faith would always enjoy playing that absorbing and perpetual New York pastime "Apartment, Apartment, Who's Got an Apartment?"

“Oh Chat, I'm sorry to hear that. I do remember him. He was a lovely man."

“Yes, he was. We thought we might get married once, but we were such good friends, it seemed foolish to risk it." Faith thought she detected a slightly wistful note in her aunt's voice, which quickly vanished as Chat got back to business. "Now, I'm sure you're wondering what this is all about and too polite to say so. There was a letter in the mail from Howard today—another example, incidentally, of the scandalous way the postal service is being run. He mailed it several days before he died and I'm just getting it now. Anyway, I'll read you the relevant part:

... I must close now, Chat dear. It's time for dinner and I don't like to be late. The food takes me back to my boyhood—all sorts of old favorites I haven't had for years. I've put on a pound or two! There is one thing that is bothering me, though, and I don't quite know what to do about it. I plan to tell Dr. Hubbard eventually, but I want to get it all straight first. I'm sure he'll be able to handle the matter. I'm already fond enough of the place to want to avoid involving the authorities. I'll tell you all about it in my next letter. Human nature being what it is, I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised—even here at Hubbard House, surely an oasis, and that's why I must do something to keep it that way for my fellow residents—and yours truly too. I miss you... .

Well, the rest you don't need. Poor Howard—he must have stumbled across some kind of scandal, who knows what. But I feel a certain responsibility to follow up on it. I'd hate to think that people were being mistreated in any way. I thought of going there myself and having a look around. I could pretend to be interested, however difficult that might be, but it might not be necessary if you could make a few discreet inquiries for me and find out what kind of reputation the place has."

“Hubbard House is nearby—in Byford—and I've never heard anything negative about it. Tom has made some pastoral calls there. I could start by talking to him and then speak to Charley, if you like. If there are any rumors, he'll know.”

Charley MacIsaac was Aleford's veteran chief of police. While consuming bottomless cups of coffee and dozens of corn muffins at the Minuteman Café, he was also taking in at the same time whatever was happening—or not happening—in the town and surrounding environs.

“And don't leave Millicent out," Chat admonished.

“I was afraid you'd say that." Faith sighed. "But for you, anything.”

Millicent Revere McKinley gathered her information from the vantage point of her authentic colonial clapboard house with a bow window (a nineteenth-century addition by a like-minded ancestor) affording a panoramic view of Aleford's Green and Battle Road, its main street. Millicent had regarded Faith with suspicion ever since Faith had rung the historic call-to-arms bell in the old belfry after discovering a fresh corpse therein. The body was warm, and Faith had surmised it was not impossible that the murderer was lurking nearby on the hill in the bayberry bushes. Although the event was long past, Millicent still managed to remind Faith whenever possible that the bell was solemnly tolled on only three occasions: the death of a president, the death of one of the descendants of the founding families of Ale-ford, and on Patriots' Day as part of the reenactment of the events of that famous day and year.

Millicent had also saved the lives of Faith and her son, Benjamin, and there was that burden too. Faith figured she'd spend the rest of her days in Aleford making amends. She longed for a chance to even the score—snatch Millicent from under the hooves of runaway horses, dash into her burning house to save the glass-enclosed mourning wreaths plaited from the tresses of Millicent's forebears, or have the legislature pass a bill establishing a state holiday honoring Ezekiel Revere, distant cousin of Paul and great-great-greatgrandfather of Millicent, who cast the original Aleford bell. But Chat was right. Millicent would know what was going on at Hubbard House. The question was, would she tell Faith?

“And remember, if you turn up anything that looks serious, tell MacIsaac or your nice state police friend."

“Of course, Chat. Yet I'm inclined to think it's probably that they weren't getting their evening snacks on time or one of the people working there was a bit rude, although there is that reference to 'the authorities.' "

“Exactly, and that's why I want you to be cautious. Now, call me when you have something to report. Love to Tom and Ben.”

And with that Chat hung up abruptly, as was her custom. She could talk your ear off in person, but she hated the phone.

Faith walked back into the parsonage kitchen. It bore little resemblance to the one she had encountered when she had crossed the threshold as a new bride. Faith could only assume whoever had cooked there prior to her arrival had had no need of counter space, light, a proper stove, or a refrigerator. A properly equipped kitchen to work in was a question not simply of avocation for Faith but of vocation as well. Before her marriage, she was the Faith behind Have Faith, one of Manhattan's most successful catering businesses, lending her culinary talents to the glittering parties she had previously graced with her attractive presence.

Now that Benjamin was old enough to go to nursery school in the mornings, she had been looking for locations to start the business again. Husband, home, and child were fascinating in their own way, of course, but sometimes a woman needed more. In Faith's case, much more. She was blissfully happy watching infant Ben evolve into toddler Ben and now little-boy Ben, and there was no one she'd rather be with than Tom—usually. However, the four walls of the parsonage, quaintly vine covered though they were, were beginning to move in a little too closely. By chance she'd found a caterer right in Aleford, who called himself Yankee Doodle Kitchens and who was preparing to retire to Florida in February. He was happy to sell her his equipment and arrange for a transfer of the lease, but he would not relinquish the name. He might want to start it up again, he told her, and besides, people associated his work with it. Faith was afraid of that and quickly assured him she would continue to use her old name, as her ecclesiastical mate didn't think it would cast any blasphemic shadows on his surplice. Faith, daughter and granddaughter of ministers, who knew exactly how much glass her house had always been made of, wasn't really so sure of that, but she had been well on her way to a national reputation with articles in Gourmet, House Beautiful, and Bon Appétit and wanted to capitalize on that publicity. She had also continued to market a successful line of Have Faith jams, jellies, chutneys, and all sorts of other good things to eat.

She took the bread she had been letting rise from the back of the stove, punched it down, and started to knead, filling the room with a strong aroma of cardamom and yeast.

It was that peculiar time between Thanksgiving and Christmas when all the women's magazines were running articles on how to avoid holiday burnout, suggesting everything from long baths with ice-cold slices of cucumbers over the eyes to transcendental meditation, in the same issues in which they were including patterns for gingerbread models of Chartres Cathedral, replicas of the Ghent altarpiece in needlepoint, and recipes for croquembouche for one hundred.

Faith was not feeling too stressed—yet. She'd been steadily filling her freezer with yuletide treats, and while she was not like those people who have selected and even wrapped all their presents by Labor Day, her Christmas list was almost finished. Shopping, Christmas or otherwise, was something she did as a matter of course all year. She was a strong believer that what went on the body, or what that body looked at, should be of the same caliber as what went into it. And some of her old habits had died hard, or not at all. She knew about Filene's and Jordan's, and had heard tell of a Bloomingdale's and a Barney's not too far from Aleford, but if it wasn't from Madison, Fifth, or SoHo, it wasn't the genuine article. And besides, shopping in New York gave her a chance to go to Zabar's for lox, whitefish salad, knishes, and all the other comfort foods of home she craved.

She glanced at the clock. Eleven thirty. Ben was finished at noon and Tom was picking him up, as he did when he didn't have another engagement. Ben's school was in the Congregational church located directly across the green from First Parish, the Fairchilds' church. The two churches looked like bookends with all the old houses bordering the green arranged tidily between them. A liberty pole with an enormous flag and various roughhewn boulders with plaques marking significant events or individuals were the only things on the green itself. Even the path went around, but it was a true common, and in good weather those who worked in the handful of businesses comprising downtown Aleford ate their sandwiches there at lunchtime, and schoolchildren on their way home stopped for a game of Frisbee. Faith had often taken Ben, first to crawl on the blanket of grass and now to run.

Presently the back door opened and Ben tumbled in shrieking, with Tom close behind. "This time I really am going to catch you, Benny Boy!”

Ben grabbed Faith ecstatically around the knees. "I won, I won!”

Faith picked him up, gave him a big kiss, stroked his hair, blond like hers and beginning to lose its curl, then asked that timeless maternal question, "What did you do in school today, sweetie?" It received the usual answer, one that varies only among "nothing" and "I don't know" or, in Ben's particular case, total silence. She reflected how silly it was to ask day after day, but knew she would keep on and one day, perhaps when he was in high school, he'd sit down and give a blow-by-blow account of his every waking minute since he'd left her side and then she'd probably not be paying attention.

Tom held up a blood-red finger painting. "Look what Ben made. Isn't it wonderful?" Their eyes met. Neither of them had any illusions as to their son's precocity or lack thereof. It looked like millions of other two-and-a-half-year-olds' finger paintings. Ben was affectionate, cheerful, sometimes cooperative, and that was enough for them.

“Sit down and I'll get lunch. I had an interesting call from Chat this morning.”

Tom would miss supper—much of a minister's life is spent not in prayer but at committee meetings—so Faith had cooked a big lunch, as she often did when his schedule was like this. They'd have something light when he got home, and she'd feed Ben early. With luck, he'd be asleep. Now they sat down to a casserole of boneless chicken breasts she had lightly poached in white wine and layered with zucchini and carrot matchsticks and blue cheese. The juice from the chicken and what was left of the poaching liquid that she had poured over it made a delicious sauce. There was also some nutty basmati rice and steamed pea pods. With the holidays, she was trying to keep an eye on their calories, although Faith was as slender as she had always been and Tom never seemed to fill up his tall, rangy frame. He was trying manfully now.

“This is delicious, honey. Ben, we are two lucky guys." Ben was daintily picking up each grain of rice left on his plate after he had impaled all the rest of the food on his eager little fork.

“So—what's the news? Why did Chat call? It had to be for a reason; she never calls just to talk.”

Faith related the call and, as she did, wished she had jotted down the exact wording of Howard's letter. She'd call Chat back and ask her to read it again.

“Farley is over at Hubbard House now. You met him before he moved—Farley Bowditch. I've dropped by a couple of times to visit him. He seems happy enough and I've never seen anything that would suggest he should be otherwise. The place itself is beautiful. It was the Aldrich estate, and Dr. Hubbard has kept the grounds pretty much as they were. People go over to see the rhododendrons in the spring. They're planted along the drive and pretty spectacular." Tom glanced out the window at the overgrown, woody shrubs in the parsonage backyard. They looked particularly bleak in winter. "This year we really have to do something about those bushes. Cut them back, fertilize ..."

“Yank them out and start over," Faith suggested. "But tell me more about Hubbard House."

“I don't really know much more. I've met Dr. Hubbard several times, and he seems to genuinely care about the elderly. People around here have a great deal of respect for him—and his whole family. They're all involved with the home. His son's a doctor too and his daughter's a nurse, I think."

“Sounds like 'Marcus Welby' and 'Father Knows Best.' "

“Now that you mention it, he does look a little like Robert Young, except Dr. Hubbard is taller—bigger all over, and he has that old Yankee voice, sort of a combination of marbles in the mouth and foghorn."

“Not unlike your father." Faith laughed.

Tom glanced involuntarily over his shoulder. The adage in the Fairchild house had always been "Spare the voice and spoil the child."

“I can't see that there could be any harm in asking around about the place—or danger," Tom added pointedly, referring to some of Faith's previous investigative endeavors.

“You know, Tom, I'm pleased that Chat asked me to help. Not that I'm about to trade my whisks and spatulas for a cape and magnifying glass, but it means she has some respect for my sleuthing abilities.”

Tom's reply, which Faith recognized as a heavy-weather warning flag gliding up the mast, was cut short as they both suddenly realized that during their conversation Ben had slid down from his chair and was quietly and gleefully scattering an entire box of linguine over the pantry floor.

“Ben! What are you doing? No, no. That's very naughty! You help Mommy pick up all these spaghettis immediately!”

Tom surveyed the mess. On the Ben scale it was merely a two. Nothing like emptying the vacuum or the ultimate ten, crawling into Tom's mother's car and releasing the emergency brake—fortunately on level ground with several adults running frantically after him.

“Honey, I have to run. I have a meeting with the new divinity school student who's going to be working with us this winter. I'll call you later.”

Faith came over and gave him a kiss. "You mean you actually prefer talking to another adult to cleaning up pieces of spaghetti from the floor? Naughty, naughty."

“Don't put ideas in my head. I hive to work this afternoon.”

Faith turned back to the linguine. Ben thought it was almost as much fun picking it up as throwing it down, and afterward Faith cleared away the lunch dishes and took him upstairs for a nap.

While he was sleeping, she planned her campaign. MacIsaac first, then Millicent. Not that she believed in delaying the inevitable, but since Millicent was going to treat her like a congenital idiot, she'd like to know at least one or two things about Hubbard House beforehand. That way she might not appear to be a complete fool—to herself.

She made a quick call to Chat, took down the exact wording of Howard's letter, and baked the Norwegian Christmas bread she had prepared that morning.

Faith loved the holidays—the traditions, the food, the getting and giving. She'd taken Ben down to New York last week for a look at the tree at Rockefeller Center, the poinsettias massed on the altar of St. Patrick's, and the windows at Saks and Lord & Taylor—even though he was still a little too young to truly appreciate it all. It was never too soon to start. For her these periodic trips to the city, especially at certain times of the year, were a kind of life-support system. Back in Aleford at the end of the long cord, she was willing to grant that New England was the perfect place to be at Christmas. They had already had the first snow, which melted quickly but brought a reminder of things to come. At this time of year no one thought of getting stuck in snowdrifts, backbreaking shoveling, chapped lips and drippy noses. Instead, memory brought the full moon shining like a bea- con over unmarked fields of snow, snowflakes on mittens and tongues, sledding and snow angels, tall pines covered with white, and the feeling of sitting before the fire while the storm swept past the windows and down the chimneys.

But Faith wasn't thinking Currier and Ives. She was thinking Hubbard House.

Chief MacIsaac wasn't at the station. Deputy Dale Warren told Faith to try Patriot Drug—the Chief had mentioned he needed some throat lozenges, might be starting a cold. If he wasn't there, then, of course, try the Café. Faith thanked him and wheeled Ben in his stroller out the door and back up the street toward the pharmacy. Like most of Aleford, it had been there forever and no one save herself appeared to find anything humorous about the name, or the fact that besides what one would expect to find in a store of this nature, they also sold the odd case of tuna fish, lawn mower parts, seed packets in the spring, and shoes. Not shoes like those found in Svenson's Shoe Store up the street, where Ben sat on a wooden pony and tried on little Stride Rites with what seemed liked greater and greater frequency, but shoes with the labels cut out or slightly mismatched. If one of your feet was a seven and the other an eight, Patriot Drug was the place for you. It was also one of the few places in the country, no doubt, where you could still get old favorites—and possibly collectibles—in the Friendship Gardeh line, Dierkiss talc, and Muguet des Bois perfume. Patriot's policy was keep it till it sells. Faith peered in the door, noticed they were having a special on rather dusty cases of imported bonbons, but didn't see Charley.

He was sitting in his usual booth at the Café, toward the rear but on the side facing the street. His hands circled a mug of coffee, and an empty plate was pushed to one side.

“May I join you?" Faith asked.

Charley grinned at the two of them. "Anytime, Faith, and how are things with you?"

“Fine, but I hear you have a sore throat.”

The Chief did not seem surprised that the information had already made its way around to Faith. This was Aleford, after all.

“Just a tickle, but these will fix it." He motioned to his pack of Fisherman's Friends.

The waitress, a pleasant woman named Helen Griggs who attended First Parish, came over to the table. "Have you decided yet, Mrs. Fairchild?”

Since Faith had either blueberry or corn muffins whenever she came in, which one was the only knotty question. She ordered blueberry, a cup of coffee, and a doughnut for Ben. He was usually so intrigued by this thing with a hole in it that Faith could count on a good fifteen minutes of uninterrupted conversation while Ben looped the doughnut on his finger and gnawed his way to the middle.

She told Charley about Aunt Chat's call and produced her copy of the passage in the letter that referred to Hubbard House for Charley's perusal. Charley took his time.

“There's basically two places people go to around here when they can't live at home anymore. Peabody House down the street, but that's pretty small, only room for eighteen and you have to be hale and hearty to get in. They don't have any medical facilities there beyond a nurse and an aide or two. Hubbard House is a bigger operation. You can start out in your room or cottage and then, if you need it, move to the hospital section Dr. Hubbard added when he set the place up. Must be about twenty, twenty-five years ago. Before that he was a GP, had an office here in town where that new dentist is now.”

Faith and Tom were patients of the new dentist, who had been in practice in Aleford for only seven years, as opposed to the other dentist, Dr. Cook, who, from the look of him, might have flossed Sam Adams.

“Roland Hubbard was just about everybody's doctor. Delivered all the babies, a lot of them in their mothers' own beds, made house calls. You know, the kind of thing we don't have anymore.”

Charley sounded bitter. Maybe his throat was worse than he was letting on. He might actually have to go to the doctor's office to get a culture. As for having a baby at home, Faith was very happy for any and all advances medical science might make. She doubted she'd ever want to trade the security of Brigham and Women's for her own roof, not to mention the mess.

“Why did he leave his practice?" Faith asked.

“His wife was very ill and he didn't have much time to see her, let alone take care of her. He thought if he opened a retirement home, he couldbe with her more, and he was. She only lived two years after Hubbard House opened, but from what I hear she was very happy about the idea. Maybe he knew he would need to be around more for the kids too. Anyway, that's how it turned out."

“I understand his son and daughter are both at Hubbard House."

“Yes, Muriel and Donald. Donald moved back to town and has a small practice in addition to Hubbard House. Muriel lives at the home."

“And you've never heard anything shady about the place?"

“Never. And over the years I've gone often to see a lot of friends. The only drawback to Hubbard House is what it costs. When my time comes, I doubt I'll be there, but I'm glad it's around for the people who can afford it and need it."

“Charley! All this is a long way in the future."

“The future has a way of creeping up on you, Faith. No, I won't go to Hubbard House. I'll go back to my people in Nova Scotia or just stay in my house here until they carry me out.”

It must be a very bad sore throat. This kind of lugubrious talk was definitely out of character for Charley.

“Anything else that occurs to you?"

“Not really, but I'll let you know if it does. And I'll drop by there this week and have a look. Talk to a few people. It certainly sounds like this Perkins fellow found something out of kilter. Best thing to do would be to show the letter to Hubbard.”

Faith wasn't so sure. Until she'd had a chance to find out a little more, she didn't want anyone at Hubbard House to get the wind up.

“Charley, I'd appreciate it if you didn't say anything about this to anyone—not around here or at Hubbard House."

“I know. It's your baby, but if it looks like anything serious is going on, you'd better let me in on the double. I still feel bad about the last time, and I want to be able to look Tom in the eye—you and little Benjamin too."

“I promise," swore Faith, thinking as she did so that two oaths in one day meant life was getting a bit more interesting than usual. She brightened up. "Next stop, Millicent."

“I'm surprised you bothered with me at all."

“You underestimate yourself, Chief MacIsaacand don't think I don't know there's more you could have told me about the Hubbards if you weren't so honorable. Millicent doesn't have that problem.”

Faith moved Ben from the booth back into his stroller and struggled with the belt that held him in. He wasn't in his subzero snowsuit, only the intermediate weight, yet putting him in the stroller was already like trying to wedge a pillow into a case too small. She brushed some crumbs off him. It certainly wouldn't do to let one fall on Milli-cent's cherished threadbare orientais.

On the way over, she gave some thought to where she and Tom might end up in their twilight, golden, or whatever the current euphemism was, years. She looked about at the frigid landscape. Definitely someplace a little less bone chilling.

Someplace with sun, blue skies, and good food. Someplace like Eugénie-les-Bains in the southwest of France.

Millicent let them in with her usual implacability. Faith could be her best friend or worst enemy for all her manner displayed. After dumping Ben in what she hoped was out of harm's way with the contents of the toy bag she had brought for the purpose, Faith got directly to the point. More or less.

“I wonder if you might be able to help me. My aunt, Charity Sibley, is retired and living in New Jersey now. She asked me to make some inquiries about a retirement home here, Hubbard House, and I thought you might have friends there or know something about it.”

Faith had no intention of telling Millicent about Howard Perkins' letter, and Chat had asked her to make inquiries. Not that she thought she could fool Millicent into thinking that having an aunt who might move to Hubbard House was all there was to it. They knew each other too well. It was possible they could become friends at some point—perhaps at the third millennium. At present they tended to circle warily when they met.

Millicent had been looking Faith straight in the eye as she spoke. It was one of the methods she employed. Now she looked away, gasped slightly, and stood up. Ben was obliviously playing with some small Majorette cars four feet away from a spindly table supporting one lone china shepherdess. Millicent moved the table a foot farther away. She sat down, smoothed her skirt, and pre- pared to answer Faith with the air of one who had just saved a rare piece of family Meissen from certain destruction. Faith knew exactly how "rare" it was, since she had turned it over to look at the mark when Millicent was in the kitchen getting coffee on an earlier call. It looked as if this visit was settling into the pattern of all those before. She was about to add something, something begging, but Millicent had decided she was ready to spill the beans—a few.

“Hubbard House hasn't been around very long, about twenty-five years I believe. Not like our own Peabody House, which dates back to the Civil War. Still, Dr. Hubbard is providing a wonderful service for people, certain people. Only the best people go to Hubbard House to die." Millicent looked Faith in the eye again as if to say this Charity Sibley, whoever she was, might have trouble getting past the gates.

“I have considered it myself, of course, but so far I am able to manage here quite well on my own.”

Millicent must be in her early seventies, and Faith had no doubt she would still be going strong thirty years from now. She was a small, trim woman with a Mamie Eisenhower cut she had never wished to change. Her bangs were gradually giving way to solid white from iron gray, but everything else about her looked as it always had. She was one of those people whom it was impossible, even unseemly, to imagine as a child. Today she was wearing a blue sweater with intricate cables, a white round-collared blouse, and a matching blue wool skirt.

“I see you are admiring my sweater," Millicent said. "It's one of my own." Millicent was a demon with a needle, and most days saw her perched in her bay window, eyes front, while endless intricate sweaters, mufflers, and socks flowed into her lap.

“As I was saying, I doubt I'll go to Hubbard House—or Peabody for that matter—yet it certainly is lovely there. Dr. Hubbard bought the old Aldrich estate. There were two beautiful Adam houses side by side, Nathaniel Aldrich built the later one for his daughter when she married. A nice custom, I've always thought. Dr. Hubbard joined the two together and built the hospital wing out the back. He also converted several of the outbuildings into cottages. It's very tasteful.”

Faith tried to think of something to say that would get Millicent away from porticos and back to what was going on inside Hubbard House, but she knew it was futile to try to direct the conversation.

“Poor Dr. Hubbard. He was our doctor until he started the home, and our families were friends. His wife, Mary, had never been strong, and I remember Mother saying it was exactly like that old saying, 'Shoemakers' wives go barefoot and doctors' wives die young.' She did die young, and you never saw a man as upset as he was. If it hadn't been for the children, I'm sure he would have followed her. She was a Howell, but one of the ones from Pepperell.”

Faith refused to be sidetracked by Millicent's encyclopedic genealogical prejudices. She didn't know what kind of Howell Mrs. Hubbard should have been, nor did she care.

“Tell me about Muriel and Donald," Faith interjected instead, eager to display some of her newfound knowledge.

Millicent was not impressed. "They're both very good children, always have been. Muriel runs things at Hubbard House. She got some kind of training in nursing-home administration after finishing her RN. Donald is a doctor like his father, and I'm proud to say he's my doctor. Of course with his work at Hubbard House, he can't take too many private patients," she added, squelching any hopes Faith might have had of joining the privileged few.

“Muriel never married, but Donald is.”

Since she didn't elaborate, Faith had to ask, "To whom?"

“To Charmaine Molloy, I believe her name was. Not a local girl." And Faith had to be content with those damning words, since it was clear Millicent wasn't going to say any more. She made a mental note to find out more about Charmaine. It wasn't one of the most popular girls' names one heard in New England, nor did it seem to date back to the days of Patience and Persis, which still cropped up now and then.

“My aunt is interested in the kind of atmosphere one might find at Hubbard House," Faith pressed.

“ 'Atmosphere'?" Millicent's expression suggested this was either a frivolous or an inappropriate question.

“Not like mood music or oxygen." Faith was getting irritated; pulling teeth was such hard work. "As in what do they do all day."

“Of course. They do what most older people do. Read, take walks when the weather permits, socialize. Hubbard House also has some facilities for artwork, a loom I believe, and things like that. They also provide transportation on Fridays for the symphony, although many residents still drive. Whenever I've visited there, I've always been struck by how busy people are. That and, of course, how delicious the food is. They pride themselves on it.”

Faith could imagine. But it did sound like a place where people simply continued the kind of lives they had lived before, with some changes necessitated by retirement and health restrictions. Friday afternoons in the same seats they had always taken at the Boston Symphony, the flower show at Horticultural Hall in the spring, an afternoon at the Atheneum, and perhaps time to look in at the Algonquin or Somerset club to see an old friend or two while the wife got her pearls re-strung at Shreve's or a new frock at Talbots—since the unthinkable had happened and Stearn's was out of business.

“So it's certainly a place that has never had a breath of scandal." Faith played her last card.

“Scandal! I should say not. The Hubbards are one of our finest families and truly devoted to what they do." Millicent had answered too quickly and too emphatically. There was something there, yet she clearly wasn't about to tell Faith.

Faith realized it wasn't going to be that easy to find out what had upset Howard Perkins. Hubbard House was impeccable, it appeared—but not impregnable. She loaded Ben's toys back into the bag, strapped him into the stroller, and thanked her hostess with what she hoped was the appearance of gratitude before wheeling him down Milli-cent's garden path.

It had been obvious from the start. There was only one thing to do if she wanted to find out what Howard could possibly have been describing—go to Hubbard House herself.

Two

Hubbard House was just as impressive as reports had led Faith to believe—more so, in fact. Two imposing three-story brick mansions sat side by side on a high knoll. Wide verandas with graceful columns suggested something other than a pure New England influence—as if the architect had gone on a junket to magnolia country. But since it was Byford, not Natchez, the columns were severely Doric, and any Corinthian leanings had been held tightly in check. The nursing-care annex connected the two houses. It was also brick—old brick to match the others. It was set slightly back from its neighbors, and a screen of well-kept shrubs extended across the front. The long drive with its fabled rhododendrons bordered precisely trimmed lawns with benches and a belvedere where weary walkers could rest. There was a golf course in the distance.

There was nothing institutional about Hubbard House from the outside. It had been hard to find the entrance—the sign was so discreet as to be almost invisible. Faith followed a series of wrought-iron arrows and found the parking lot. For a moment she had imagined cars were banned.

Ben was going to a friend's house to play after school, one of those unexpected reprieves that suddenly make a mother's day seem long, empty, and luxurious. He spilled his milk twice at breakfast, but Faith merely smiled. "You're certainly full of joie de vivre this morning," Tom had commented, rolling his "vivre" out from the back of his throat in an appreciative approximation of Gérard Depardieu. A sophomore year in France had left its mark in the form of a permanent love affair with the country. Faith had debated briefly whether to tell Tom about her plans to visit Hubbard House. She decided to tell him after the fact, that being her usual modus operandi. Besides, she had told him about her conversations with Charley and Millicent and he had not said anything about stopping her investigation.

But when he had kissed her at the door and asked directly, "What are you up to today? More baking?" she had answered, "I'm not sure," and crossed the fingers of her right hard, which happened to be out of sight in her skirt pocket. Faith felt she was due the occasional absolution crossedfingers supplied because of her ministerial family connections. God knew what a burden that was.

Now she walked up the stairs nearest to the Hubbard House parking lot and noticed that there were indeed wheelchair ramps and an ambulance entrance at the rear of the nursing wing. She crossed the veranda to the main entrance and noted the big pots of evergreens, which would contain other things in other seasons. There were no rocking chairs, though. Clearly Dr. Hubbard wanted his porch free from any elderly connotations.

A large, gleaming brass door knocker hung on the front door, but Faith felt a bit awkward at rousing the populace. Instead, she turned the knob and pushed gently. The door swung open, and she walked into a beautifully furnished living room. Deep-blue wall-to-wall carpeting was covered by authentic-looking orientals. Wing chairs, Queen Anne high- and lowboys, and other appropriately aristocratic furniture filled the room. It was completely quiet, and Faith thought it was empty until she realized that a few of the chairs were occupied by individuals engrossed in the day's Christian Science Monitor or Wall Street Journal. There was a reception desk off to the side. A door directly behind the desk bore a plaque with OFFICE etched on it in small Gothic letters.

Faith moved behind the desk, which was bare except for a crystal bud vase with a stalk of white freesia in it, and knocked at the door. It was instantly flung open by a small woman of a certain age with pinky-red curls, a navy-blue suit, and a kitty-cat-bowed, fuchsia blouse.

She grabbed Faith by the arm. "Thank goodness you're here! I've been out of my mind trying to get someone. What with Mrs. Pendergast ringing me every other minute from the kitchen and Muriel from the annex, I haven't been able to call my soul my own all morning. Now, come straight along.”

It took only two seconds for Faith to decide to keep her mouth shut and follow this woman. She couldn't have asked for a better entry to the workings of Hubbard House than to be mistaken for a worker, and it appeared the job was in the kitchen, so there wouldn't be any bedpans.

She trotted along obediently as the woman sped through the halls and down a flight of stairs, observing that the decor of the living room had been continued throughout, augmented by rows of hunting and botanical prints. It was almost too predictable. She also observed that the place was completely devoid of the smells Faith associated with nursing homes—Lysol, rubber sheets, isopropyl alcohol, yesterday's cabbage.

Her guide darted through a swinging door and Faith found herself in a cavernous kitchen, not fitted out as she would have arranged, but not bad. Presiding over the cuisine was a middle-aged woman of greater than average proportions on any scale. She was stirring something in a huge marmite on the top of the stove, and when she turned around to greet them, Faith was sure the "Mrs." was an honorary title. Faith had never seen a mud fence and had always thought it would be hard toconstruct one, but "homely as" immediately sprang to mind. Mrs. Pendergast had perhaps tried to compensate for the dun hue of all her features by choosing incongruous black eyeglass frames with rhinestones on the corners, which served only to emphasize the drabness of the rest of her appearance. Still, it suggested a lurking sense of humor—or something. They should get along all right. Two women with the same interest, although at the moment Faith was thinking more of plots than pans.

“Mrs. Pendergast, here is an angel of mercy! Just in time to help you," dithered the woman with the curls. "Now what was your name again, dear?"

“My name is Faith, Faith Fairchild." This was no time for aliases. Besides Farley Bowditch, there could be other former Alefordians who would recognize the minister's wife. She reluctantly shelved Deirdre Morgana, Letitia Carberry, and some of her other favorites for another day.

“Mrs. Pendergast, Mrs. Fairchild. I take it you're all set? Good, now I'll leave you two ladies to your work." After this burst of speech, she scampered out the door and Faith and Mrs. Pendergast stood eye to eye for a moment.

“Did Miss Vale tell you what was needed?”

“Not exactly," Faith responded. "Some kitchen help, I gather."

“Help is right. My lunch regular and her backup have both come down with this flu, and the volunteers so far stay long enough to learn what to do, then leave to finish their Christmas shopping or some such thing. I finally told Miss Vale that if she couldn't find somebody to stay for the next two weeks, they'd have to start sending out to McDonald's. Oh, that got her, you can imagine. Most of these people think a Big Mac is a large truck.”

Faith shuddered. She was an angel of mercy.

“Miss Vale"—for apparently that was the redhead's name—"didn't say anything about two weeks, but I'll help all I can."

“It's getting the food ready and into that contraption there"—she pointed to a dumbwaiter. "You don't have to do pots or dishes. The wheelchair boys and girls do those."

“Wheelchair boys and girls?"

“The college kids who work here and go get the people in wheelchairs who live in the cottages for meals or take others out for a spin around the gardens. They serve the meals and clean up."

“I think I'll be able to help you, but most days only until eleven thirty, because I have to be home when my little boy comes back from nursery school. And only weekdays, I'm afraid."

“That will have to do it and it may not be two weeks, but Dr. Hubbard is very particular about the food preparation, and if he thinks there's a chance of passing the flu around with the food, he'll have them stay home longer. Not but that I agree with him. Of course, I'm never sick myself.”

It would take a mighty germ to fell Mrs. Pendergast, Faith thought, and found herself nodding solemnly—in tacit agreement, she supposed, or just to have some participation in the conversation that continued its one-sided course.

“Now, don't worry about the cooking. I do all of it. Have been for thirty years—the last fifteen righthere. I need you to chop things, help me get organized, and dish it all out."

“Like a sous chef," Faith commented.

“I don't know any Sue chefs. Like another pair of hands is what I mean."

“Fine." Faith reached for an apron. "Why don't you tell me where to start." She was a firm believer that a woman's kitchen was her queendom. Still, it might be possible to introduce some flavor into the cuisine after a few days. The only cookbook she could see was an ancient edition of Fanny Farmer, and while it made for wonderful bedtime reading—caramel potato cake, and her own personal favorite, Canapés à la Rector: caviar on toast sprinkled with diced cucumber pickles and red pepper, divided into sections, by anchovy fillets—she hoped the inhabitants of Hubbard House weren't subsisting on macaroni and chipped beef and the book's other stick-to-the-ribs staples.

“We're giving them fish today—scrod and some greens and potatoes. The first thing you could do is start peeling these with this contraption while I trim the beans. The soup's all made and on the back burner." She gestured toward the stove. "There's always some who want soup first, or they can have juice. Then we give them a salad. And I've got last night's pot roast for those who don't want fish."

“How many people are there?" Faith asked.

“One hundred and fifteen total, but we never get that many for lunch. The cottages have kitchenettes and some people make their own lunch. And there's usually a few who are traveling or eating out. They mark their meal choices in the morning on those little sheets. There's sixty today and seven trays."

“Trays?"

“Yes, for the people in the annex. The wheelchair kids come for those first.”

Faith worked quickly, but it took a while before the potatoes were on. She looked around to see what was next and clamped her mouth shut as she watched Mrs. Pendergast with an ancient canister of paprika, liberally sprinkling the fish before putting it into the oven to bake. They were assembling salads and Faith was about to start priming the pump to get information more relevant to her investigation than the merits of V-8 juice versus tomato when the door swung open and she heard the click of high heels on the kitchen tile.

“Do you need some more help, Mrs. P.? I have a spare half hour and it's all yours.”

The voice belonged to a tall, languid-looking young woman with, depending on one's frame of reference and charitable inclinations, a long Modigliani or Afghanhound-like face and black hair cropped close to her head. As she spoke, she took off the jacket of her suit, an Anne Klein Faith had considered herself last year, and rolled up the sleeves of her silk blouse. She wasn't beautiful, yet everything about her was—the way she walked, her voice, and all the separate parts: luminous gray eyes, smooth glowing skin. It didn't add up, but came close enough.

“I can always use help, Denise. Grab an apron from the closet and you can finish these salads with Mrs. Fairchild here while I scoop out the Grape Nut pudding for dessert." Mrs. Pendergast spoke in tones bordering on affection.

“Are you a new Pink Lady?" Denise asked Faith as she slipped on a pair of rubber gloves and grabbed a handful of lettuce.

“A what?"

“A Pink Lady. That's what we volunteers are called because of the pink dusters we're supposed to wear. I told them I was happy to come and do whatever they wanted, but nothing could induce me to put that thing on."

“I don't think I'm one. Nor," she added, "have I ever drunk one. I'm just helping here until the lunch crew recovers from the flu." Faith hoped Miss Vale wouldn't suddenly decide to fling a duster her way to wear in the kitchen. She'd have to be firm and cite Denise as precedent.

“Do you live in Byford, Mrs. Fairchild?" Denise asked.

“No, I live in Aleford, and please call me Faith. My husband is the minister at First Parish, and we have a two-and-a-half-year-old boy. How about you?"

“I live in Byford—for the moment. Try prying a teenager away from the friends he's made. I decided it wasn't fair for Joel to lose both his father and friends, so we're here for at least two more years."

“I'm sorry to hear about your husband. Was his death recent?" Faith asked, switching into the empathetic minister's wife voice she thought she ought to be cultivating. It was a slight shock to watch Denise explode into laughter. Hysteria?

“I should only be so lucky. No, the creep is very much alive and living in L.A. with wife number three, formerly mistress number three hundred and three, who didn't want wife number one's kid around. Wife number one didn't want him either. I'd been raising Joel pretty much alone anyway, and I wasn't going to back out on him. Plus we got the house, no problem, and actually both of us have never been happier."

“It sounds like you didn't exactly have a match made in heaven," Faith commented.

“I was just plain stupid and not young enough to have age for an excuse—but maybe not that stupid. I never had my wedding silver or towels monogrammed, for instance.”

Faith laughed. She hoped Denise would be around a lot in the next two weeks. Besides being entertaining, she might have picked up what was going on at Hubbard.

“What do you do here—as a volunteer?" Faith asked, also wondering why?

“I started by driving some of the residents to temple for services on Friday nights—the rabbi had asked for volunteers from the congregation, and then when one of the people I drove, Mrs. Rosen, broke a hip and was recuperating in the nursing wing, I visited and read to her. One thing led to another and I became a volunteer. I love being adored and I don't have a whole lot else to do with my time. If I weren't so selfish, I'd go out and get a job, but I don't want someone telling me what time to be there and what to'do.”

Obviously she didn't need the money, Faith ob- served, looking at her neat little Patek Philippe watch and the heavy gold necklace she wore. Her fingers were conspicuously bare of rings.

“How about you, Faith, why are you doing this? Christian love?"

“Nothing so selfless, I'm afraid," Faith answered. "I was on my way to visit a parishioner and Miss Vale mistook me for someone coming to volunteer and brought me here. But since Ben is in nursery school in the mornings, I can help for a while." She decided not to tell Denise about Chat's letter. Until she had more of an idea about what was going on, she wasn't going to mention it to anyone even vaguely associated with Hubbard House.

“That is so typical of Sylvia—Sylvia Vale—and yet somehow she never puts a foot wrong. Here you are. The problem's solved even though she was completely screwed up about it.”

The salads were done and only needed dressing, which the residents put on themselves.

“Do you want us to do the bread, Mrs. P.?" Denise asked.

“Yes, and I'll mash the potatoes, and then it will be time to get the trays done."

“You should be doing this instead of me," Faith remarked. "You know so much."

“Not a chance. Remember I'm selfish. I don't want to have to be here every day at a certain time. Besides, I have a hair appointment tomorrow. With this cut, I have to go all the time. It gives me another purpose in life, and it's almost as nice as the old days in high school when my friend Linda and I used to iron each other's hair, smoke cigarettes we took from her mother, and gossip. Somehow my hairdresser Richard's stories don't seem as interesting as which cheerleaders went all the way and whether the math teacher was seeing Debbie Jackson outside school, but Richard pampers me and I love it.”

Faith was still searching for someone who could cut her hair—if not exactly as she'd had it before her northern migration, at least in some approximation. She didn't want Denise's cut, but she recognized the hand of a master. Before she could ask her where Richard wielded his scissors, Denise looked at her watch and exclaimed, "Have to run! 'Bye, Faith. Nice meeting you. 'Bye, Mrs. P. You've got a treasure here. Let her do some of the cooking. I think she knows how." She winked at Faith. "Joel and I love Have Faith's wild berry jam.”

A faint whiff of Coco lingered after she left, mingling with the smell of the brown bread, Parker House rolls, and cranberry muffins they'd been putting into baskets. Mrs. Pendergast lumbered over.

“Put a few more muffins in each. We've got them to spare today. And you know these ladies always bring big pocketbooks to meals." She laughed.

Faith hadn't pictured the stately inhabitants of Hubbard House as the types who filched rolls from the dining room, but then it could also be yet another example of Yankee frugality—she could hear the soft murmurs, "Don't want them to go to waste, you know." She added some more to each basket and went over to help Mrs. Pendergast fill the trays. The tray slips were tucked under the silverware, and she saw that one of them was for Farley Bowditch. He must be in the nursing-care wing.

“I'm going to have to leave soon, Mrs. Pendergast, but I could bring this tray up on my way out. Mr. Bowditch is a friend."

“That would be fine. It isn't hard to find. You go back the way you came, but instead of taking the stairs, take the elevator and go to the second floor. We're in the basement of the annex. When you get out of the elevator, go straight and turn right. His room is in the middle of the corridor." She hesitated. "Do you think you can stand another day?"

“I think so." Faith smiled. "See you in the morning." Mrs. P. hadn't been a font of information—not yet anyway—but Faith was getting fond of her. She'd get even fonder if she could take over some of the cooking.

She picked up the tray. Farley had opted for the fish, and it lay in overcooked splendor on a Wedgwood plate with a blanket of red paprika and a morsel of parsley. She popped a cover on it to keep it hot and set off.

It was easy to find the nursing-care wing, but Faith decided to get deliberately lost on the way back. Of course she could always ask Sylvia Vale to show her around, but it was more fun—and instructive—to go alone.

Farley was sitting up in a chair by the window and was delighted to see her.

“Mrs. Fairchild! How nice of you to come, and you've brought my lunch, I see. Perhaps you would join me? The kitchen is so obliging and the food is quite tasty."

“I'm afraid I don't have time today, but thank you. Actually I'm volunteering in the kitchen for a while, as they are short of help at the moment."

“Ah yes, your culinary renown has preceded you, no doubt."

“I'm not sure about that. I'm peeling potatoes and arranging salads for now."

“All in good time, my dear."

“But please, don't let your food get cold. I thought I would bring it up and see how you were doing. Tom sends his best and says he'll be out to see you soon."

“How kind. Well, I'm fine, but Roland—that's Dr. Hubbard—is not happy with my get-up-and-go. He says it's gone and wants to keep a closer eye on me until we find it." Farley laughed brittlely, wheezing slightly.

Faith decided to use the Aunt Chat ploy. "I have an aunt who lives in New Jersey now who is considering Hubbard House, and I told her I would ask some of the people who live here what they think of it."

“Who better?" Farley agreed amicably. "The horse's mouth.”

Faith expected him to continue, but he appeared to be distracted by a tomato, which had surfaced from the midst of the lettuce. "Oh, this is nice. Tomato and lettuce." She waited patiently as he guided the fork from plate to mouth, tensing slightly as the tomato quivered and started to fall. It was like watching Ben eat. The mission was accomplished, and while he was chewing she asked, "Are you happy here?" Time to be direct.

“Oh my, yes. Best decision I ever made—coming here. They take wonderful care of you and you meet such interesting people. Of course, I knew quite a few of them before, but we have stockbrokers, lawyers, teachers, even preachers here. A lady who writes books. A couple who raise orchids in one of the cottages. A vast assortment. Then there's the ghost."

“The ghost?" asked Faith, wondering if this was a pet name for someone, an old New England tradition associated with the house, or perhaps where Farley's get-up-and-go had wandered.

“I should say my ghost. Nobody else has seen it, yet it's real enough. Comes into this very room at night and shuts the window. Sometimes pulls my blankets up around me. So considerate. Roland says he wishes it would appear to more people. Would help cut down on staff." Farley laughed and wheezed again. "But tell your aunt not to be afraid if she hears about it. We're used to ghosts around here. My mother used to see her grandmother sitting on the porch swing the first of June every year. It was how we knew summer had arrived. I don't know much about ghosts in New Jersey, but you tell her she would be quite happy here. Don't know much about New Jersey either. Only went there once when my nephew graduated from Princeton. Didn't get into Harvard. Seemed like a nice enough place, but you tell her to come here. Probably better.”

Farley was turning his attention to the fish, and Faith said good-bye with promises to return the next day. She wouldn't be getting any useful infor- mation from him, that seemed clear, but she always loved this kind of elderly gentleman. She looked back at him—sitting with perfect elegance in an old bathrobe from Brooks with a shawl draped around his shoulders. He could have been presenting his papers at the Court of St. James.

As she left, she noticed a nurse's station, which opened onto an atrium, at the end of the corridor and walked down for a closer look. It was well equipped, and even the gold-framed botanical prints on the wall behind it did not disguise the fact that this was a medical facility. She'd noticed the oxygen hookups and other hospital-room paraphernalia in Farley's room. It was all unobtrusive but state of the art. Whatever Howard Perkins had stumbled onto, outdated or shoddy medical equipment wasn't it. A door to the left of the nursing station opened and a woman who appeared to be in her late thirties came through, carefully locking it behind her. Before she did, Faith glimpsed a wall of glass cabinets—obviously the medication room.

The woman smiled at her. "Hello, are you looking for someone?"

“I found him, thank you. I've been visiting Farley Bowditch. I'm helping in the kitchen and brought him his tray. He's a parishioner of my husband's."

“Oh, then you must be Mrs. Fairchild. I'm Muriel Hubbard and I met your husband when he was here the last time. Farley loves company and it was good of you to come. And Mrs. Pendergast must be thanking her lucky stars. We've been having a terrible time with so many of the staff out, and it's impossible to get short-term replacements.”

Muriel was a small but solid woman. Her brown hair, cut in a sensible, chin-length Dutch bob, was streaked with a few gray hairs. The bangs accentuated her broad forehead. Her glasses hung from a string around her neck, and she was dressed in a navy-blue skirt, starched white oxford-cloth blouse, and comfortable nurse's shoes. She exuded competence, security, and dullness.

“I'm glad I can help," Faith told her, "but I must get home now. I've already stayed later than I planned." Virtually nothing so far had gone as planned, Faith thought, her mood elevating as it did whenever unpredictability surfaced in days that at present tended to march in step.

“Thank you again, and I'll look forward to seeing more of you. She extended her hand and shook Faith's warmly. Muriel was obviously a very nice person.

Faith dashed to the parking lot and drove home. The phone was ringing as she opened the kitchen door. It was Tom.

“Where have you been, honey? I've been calling you all morning."

“I went out to Hubbard House to visit Farley Bowditch and—" Faith started to explain.

“That's nice. I'm sure he appreciated it," Tom interrupted. "I'm going to be later than I thought tonight, but I will be home for dinner." His voice sounded grimly determined. Something was up, Faith realized—not just from the tone of his voice, but from the fact that her visit to Hubbard House had scarcely been noted. She hoped it wasn't complaints about wording in some of the hymns again. There were so many points of view these days, and Tom had been going in circles trying to keep everybody in tune.

“Fine. I have to get Ben at the Viles'. He's playing with Lizzie today. Then we have to do the food shopping, so I'll be running a little late too. Is everything all right, darling? You sound a little harried."

“I am. Leave a light in the window and get out the scotch.”

Faith hung up. This wasn't just hymns. A thought stabbed her. Maybe the director of the church school was ill and couldn't direct the Christmas pageant! This was always a worst-case scenario and something her normally unflappable mother had fretted about at Christmastime all during Faith's childhood. Jane Sibley was noted for her cool toughness in court, and there were hints of a possible judgeship, but the intricate theological wrangling about who was going to be Mary this year and my son isn't going to be a shepherd again totally unnerved her. Let alone getting them all down the aisle and in some sort of recognizable order at the altar.

But Tom would have said something, especially if he intended to drag her into it. She shook her head. He wouldn't ask her in any case. Pix would do it. Pix always did everything. In fact, it was odd that she wasn't doing it in the first place. Pix Miller was Faith's next-door neighbor, and the Miller family's intimate involvement in two murder investigations, which Faith had literally stumbled into, had forged a bond stronger than either the occasional cup-of-sugar type neighborliness or the "you planted your hedge over my property line" antipathy.

She drove to get Ben, and the job of tearing him away from Lizzie effectively blotted out any and all thought. Today was worse than usual. Lizzie's mother tactfully stood aside as Faith wrestled a screaming Ben into the car. "Don't wanna go! Wanna stay wid Lizzie! Nononononono! and so on. She gave Arlene Viles a weary smile and backed out of their drive. The only thought that comforted her was that Lizzie would be worse about leaving when she came to play at their house. As she drove to the market, she thought she might suggest this phenomenon to Tom for some kind of sermon. What does it say about human nature that we derive so much comfort from not being last in line? No matter how badly your child might behave, there are always worse ones. And, a friend had told her once, no matter how fat you think you are and how much cellulite is dimpling down your thighs, there's always someone in the Loehmann's dressing room who looks worse. Faith was some years away from these comparisons, yet the point was the same.

Ben had calmed down as soon as Lizzie's house was out of sight, and now her only problem would be to convince him to sit in the cart and not try to "help" by pushing it for her. She grabbed a bunch of bananas as soon as she entered the store, put one in Ben's hand, and strapped him in before he had a chance to protest.

Tom was later than usual, and looking at his expression when he entered the kitchen, she could see that he was mad, not sad. So no one had died or contracted some serious disease. It was merely some pain in the ass—a congregation being like any other group of individuals.

She put her arms around him. "Come on, let's have a drink and sit in the living room while you tell me all about it. I fed Ben and he's watching a Winne-the-Pooh tape—that gives us roughly twenty-two minutes of peace."

“Wonderful, darling—although whatever you've got in the oven smells so delicious, I'm not sure I can concentrate.”

Faith had decided Tom needed some good, solid food—nothing nouvelle—so she'd prepared a pork roast with garlic, rosemary, white wine, and olive oil. There was curried cabbage, fresh applesauce, and a potato galette Lyonnaise to go with it. She poured herself a glass of Georges Duboeuf Beaujolais Nouveau and followed Tom into the living room. Ben was at the far end, mesmerized by Eeyore, and barely acknowledged Tom's kiss.

“All right, what is it? They've discovered the bordello we're running on the side in the parsonage? Or someone got a back issue of Playgirl and saw your centerfold? What?"

“Oh, Faith, I wish it were something funny. I really don't know what to do, or rather I do, and the next couple of months are going to be so damned unpleasant. And why now? You know how much I love Christmas.”

Faith did know. Tom's family started getting the cartons of ornaments down from their attic before Halloween just to check and see if any of the lights needed new bulbs. When the house was finally decorated, there wasn't a corner that had been overlooked. Some year Faith fully expected to find St. Nick toilet paper peeking at her from the roll.

“I also feel a bit petty about it. It shouldn't bother me so much, but he has a way of getting under my skin—and it's only been one day!”

Everything was suddenly clear. "So," said Faith, "you can't stand your new divinity school intern."

“I loathe him. So will you. He's arrogant, pompous, self-centered, stupid, and he smells."

“Well, at least you can tell him to take a bath. Hint around."

“It's not good old BO. It's some kind of horrible men's cologne."

“And what is this creature's name?"

“Cyle—as in 'Kyle,' but spelled with a 'C'—and you can bet it didn't start out that way. We met this morning to discuss what he would be doing, and he started interviewing me! Before I knew it, he was offering advice about my sermons, ways to keep the congregation alert, and suggestions for a new wing for the parish hall. I began to feel a knot in my stomach that is just starting to go away now." He took a mouthful of scotch.

“How long will he be here?"

“Until the first of March, and there's no only about it.”

Faith was a little surprised at the intensity of Tom's reaction. Cyle must really be something. Tom was the least judgmental person she knew. Turning the other cheek, living and letting live—this was Tom. At the moment he was sounding more like her.

“I suppose what is actually troubling me is contemplating the kind of damage a person like this will do in the future. Imagine going to him for comfort. The sole thing that is going to make this bearable is for me to finagle my way onto his ordination committee."

“Why do you suppose he wants to be a minister? He sounds more like someone who thinks of call waiting rather than the 'call.' "

“I've been wondering the same thing myself—it has to be the idea of a captive audience every week. Maybe I should try to steer him into politics—or TV evangelism."

“Anywhere but your church."

“Exactly.”

Tom stretched his long legs out. Winne-the-Pooh had gone back to the Hundred Acre Wood, and they tucked Ben into bed before sitting down to eat. As they ate, Faith told Tom about her visit to Hubbard House, eliminating Sylvia Vale's mistake but mentioning the tight spot they were in and how she could help.

“I don't see why not," he said. "I'll be able to pick Ben up occasionally."

“And I know Pix will help."

“Have you uncovered any skulduggery yet?”

“Not yet. Everything looks like it's on the very up and up."

“Which is what I've thought all along. Chat's friend may have been imagining things." That re-minded Faith of Farley's ghost, and she gave Tom a hilarious account of the thoughtful wraith.

They cleaned up the kitchen and soon after climbed into bed.

“Feeling better, sweetheart?" Faith asked softly. "Almost," Tom answered, reaching for her under the blankets.

Sylvia Vale greeted Faith at the door the next morning with exuberant relief.

“You've come back! That's marvelous. Mrs. Pendergast said you would, yet one never knows." She sighed. "It used to be so easy to get help in the old days. I've been here since Hubbard House opened, you know."

“I'll be able to come weekdays until everyone is back. Please don't worry."

“I won't," she said brightly, but Faith wasn't sure. Sylvia Vale seemed like someone who enjoyed her worries.

“I'll get to work, then," Faith said, moving toward the corridor that led to the annex.

“Just a minute." Sylvia darted into the office and returned with a thick cream-colored envelope. "All the Pink Ladies are invited, of course.”

Faith took the envelope and thanked her, moving more quickly to avoid both the appellation and the possibility of a new, unwelcome, addition to her wardrobe. She ripped open the envelope on her way downstairs. It was a heavily embossed invitation to a dinner dance on December fourteenth at the Copley Plaza in Boston for the benefit of Hubbard House. Two tickets were enclosed.

That was next Wednesday. She didn't think they had plans, and it would be a way to see the cast of characters. She hadn't even met Dr. Hubbard yet—father or son. They were sure to be there. She wondered if Denise would be going.

It was raining, and there were more people in for lunch. The kitchen was so busy that Faith barely had time to say hello, much less ask Mrs. P. for the inside dope on Hubbard House. They had started to set out the trays when Mrs. Pendergast said, "Can you do these? I've got some marrow bones and a piece of beef set aside to make soup for tomorrow, and I want to put it on."

“Oh," said Faith, with all the ardor of an ingénue who's just heard the star may have twisted an ankle, "let me. I can make a lovely, rich bouillon. It's very nourishing."

“If you like," Mrs. Pendergast agreed. "There's some greens and carrots in the fridge you might want.”

Faith did and merrily set about assembling a good strong stock. She'd clarify it in the morning and bring some leeks and Madeira or port to add.

There was enough time for a visit with Farley before she left, and he regaled her with stories of various inhabitants of Aleford—mostly long gone. She tried to steer him toward the Hubbard family, but there didn't seem to be anything of interest there to Farley, except sympathy for Dr. Hubbard—"Poor Roland. Losing Mary so young." Faith did learn, however, that Millicent Revere McKinley's father had had a lucrative bathtub gin business, and she filed the information away for possible future use.

That night Faith told Tom she definitely had to get back to work. Making such a large amount of stock was a poignant reminder of Have Faith's past glories when she had had any number of pots going at once.

“It's exhilarating—of course I love to cook for you and Ben, but there's not quite the scope for imagination a banquet offers.”

Tom was amused. "Maybe Mrs. Pendergast will let you do the main course soon if she likes your bouillon—and then who knows what next.”

Mrs. Pendergast did like Faith's bouillon. Faith offered her a steaming cup after she had added the egg whites, Madeira, leeks, parsley, and other seasonings before straining it.

“Very tasty—and you're right. It does look nourishing. Are you going to bring up Mr. Bowditch's tray today?"

“Yes, I have time, if you don't need me here." Faith felt as proud of her bouillon as of her first galantine de lapereau.

Muriel Hubbard was in Farley's room when Faith entered. She was about to take his blood pressure and had his medication in a small paper cup.

“Hello, Mrs. Fairchild, how nice to see you," she said.

“It's always nice to see Faith," Farley added gallantly. "What have you brought today besides your charming self, my dear?"

“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 about 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, Faith 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.

When Tom got home, he called Farley's niece, whom he had seen the day before, to talk about funeral arrangements. After a brief conversation, he told Faith, "The funeral is set for Tuesday. I suppose you'll be too busy at Hubbard House to come, but of course the Bowditches will understand."

“Come on, Tom. It's not like you to be devious. What did she say?"

“She didn't say anything, but you're right. I was being less than direct. Falling into one's soup as a last mortal act is slightly ludicrous, and it might be better if people were not reminded of it by your presence. Not that anyone in town thinks you had anything to do with it."

“Balderdash, with an emphasis on the first syllable. It's the bell all over again. When tales are told hundreds of years hence, the one about the minister's wife who desecrated a landmark and was a suspected poisoner is going to be a favorite to pass the time while traveling from planet to planet. I'm surprised Millicent hasn't called. But don't worry, darling. I hadn't planned on attending the funeral and I'm not mad at you for not wanting me there and not saying so, although I probably should be."

“No, you shouldn't, and if trying not to hurt your wife's feelings ..." Faith closed his mouth with a kiss. The conversation was going nowhere, and with Ben fast asleep, they were wasting precious time.

Millicent called as they were going upstairs—ostensibly to find out when the service would be. Tom answered the phone and decided not to give Faith a report of the conversation, which was all Faith had predicted and more. There was no question in Millicent's mind. If Farley had had a decent Yankee lunch of Welsh rarebit on toast, her own personal favorite, he'd be alive today.

* * *

The next morning Faith was back at Hubbard House. As she drove into the parking lot, she felt increasingly apprehensive about what Mrs. Pendergast would say. She pushed open the kitchen door slowly and peeked in. Mrs. P. turned around. There was no preamble.

“Now it wasn't your fault. What you need to do is forget about the whole thing and get busy with this fruit cup here.”

Faith walked across the room toward her.

“Of course," she continued, "can't say anybody ever dropped dead in my food.”

She could kiss any idea of further food preparation good-bye, Faith realized, and reluctantly let go of her lofty plans for a culinary revolution at Hubbard House.

Denise arrived by the time Faith and Mrs. Pendergast had started to set out the breads and again offered to help. She put her hand on Faith's shoulder.

“I heard about the soup mishap. I hope you're not feeling upset about it. Farley had some good innings."

“I know, but I do feel a little guilty, although I realize it had nothing to do with what he was eat- ing., "It's always so difficult when someone here dies. I don't say 'passes on' or 'goes to his maker.' It's death, and I'd like to say I don't plan on going, but unfortunately I know better. One of the ways I have gotten to know better is by being here. So many of the residents have made their peace with life—or death, depending on your point of view.

They're not eager to go, yet accepting. Quite a few of them work for Hospice and help see each other out. I'd like to have a good friend by my side when I'm near the end."

“And you will," Faith assured her. They worked for a while in companionable silence; then Faith thought the time had come to ask some questions about the Hubbards.

“I met Muriel Hubbard the other day, but none of the rest of the family. Do you know them well?"

“I know them, but I wouldn't say well. We're all so busy doing our own individual things here that we don't get to know each other unless we see one another outside. And that lets Muriel out right away. I don't think she ever leaves the place except for an occasional shopping trip and church. In fact, she may even do her shopping by mail, so it's just church. I'll be surprised if she's at the Holly Ball Wednesday night. She usually stays here to keep an eye on things. You're going though, I hope.”

Faith had forgotten the benefit was called the Holly Ball. She'd talked it over with Tom and they were going. She wanted to get a look at the attendees, and he thought they should show their support for Hubbard House—and he always liked to dance with Faith.

Denise continued to talk about the Hubbards. "I see Dr. Hubbard quite a bit coming and going. He's a sweetie, and I don't see how this place could exist without him. It's not just that he knows everyone by name, but he really knows them—their aches and pains, sorrows and joys.

Donald is a good doctor, but he doesn't have the same charisma."

“What's Donald's wife like? Does she work here too?"

“Charmaine? No, she doesn't work here. She'll be at the ball and you can judge her for yourself. She got back from her latest cruise or spa last week, so she's in town."

“Is she French—'Charmaine'?”

Denise laughed. "She might like to be taken for French, but she actually sounds more like a Georgia peach, although I have it on good authority that the Molloys, that's her maiden—and I use the term loosely—name, were never south of Providence.”

They finished the baskets and Denise left. She promised to put Faith and Tom at her table. "If Leandra lets me," she added.

“Who's Leandra?" Faith asked.

“You'll find out Wednesday night," Denise answered, and vanished out the door.

The kitchen was oddly still after she left, and Faith felt a heaviness in the air, which the pungent smell of overdone veal did nothing to lighten.

“Why are you so interested in the Hubbards?" Mrs. Pendergast didn't beat around any bushes.

Faith was momentarily taken aback.

“I'm interested in Hubbard House. That's all. You remember I told you my aunt was considering moving here, and of course I want to tell her everything I can."

“Indeed." Mrs. Pendergast looked skeptical. "Well, tell your aunt"—her inflection suggested strong doubts as to the existence of said aunt—"that she won't find a better-run, better-staffed retirement home in the country, and the Hubbards, all of them, are what make it that way.”

So there.

Faith felt her hand smarting, though an actual ruler had not been produced. She didn't have Farley's tray to take up, so she mumbled "Good-bye" and headed for the door.

“See you tomorrow," Mrs. P. boomed at her retreating back.

Upstairs, her backbone was instantly restored, and she thought she would take Dr. Hubbard up on his offer to meet him. Sylvia Vale was outside her office putting a fresh sprig of freesia in the vase. It was white again, and it appeared that much about Hubbard House was unvarying. Sylvia, however, had changed her navy suit and was resplendent in a purple, gold, and green print silk shirtwaist dress.

In response to Faith's request, she answered, "Of course. I should have taken you to meet Dr. Hubbard when you came, but Mrs. Pendergast was so insistent on having you report to the kitchen immediately that I never did get a chance. We'll do it right now." She tripped off on high heels that were dyed to match the green of her dress, and Faith followed.

Dr. Hubbard's office was in the front corner of one of the original Aldrich houses.

“This was the library of Deborah's house—that was the name of the daughter Nathaniel Aldrich,the original owner, built the house for. We still call the houses Nathaniel's and Deborah's, as the Aldrichs always did. Dr. Hubbard has kept this house very much as it was. His son's office is across the hall, and there's an apartment where Dr. Hubbard lives now at the rear of the house. Upstairs we have several residents' rooms, a room for guests who may be visiting relatives or friends here, and Muriel's apartment.”

Faith realized she should have come to Sylvia Vale in the first place. If she could keep her talking, she'd tell Faith about every nook and cranny and every occupant at HH.

“I have a small nest in Byford center," Sylvia prattled on, and Faith was struck by an image of Sylvia in her colorful plumage perched in a nest like Big Bird in the middle of Byford Common.

Sylvia knocked at the door, and a voice Faith instantly recognized from both her conversation and Tom's earlier description as belonging to Roland Hubbard answered, "Come in." They did.

“Dr. Hubbard, this is Mrs. Fairchild, who has been so kind about helping us out.”

Roland Hubbard rose from behind his mahogany Duncan Phyfe desk and walked around it toward Faith, his hand already extended. He was a tall, powerful-looking man with a thick shock of white hair and deep blue eyes. A patrician. He took her hand and covered it with his other in a lingering grasp. She had never decided whether she liked this kind of handshake or not. It was difficult to terminate, but then wasn't it also more personal than the other—an American equivalent to being kissed on both cheeks? Dr. Hubbard dropped her hand.

“I'm happy I can help you, and I hope I can do so occasionally in the future. I'll be starting my business after the new year—I'm a caterer—but I'm sure there will be time to come here also." She was not sure when, yet it seemed like the right thing to say. After all, you couldn't very well tell the head of Hubbard House that you were here only to investigate, and when you had discovered whatever the matter was, you'd be history.

“Anything you can do, my dear. We old folks appreciate seeing a young thing around the place. Of course, I say that facetiously. Even though the average age here is seventy-nine, I don't think many of us would describe ourselves as 'old', rather 'seasoned.' And we are the fastest-growing segment of the population, which suggests a certain liveliness. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm afraid much of my job is paperwork and I'm trying to clear my desk of this Everest before Wednesday's frolic."

“Of course, Dr. Hubbard." Sylvia looked up at him, her eyes slightly dilated with pure devotion. "It was good of you to take the time.”

So it was like that, Faith thought. Sylvia bustled her out the door and back into the annex. "A truly selfless man," she told Faith. "He lives completely for others."

“How nice," Faith commented. There didn't seem to be any other appropriate comment to make. She could understand the fascination, if notthe devotion. Roland Hubbard was extremely well preserved, and while his voice did not have tones of liquid gold, its sharp Yankee clip was softened by the warmth he injected into it. The way he had of looking straight into one's eyes, the "I'm talking to only you" manner, was indeed seductive.

“Incidentally, have you seen the dining room?" Sylvia laughed preparatory to making a joke. "It would be a bare cupboard without you!"

“No, I haven't seen it," Faith replied, and hoped Sylvia had time to give her a tour.

Sylvia did seem to have time, and showed Faith the elegant dining room with curved windows overlooking a garden and large deck. "During the summer months, we eat out on the deck that Doctor Hubbard added. It's almost like a resort!" Sylvia told her. There was also a small dining room off to the side for the residents to use for private parties and a good-sized library on the other side. They walked back through the living room.

“This was one of the few changes the Hubbards made. Originally part of it was the entrance hall." She gestured to the left and pointed back at the grand spiral staircase toward the rear of the room. "The wall between the hall and the Aldrich living room was removed to make a larger space." Faith commented that it was a beautiful room, and Sylvia agreed.

“You know the basement, and I understand you've also seen our nursing wing." Sylvia tactfully omitted any further comment. "This corridor connects the annex with the other house. Upstairs in this house is devoted to residents' apartments and rooms. So important to have one's own space and possessions, I think. I'd hate to end up with nothing except a locker and a bed. But Dr. Hubbard has assured me that there will always be a place for me here."

“And certainly you don't need to think about that for a long time," Faith assured her. Sylvia looked to be in her mid-fifties. She brightened at Faith's remark. "Thank you, my dear. But I'm not as young as all that.”

Maybe sixty, Faith amended to herself.

She went home after retrieving Ben from school and spent the rest of the afternoon cooking and cleaning. Tom was leading a study group on the Apocrypha and trudged in wearily at nine o'clock. He was ready for bed. The Holly Ball was beginning to look like not only an investigative outing but a welcome break in Faith's domestic routine. It was definitely time to get out of the house.

Wednesday Faith rushed through her chores at Hubbard House. She was trying a new hairdresser, not Denise's but one she had gotten from a perfect stranger whose cut she'd admired in the checkout line at the Star Market.

Just as Faith was leaving, a woman burst through the door and ran over to Mrs. Pendergast. "Mrs. P., you absolutely saved my life! Here, I brought you these." She thrust a slightly wilted centerpiece of roses and orchids into Mrs. Pendergast's hands. "It was from the table, and I thought you might be able to use these for lunch." She put a brown paper bag on the counter. "They're theleftover caviar canapés. It's my way of saying thanks.”

Mrs. Pendergast wasn't rushing to make any introductions, so Faith did the honors herself.

“Hello, I'm Faith Fairchild, a volunteer here."

“How sweet of you, I'm Charmaine Hubbard. I'd love to stay and chat, but I have a million things to do to get ready for tonight. Hope to see you there." And she was gone with one final wave from the door before exiting.

So this was Charmaine. Charmaine—a woman fighting an all-out battle against advancing years armed with turquoise Spandex and plenty of mousse. So far she hadn't been doing too badly. Very svelte, and a mane of glistening streaked hair. If there had been tucks, they were out of sight. She looked a little like Charo, or Farrah Fawcett when she had a mane of hair, and the faint southern accent, real or assumed, gave her a perennially youthful allure.

Faith knew better than to ask Mrs. Pendergast a direct question. But even Mrs. Pendergast, faithful unto death, couldn't stifle her annoyance. She was emptying the contents of the bag into the garbage disposal and muttering aloud, very aloud, "As if I'd serve leftover soggy fish egg canapés nobody wanted to eat in the first place to my ladies and gentlemen!" She looked over her shoulder at Faith with a slight grin. "Called me up in tears last night about seven o'clock. The fancy chef she'd hired to do her dinner party couldn't figure out how to turn on her oven, and she'd never done it either. I had to drop everything and go over. They were both in a tizzy. He was carrying on about his cream brewlays or some such thing and she was wailing that the guests were arriving. I guess they never heard of a match.”

Where was Donald while all this was going on? Faith wondered in passing, but this thought was quickly overshadowed by one of greater interest.

What would Charmaine wear to the ball?

Four

The Copley's rococo Oval Room, complete with cloud ceiling, had been partly transformed into a winter wonderland. The rosy-pink walls were decked with holly, and each round table sported a seasonal centerpiece. A nearsighted person taking off his or her glasses would have seen a warm blur of green, gold, silver, and white with flashes of red. Alberta balsams in large tubs were decorated with small twinkling white lights and scattered throughout the room. The balsams mixed pleasantly with the other scents emanating from the hors d'oeuvres buffet and the napes of female necks.

Faith had no trouble spotting Charmaine. She had obviously decided to combine the time of the year with the spirit of the place and looked like a Watteau shepherdess who had come across a bolt of cloth of gold and tinsel trim while keeping watch over her flock by night. Her gown started as a sparkling bustier and ended as layers of filmy white net. She wore a pair of enormous white satin leg-o'-mutton sleeves halfway down her arms and unaccountably carried a small silver basket containing one red rose. Long earrings of tiny silver bells dangled almost to her shoulders, and she was tinkling her way merrily across the dance floor greeting one and all. She had probably wanted to appear in the enormous scallop shell the Copley kept on hand for brides, Faith thought, but even tan, tawny Charmaine couldn't justify that at the Holly Ball.

“Are we going to try to find our table—it's number twenty-four—or do you want to stand here and check out what everybody's wearing a little longer?" Tom asked her.

“Let's find our table, then dance and check out what everybody's wearing.”

Faith herself had opted for a deceptively simple Isaac Mizrahi silk gabardine sheath. It was short, demurely covered her collarbones with a ruffle, then plunged almost to the waist in back. It was red, and she'd bought it for the holidays. She hadn't expected to get an opportunity to wear it around Aleford much, and it was another reason she was pleased about the ball.

They found their seats, and Faith could see from the place cards that they were indeed at Denise's table, but Denise herself was nowhere in sight. Itwould have been difficult to spot anyone other than Charmaine in the crowd. There were about four hundred people—volunteers, Hubbard House residents, and benefactors eating, drinking, chatting, and/or kicking up their pumps. The din was uproarious, and the proper Bostonians (and those from outlying suburbs) were having a grand old time. Sylvia Vale floated by swathed in scarlet tulle with an elaborate matching turban that might have led some observers to believe she either had read the invitation incorrectly and thought it was a costume ball or was part of the entertainment—Madame Glenda and her Magic Doves. Sylvia waved to Faith and mouthed "See you later" with her Cupid's-bow lips.

“And I thought I might not have fun," Tom commented. "First lead me to the goodies, then lead me to the band.”

They inched their way across the dance floor to the food. Faith cast a professional eye on the buffet. There was a nice assortment of hot and cold hors d'oeuvres, and waiters were constantly bringing more, so none of the trays had either a ravaged look or the forlorn lack of appeal a full tray presents when others are empty—leading to the inevitable question of why no one wanted to eat whatever was on it. (This tended to happen with the fish-paste cocktail sandwiches at certain local functions Faith had reluctantly attended.) They filled their plates, got some champagne, and sat down to watch the action from the pretty little gold bamboo chairs the Copley had thoughtfully placed along the sidelines.

Dr. Hubbard galloped by, and presently Faith spotted Denise.

“There's my friend Denise," she told Tom. "The woman in the black crepe Armani dress over there."

“Pretty, but not my type. Too fashionable," Tom commented.

“And I'm not?"

“That doesn't deserve an answer. Let's just say I like to run my fingers through some hair, not an inch of stubble. If I want that, I can stop shaving for a couple of days.”

What was it with men and long hair? If Tom and his ilk had their way, we'd all be Rapunzels, Faith reflected.

“I wonder who that is she's dancing with. I haven't seen him at Hubbard House. Maybe someone she's seeing.”

Denise's partner was handsome in a Richard Gere sort of way, and his tuxedo was a bit more current—and snuggly fitting—than those of the men who were waltzing around him. They mostly sported the timeless boxy numbers from Brooks dug out from the backs of their closets year after year for occasions like this.

Faith looked over at Tom. He looked good in black—fortunately for his calling—but she had to admit she preferred the well-cut tux from Barneÿ s she had given him their first Christmas together to his robes.

He caught her stare. "Want to dance, honey? It is a ball, remember."

“Love to," she replied, and jumped up. "I don't think my card is filled."

“Lucky, lucky me," Tom whispered in her ear as he pulled her close.

“Dance me over to Denise—I want to say hello," Faith instructed him, and veered toward the other couple.

“I was under the impression that the dance floor was the one place where I got to lead, darling, but it looks like I'm wrong there too. Just shove me wherever you want."

“Martyr," Faith said, and steered toward Denise.

As they got closer, Faith became aware that Denise was involved in a heated conversation with her partner. Her cheeks were red and she seemed close to tears. When they drew up next to them, Faith heard her say, "Please, please. You know I wouldn't ask you unless—" She broke off abruptly at the sight of Faith and composed her face in a welcoming smile.

“How lovely to see you, Faith. And you must be the Reverend Fairchild. I'm so glad you could come and I was able to get you at my table."

“Yes, we saw. You can tell us everyone's names." Faith hoped the hint wasn't too blatant, and to cover up asked hastily, "Is Mrs. P. here?”

Surprisingly, Denise's partner answered.

“Mrs. Pendergast! In this crowd! Do you think she got an invite, Denny?" he asked mockingly.

“Of course she did," Denise answered in a slightly angry tone. "She told me she'd rather put her feet up. I think her sister-in-law was coming over and they were going to watch their tapes of 'The Golden Girls' and have a glass or two of Kahlùa. A big night," she finished on a lighter note.

The music stopped and Dr. Hubbard walked up to the band leader and took the microphone.

“Would you take your seats now, friends? They're going to be serving dinner and you're also going to have to hear from me.”

The crowd moved immediately to the round tables, neither prospect being an unpleasant one, it appeared.

Faith and Tom followed Denise. She still had not introduced them to the man with whom she was dancing, nor did he seem to be seated at her table.

Someone who obviously knew Hubbard House, Faith noted. Could it be Donald Hubbard? But Donald was in his mid to late thirties, and this man was much younger. Besides, there was something about him that suggested a profession other than medicine. She realized what it was. He was tan—and this was the wrong time of year for those doctors who frequented the course or courts to have one. Then she remembered Charmaine had recently come back from a cruise. Perhaps her husband had gone with her.

Faith sat down, and a waiter brought a steaming bowl of what she saw from the menu card was crawfish bisque with Armagnac. She liked eating someone else's cooking as much, as and sometimes more than her own—if it was good. She tooka sip. This was. The rest of the menu was appro priately festive: Boston Bibb lettuce with pomegranate-seed dressing, beef Wellington, wild rice, and plum pudding for dessert. They were going to have to do a great deal of dancing to burn it all off, she told Tom.

“Don't worry, I'm ready."

“Neither of you looks like you've ever had to worry about a calorie in your lives, whereas I've been on a diet continuously since I was thirteen." Denise sighed. She reached into her pocketbook and took out a pack of cigarettes. "Oh, I almost forgot. No smoking. Roland is quite a crusader.”

Faith had noticed all the signs at Hubbard House with a picture of the bird and "No Puffin' " on them, but assumed it was because of a state requirement. She was thankful for Dr. Hubbard's convictions. She hated to eat with the smell of smoke surrounding her. As to what people wanted to do to themselves elsewhere, that was their own business.

Dr. Hubbard was starting to speak, and the microphone didn't make any untoward noises for him, nor did he find it necessary to test it. He started in with no ado at all.

“Residents of Hubbard House, my charming Pink Ladies, spouses, friends—friends all, I'd like to welcome you to yet another Holly Ball. Although we have already passed the time of year when we give collective thanks, I have always felt that this gathering is my personal thanksgiving. It is the time when we gather together in joy, and as I look out at all of you, I feel enormously thankful- for what you contribute to Hubbard House with your time and other resources, but most of all for the opportunity you grant me to continue doing what I have loved best in my life. As many of you are no doubt aware, Hubbard House came into existence a little over twenty-four years ago. Before that I was a doctor—a country doctor in those long-ago days. It was a wonderful experience—all those night calls." He paused for the laughter. "But when my dear wife Mary's illness prompted me to look for something that would keep me closer to her side, I knew immediately what I wanted to do. With her invaluable advice, I set about to create a place where one could live as an elderly person with both dignity and security. Where the individual would be cherished from the time he or she entered until leaving. I hope and pray we have accomplished this and will continue to do so for a long time to come.”

He stopped at the thunderous applause, then continued.

“So many others came on board to help us, and many of them are still here raising the sails"—another pause for appreciative laughter. "I'd like to introduce a few of them, though of course they are well known to you. First my esteemed colleague and son, Dr. Donald Hubbard, and his lovely wife, Charmaine.”

They stood to more applause, and Faith got a look at Donald. Roland's wife must have been short, she instantly thought. Otherwise Donald looked quite a bit like the old block. Charmaine had taken his arm and waved.

“Next my daughter, Muriel, without whom .. . as they say. Muriel stood up. She was wearing a black taffeta dress with a white collar and small jet buttons down the front. Faith saw her instantly at age eleven, still wearing smocked dresses with sashes. The braces had probably gone on about then too. Poor Muriel—one of those girls who got the lead in Our Town in high school and kept playing Emily earnestly ever after.

“And of course Sylvia Vale, my administrative assistant, who was there when we opened our doors." Sylvia rose and bowed regally.

“John McGuire, the chairman of our board of trustees, who keeps me honest." A genial, portly man with a fringe of silver hair stood amidst the laughter.

“And finally, two ladies—the pillars of the temple, so to speak—Leandra Rhodes, current president of our Residents' Council, and Bootsie Brennan, the head of our Ladies' Auxiliary—the Pinkest Lady of them all.”

So this was the noxious Cyle's mother—a diminutive creature in rose velvet. Either it was Nice 'n Easy or Cyle hadn't produced any gray hairs in her shining gold locks, which Faith sincerely doubted. Small women like Bootsie, probably weighing all of a hundred pounds, were often heavyweights in other arenas, Faith had learned, and she didn't doubt that Bootsie—and what was that a nickname for?—could take anybody in the room.

Leandra Rhodes—she remembered Denise had mentioned her. She was tall and stately, with a braided crown of gray tresses. No touching up for her. She wore an ancient, slightly rusty-looking turquoise taffeta-and-velvet gown that had seen a great deal of service—most likely first purchased for Waltz Evenings at this very hotel. Her white kid gloves—so difficult to get cleaned nowadays and looking pearly gray even from a distance—came up over her elbows. Faith was not fooled for an instant by the genteel shabbiness. Leandra was a classic Boston lady, a low heeler, with plenty of Adamses, Higginsons, and Shaws gracing the family boughs, just as there were also the fruits of her ancestors' labors stored away in the State Street Bank. She looked like a woman who knew exactly what she—and everyone else—should do.

“And now, please eat, drink, and enjoy yourselves, though as your doctor I am bound to warn you—not too much.”

He sat down and the applause continued. Donald stood up and raised his glass. "To my father, the memory of my mother, and to Hubbard House," he said.

Someone cried, "Hear, hear," and everyone drank a toast.

Dr. Hubbard rose again and held his glass up. "The evening would not be complete without a toast to absent friends. Let us stand and remember.”

The man was a consummate artist. Faith felt a lump in her throat. If Dr. Hubbard was as good at medicine as he was at public speaking, she thought they ought to beg him to' take them on as patients.

Tom echoed her thoughts. "Quite a guy. Think what a different life most elderly people would have if there were more dedicated people like Roland Hubbard.”

Two people whom the Fairchilds had not yet met smiled across the table. "He isn't a plaster saint; he's as genuinely caring as he seems," the woman said.

Denise came out of the reverie she'd been in since they'd sat down, and evidently recalled her duties as hostess. "Please let me introduce all of you. This is Julia Cabot"—she motioned toward the woman who had just spoken—"and her husband, Ellery, Hubbard House residents. Then my dear neighbors, Joan and Bill Winter, and the Reverend Thomas Fairchild and my new best friend, Faith Fairchild. Joel was supposed to escort me, but tickets to some revolting rock concert proved more interesting. I can't imagine why.”

Everyone laughed and began to tell stories about their children. Faith felt a cold sweat starting as it did every time she contemplated the thought of Benjamin the teenager. It didn't matter that the Miller teenagers next door had always seemed at least somewhat reasonable and Pix averred it was not just in public. But hormones run amok could produce any number of catastrophes. Though even if they were disagreeing, at least they'd be able to have a conversation, something rather difficult at present. It was a vaguely comforting thought.

Tom and Faith danced some more and the evening meandered along pleasantly. Faith told Tom he ought to dance with Bootsie and tell her what he thought of her son. He replied that one cross to bear was enough, and in any case he made it a rule never to dance with women named Bootsie.

Denise's table proved to be an agreeable mix of people. Those who were dancing switched partners easily. Julia Cabot, in particular, was a superb dancer and thanked Tom so heartily at the end of her spin that he immediately engaged her for another. Her husband looked up at her affectionately "Poor Julia doesn't get much dancing out of me anymore, I'm afraid. A problem with these May/December romances." Julia kissed him and told him to stop talking nonsense, then waltzed gracefully away. She was an attractive woman with light-brown hair piled up on her head and dressed in a long, full-skirted emerald-green satin gown. Ellery addressed the rest of the table—quite proudly, Faith noted. "I'm eighty-two and I'm not supposed to say how old Julia is, but let's just say I was doing my darndest to make the freshman crew team at Harvard when she was born.”

With Tom busy dancing and the others chatting away, Faith thought she would take the opportunity to work the room a little in the hopes of picking up some information. Now that she knew who they all were, she'd go directly to the Hubbard table and see how they were doing. She wandered over to where the family was sitting. Dr. Hubbard was dancing with Sylvia Vale, and they swept energetically by in a near imitation of Arthur and Katherine Murray. As Faith approached, she was greeted warmly by Muriel, who was sitting with her brother and Charmaine.

“Mrs. Fairchild! How splendid that you could come. Do sit down and meet my brother and his wife." Was it Faith's imagination or were the words "and his wife" in a lower register?

“Mrs. Fairchild and I have already met, thank you Muriel. She's working in the kitchen," Charmaine told her husband, making Faith feel not unlike Cinderella at the ball.

Donald took Faith's hand in both of his. It must be a family trademark, she thought. He was actually quite attractive, with a slight cleft in his chin that his father didn't have. It made his face very much his own. He dropped her hand gently. "My father mentioned that you were so kind as to pitch in during our flu epidemic, and we're very grateful. I'm sure this is a busy time for you and the Reverend."

“I'm glad I could do it," Faith said, then wondered what to say next—something like "We're all friends here. How about telling me what's really going on at Hubbard House?”

Charmaine reached under the table and pulled out a purse that would have proved ample for a polar expedition and prepared to redo her face. She caught Muriel's disapproving glance and said, "If you'll excuse me," and left.

A few yards from the table she stopped to talk to Denise's earlier dancing partner. She was toss- ing her hair around and he had one arm casually flung around her waist. Faith looked back at Donald and Muriel. She was not surprised to see a look of deep disgust on Muriel's face, but she was stunned by the look of intense anger that had transformed Donald's kindly expression. He looked as though he wanted to kill someone.

Charmaine and whoever it was broke apart, and the man continued on toward the table.

“Good evening, Muriel, Donald, and I don't believe I know this beautiful lady," he said.

It was clear Donald wasn't going to make any introductions, although a mask of indifference had replaced the one of hatred. Muriel, ever mindful of her manners, did.

“Faith Fairchild, Edsel Russell. Mr. Russell is in charge of the buildings and grounds at Hubbard House." Then she added, "Mrs."—and this time there was no doubt about the emphasis on the word—"Mrs. Fairchild is a volunteer.”

Edsel Russell gave something between a nod and small bow toward Faith. "Please call me Eddie. Everybody does. My mother, God rest her soul, thought Edsel was classy, but then she had never seen the car.”

Faith laughed. "Well, I hear they are becoming highly collectible. I suppose it's another example of if you wait long enough, whatever you're holding on to will come back in fashion." This was not one of her maxims but Tom's, and in his case it was more like continual use, rather than stockpiling, say, one's old Diors until hems went up or down again.

“Could 1 'collect' you for the next dance, Mrs. Fairchild?”

It wasn't that he was unattractive, and he was probably a good dancer. Men like Eddie usually were. But Faith didn't feel like giving him the satisfaction of an acceptance. It was clearly why he had come to the table. Besides, the line was too corny.

“Perhaps later, thank you. I'm a bit tired now," she told him.

“Time to go to the bench then. How about you, Muriel?”

The man was either a cad or an oaf or both. Donald was drinking a glass of champagne and his hand trembled. Faith half expected him to fling the contents at Eddie and declare, "That is my sister, suh, whom you impugn!" She also expected Muriel to decline—politely of course but, Faith hoped, with some frostiness.

None of these things happened. Donald put the glass down and Muriel rose with alacrity and danced off in Eddie's arms.

That left Faith and Donald, and just as she was about to ask about Eddie Russell's duties—he being clearly the first real fly in the ointment she'd found at Hubbard House—Donald excused himself. Faith got up quickly, since there is nothing so pathetic as one person sitting alone at a table with a lot of partially consumed food and drinks, and made her way back to her own table. She passed Eddie and Muriel. His eyes were half closed and he was humming along to the music; hers were wide open.

She sat down next to Tom.

“Where have you been? They played 'Windmills of My Mind.' “

Tom could be very sentimental. He still thought A Man and a Woman was one of the greatest movies of all time and got choked up when Kermit sang "The Rainbow Connection."

“I was talking to the Hubbards and met the guy who's in charge of buildings and grounds at Hubbard House—”

Whatever Faith was going to say about Eddie was lost as the Oval Room plunged into sudden darkness. A woman screamed, and almost as quickly as they had gone off, the lights went on again. It was as if a reel of film had broken in the middle and, when the projector started again, it started in a freeze frame. Everyone stood poised in position. Most were facing the direction of the scream. Since her mouth was opened for another, Charmaine was the obvious source. Perhaps she saw Muriel's palm ready to slap her sillier, or perhaps she decided Camille was a more touching act. Whatever the reason, she snapped her lips closed and swooned into a chair. Donald bent anxiously over her. Faith's first impulse was to dash over to the Hubbard table, lift the cloth, and search for a body beneath. Instead she looked around to see who was where. There was general movement now, and Dr. Hubbard was striding over to the microphone. Donald was attending to Charmaine. Muriel was watching her father. Eddie was nowhere in sight. No one was missing from Faith's table with the exception of Denise.

Dr. Hubbard had the microphone and his voice was bracingly reassuring. "One of the staff has been a little overzealous in turning down the lights for our pudding procession," he told the crowd. "I think we're ready to begin now.”

The lights dimmed appropriately and waiters suitably liveried marched out bearing silver salvers of flaming plum pudding surrounded by holly wreaths. The pale-blue flames reflected in the mirrored doors that encircled the room, and the effect was lovely. An appreciative murmur echoed throughout until someone started clapping, and the applause spread. One pudding was placed on Dr. Hubbard's table and the others were lined up on the buffet. The last flame wavered and faded, and the lights went on again. The orchestra struck up "We Wish You a Merry Christmas," and the crowd moved toward the figgy puddings for a taste.

Everything was apparently fine.

Faith was not a big fan of plum pudding, although she liked looking at it. Too rich and cloying. Only the English—and she was excepting those English like Elizabeth David in this case—could have thought to pair it with hard sauce, that dense mass of white sugar spiked with too little brandy.

While Tom went to join the queue, Faith thought back over the evening and watched the scene in front of her. Muriel was dancing with her father, stretching her arms up high to reach. In earlier days she would have stood on his shoes. Maybe she still wanted to—Daddy's little girl?

She had learned more about the Hubbard family, Faith realized, but nothing earthshaking. Sure, Muriel did not seem to be a fan of Charmaine's, but then what sensible person would be? Donald was apparently besotted with her, but maybe they had great sex. Who knew? Eddie Russell presented some possibilities, and he seemed to be very friendly with Charmaine. It was possible that Howard Perkins had stumbled onto this hanky-panky, but Howard was a New Yorker, and a little nooky in the linen closet or wherever was not going to cause him serious concern. It might be something with Eddie, though. That felt right.

Tom came back with a wedge of pudding large enough for the whole Round Table and some friandises for her.

“What are you thinking about so earnestly? I could see your beetling brows all the way across the room. Have you solved Chat's case? Does Dr. Hubbard have his hand in the till? Although from what I understand about the finances of places like Hubbard House and how difficult it is to keep them going, there can't be much to spare. Farley told me Roland Hubbard has never asked anyone to leave—even when the money ran out."

“I think that's why we're here tonight. It's kind of a scholarship fundraiser. As to what I have been thinking about, you're right. I'm still looking for the skeleton in the closet.”

Tom took a last colossal bite of pudding and said, "Let's tread a few measures, then go home. I know Samantha is spending the night and wedon't have to rush, but I'd like to get to bed myself."

“Me too," Faith answered demurely.

It was handy—no, more than handy, definitely a gift from the gods—to have a baby-sitter next door, and Faith prayed unabashedly that Samantha's devotion to Ben would continue for years to come. After all, there were lots of excellent colleges in the area. Since tonight was a school night, she was sleeping over. Faith shuddered as she remembered what Lizzie's mother, Arlene, had told her last week—that she had called twelve people and still had not been able to find a sitter. Faith couldn't in good conscience wish zits or perpetual bad breath on Samantha, but she did wish that the fifteen-year-old would continue her pattern of infrequent dating or find someone steady and settle down immediately—preferably in front of the Fairchild fireplace watching Ben.

Tom and Faith danced their last dance and prepared to take their leave. Tom was exchanging phone numbers with Bill Winter. They had both gone to the same high school on the South Shore, although a few years apart. New England was often like that, Faith had discovered. If it wasn't someone Tom had grown up with, then it was someone from college or a cousin of someone who knew his brother. A village.

Faith turned and realized that Eddie Russell had slithered up to her side. "Ready for our dance? You promised, remember?" He smiled, and he did have a captivating smile. Tom was still wrapped up replaying the Norwell-Hanover Thanksgiving game of 1976, so she decided to dance with Eddie. Purely for research; the man was such a sleaze.

“I do remember. I didn't promise, but let's dance anyway.”

They walked to the dance floor and started to dance. The orchestra provided a plaintive rendition of "Memories" and Eddie went into his dancing mode, closing his eyes slightly and humming tunefully along with the music. He began to pull her closer in gradually increasing increments, and at the same time his hand began to ascend from her silk-covered waist to her bare back. At the first touch of vertebrae, Faith said, "Get your hand off my back, Edsel dear, and don't do it again."

“Come on, Faith, you didn't wear a dress like this for no reason.”

Faith stopped dancing and stepped back, still in his arms.

“Why don't you go do to yourself what you have in mind to do to me?" she told him succinctly.

It took him a moment to get it, and he flushed angrily. She was walking away by then.

“Is that any way for a minister's wife to talk?" he called after her.

“Probably not," she answered, and went to find Tom. Definitely time to go home.

They said good night to Denise, who had gotten a strong second wind somewhere and slowed her hectic recreation of the twist to beg them to stay. "You can't go yet! The party's just starting and the band is playing all these oldies. I've requested ahustle next. It's such a hoot!" She seemed genuinely excited about the prospect, but the Fairchilds, less enthusiastic, said good night again and threaded their way through the writhing dancers.

Out on the sidewalk, while they waited for their car to be brought around, they were joined by Donald and Charmaine. Charmaine was leaning on Donald's arm ever so slightly and had a determinedly gallant look on her face. What exactly was it she had survived? Faith wondered. Their car arrived first and Donald tenderly helped her in. "She's very tired," he told them, and drove off quickly.

Tom and Faith laughed. "After your description of her with the moldly leftovers, I didn't think Charmaine could provide much more amusement, but I should have known better. Women like that are a never-ending source.”

They got into the car to drive home, first detouring to drive past the lights on Boston Common. Garlands of red, blue, green, and gold were strung in the bare tree branches like jeweled necklaces, gaudy but beautiful trimmings against the sedate brick townhouses lining Beacon Street behind them. A parking space appeared—too good to waste—and Tom and Faith walked up to the state house totally surrounded by the ancient trees and their unaccustomed diadems. They strolled back to the car reluctantly, and as they turned west on Storrow Drive away from the distraction of the lights, Faith realized that Charmaine hadn't been carrying her enormous purse. Nor had Donald.

She didn't seem the type to forget her essentials. Nor mislay them. It was puzzling.

The next morning—or actually the same morning—arrived too soon, but they managed to get themselves up and even dressed and fed. Ben was revoltingly cheerful.

“I must be getting old," Tom said. "I used to get by on a lot less sleep than this and be loaded for bear the following morning."

“What a curious expression that is," Faith commented. "But it's true—I really feel it the next morning when I've been out late. I blame Benjamin and all the sleep deprivation we suffered when he was a baby. We just haven't caught up. One good thing though: when we're in our eighties, we won't need so much sleep and we can stay out as late as we want."

“Great. By the way, were you also thinking of waiting until then for Ben the Sequel?" Tom had been subtly and not so subtly hinting for some months that it was sibling time for Ben.

“You never know." Faith smiled and got into her car. She was not opposed to having another baby. It was just hard to cross that bridge from nice idea to fact. And it wasn't as if they were not trying. They just weren't trying—and all the un-spontaneous counting of days that involved.

Mrs. Pendergast was already up to the salads when Faith arrived and, contrary to all Faith's expectation, was full of curiosity about the ball. She wanted to know what everyone had been wearing, what they had eaten, what Dr. Hubbard hadsaid in his speech, and so forth. Faith was happy to oblige and was rewarded by an unguarded comment or two from Mrs. P.

After Faith had described the gowns of Leandra Rhodes and Bootsie Brennan, Mrs. Pendergast chuckled. "Those two! They hate each other like poison. Each thinks the other is purposely working against her. You should have seen the fur fly when Mrs. Rhodes started a fund drive sponsored by the Residents' Council to buy books for the library. Well, according to Mrs. Brennan, that was taking over the job of the Auxiliary. They were the only ones who were supposed to raise money for Hubbard House. Mrs. Rhodes said if so why weren't they doing a better job of stocking the library, and Mrs. Brennan said it was her impression that most residents had their own books, and finally the whole thing ended up in Dr. Hubbard's lap, as usual, and he just put them both in charge of the thing, as usual. So Mrs. Rhodes gets all the residents to donate what they can and Mrs. Brennan goes outside. It's pretty even. Then Mrs. Brennan's son comes up with some huge secret donation and it looked like she'd won. But Mrs. Rhodes turned around and got a secret one herself. Of course everybody figured out soon enough it was their own money.”

Faith laughed. "It sounds like it must be some library. I'll have to take a closer look."

“It is, but they raised so much money that in the end they decided to put most of it in the general fund, because you know—though I hate to say it—the people here do have their own books or go over to the town library, and they never really needed so many books in the first place."

“Why do you hate to say it?" Faith asked.

Mrs. Pendergast looked over her shoulder and muttered under her breath, "Never cared much for Mrs. Brennan—Bootsie, what kind of name is that for a woman anyway? Even for a cat it's going some. Always wanting to know 'What are we giving them today, Mrs. P.?' She's never scraped a carrot in her life, that one.”

Faith sympathized. It looked like Cyle and the mater were cut from the same cloth. "What does Mr. Brennan do?" she asked Mrs. Pendergast, although Tom would know.

“It's what he did. Died and left a rich widow a year after they were married. Right after his son was born.”

Faith stifled the remark that was called for—something along the lines of "took one look," or "how did he stand it a year?"—and got busy with the bread.

Mrs. Pendergast had had enough of true confessions. "There's snow in the air. Smelled like it when I went to start my car this morning.”

Two years ago Faith would have scoffed at the quaintness of this archetypal New England prophecy, but she thought it smelled like snow herself this morning. There was a kind of smell, or lack of smell. The air was dry, odorless, and empty—waiting to be filled with flakes.

“Anyhow," Mrs. R continued in the same folksy vein, "it's time for some more snow. You knowwhat they say: 'A green Christmas means a full graveyard come spring.' “

Faith wondered what cheerful soul had first made this observation and decided to ignore the homily in favor of the here and now. "Should we make up some stew and a few soups in case the weather gets bad and the weekend help can't get here?" she asked.

“I've already done a beef stew and it's in the freezer. If you want to help with some soup, that would be getting it done. But"—she looked over her ridiculous diamanté glasses at Faith—"no bouillon.”

Five

It was three o'clock. Ben had awakened from his nap, and Faith was restless. Too early to start dinner, and she didn't feel like doing any of the things she had to do. Like iron. She knew not what worldly goods she might bequeath to her children, yet of one thing she was sure. There would be a basket of ironing sitting in the closet.

“Want to go see Pix and play with the dogs?" she asked Ben, confident of his response. There was nothing Benjamin liked better than rolling around on the Millers' kitchen floor with their golden retrievers. It wasn't necessary to bundle him up too much for the quick dash across the driveway, and soon she was knocking at Pix's kitchen door.

“Are you busy? Or would you like some company?" Faith asked.

“I'd love an excuse to stop. Every time I add these up, I get a different number." She pointed to a pile of papers on the kitchen table. "It's the final tally for the cookie sales. We have to make sure the number of boxes sold equals the number delivered and paid for.”

Pix was the town coordinator for the Girl Scout cookie drive again, even though Samantha hadn't been a scout for some time. It was one of those jobs that, once having fallen to Pix, stuck. She was active in everything from the preschool PTA to Meals on Wheels. All the organizations in town knew a good thing when they saw it, and she was the original girl who couldn't say no.

“Don't you ever think of shedding a few of these responsibilities?" Faith wondered.

“Believe me I try, but they say 'just one more year' and I agree. But this really is the last year for the cookies. Sam was very annoyed at having his precious Porsche outside while the Tagalongs and Trefoils were in the garage.”

Sam Miller, a Boston lawyer, had purchased the sports car as a defiant gesture toward the depredations of middle age when he had turned forty several years earlier. The other less benign gesture—the prerequisite affair with a younger woman—made at the same time had fortunately not been repeated, nor did it seem likely that it would.

“Give me your calculator and let me help you with this. If there's one thing I'm good at, it's set tling accounts," Faith offered.

Pix put a cookie in each of Ben's hands and placed him high up on a stool so the dogs wouldn't eat the cookies before he could, then put a plate of them on the table. She poured two mugs of coffee and they settled down to work. Faith had become used to drinking bottomless mugs of coffee in Aleford's suburban kitchens. Her espresso days were definitely over, she thought with a slight inward sigh.

The job was soon done.

“You're a wizard, Faith. It would have taken me hours to do it."

“It's good practice for February, when I start the business again. My profit depends on calculations like this."

“I can't wait. I'll never have to cook for another dinner party again." Pix, who had shot the rapids whitewater canoeing coast to coast, regularly skied the bowl at Tuckerman Ravine, and had taught her teenage son to drive, went completely to pieces at the prospect of entertaining in Aleford.

“I've told you. I'd be happy to get everything ready for you anytime. You don't have to hire me," Faith protested.

“No, you're a professional. It's your bread and butter, so I'll wait my turn.”

Ben was opening Pix's cupboards and soon became engrossed in her museum-quality and -quantity Tupperware collection. There was a shape and size for every food yet discovered. Faith knew Pix didn't mind the mess.

Pix was the only person, apart from Tom and Charley MacIsaac, whom Faith had told about Howard Perkins' letter and Chat's call. Pix had lived in Aleford all her life, but her ear had always been kept to a different kind of ground than Milli-cent's or even the chief's. A camping ground. Still, she might know something about some of the people Faith had met the night before, and she started off by asking about the younger Hubbards.

“Of course I know Charmaine and Donald. They've lived in town since they got married, which must have been about ten years ago," Pix responded. "But our paths don't cross very often. Besides, Charmaine is away a lot. They don't have any children, so I guess she gets bored around here. She's always off to Florida or on a cruise somewhere."

“Boring stuff like that," said Faith.

“Well, boring to me. Muriel was a couple of years behind me in school. I always felt sorry for her. It wasn't that she was unattractive, but she was so serious no one ever dated her much, and she didn't even have many girlfriends, except for a few who were in Future Nurses. I remember her mostly rushing to class with a big stack of books—all by herself."

“What about someone named Edsel Russell? Ever run into him?"

“His older brother was in Sam's and my graduating class, but I don't know Eddie. There's a big age difference."

“You mean Eddie Russell is from Aleford! I should have guessed," Faith exclaimed.

“He's from Aleford, though he hasn't been here much. He left when he was a teenager. I don't know if he ever finished school. His father, Stanley, ran off when the kids were young, and his mother died about ten years ago, so there was nothing back here for him. His brother, Stanley Junior, is a career Army man. He's at some base in Texas."

“I wonder why Eddie came back to Aleford," Faith mused.

“I can't tell you that, but I can tell you how. It was pretty hot gossip at the time—about two years ago. Charmaine met him down in Boca Raton. He was the golf pro or something like that at the resort where she was staying. Hubbard House had an opening, and he must have needed a job."

“And maybe Charmaine decided he could be of service in other ways?"

“It has been hinted. She's not known for her devotion to Donald, and a lot of people wonder why he ever puts up with her."

“Love, my dear, blind infatuation. It sticks out all over him."

“Last night must have been very interesting then. Tell me, what did Charmaine wear? Anybody who wears a chartreuse body suit and a lace T-shirt to do her marketing in was bound to look pretty spectacular at the ball.”

Faith filled her in, and they spent some more time talking about the Hubbards and Eddie Russell, in particular, but it was peculation that didn't take them anywhere. Faith stood up. "I've got to go and get supper ready. Let me know ifyou remember anything more about the Hub-bards or Eddie. I have a hunch that whatever Howard found out has to do with Charmaine and Eddie. Maybe they're operating some sort of scam using Hubbard House as a front—kickbacks from the hospital suppliers, that's a possibility, or doctoring the books. From the giant Rolex Eddie was sporting, it's my guess he likes a healthy cash flow."

“But Dr. Hubbard or Muriel would know if something like that was going on. Besides, it isn't likely they'd let Charmaine anywhere near the books, and Eddie would only have access to transactions dealing with maintenance. Of course, that could be pretty lucrative.”

Faith made a face. "Don't be so logical. Charmaine and Eddie are the only leads I've been able to come up with so far, slim though they be. Well, there's still plenty of time before Christmas to find out. Although I would have liked to have had more to report to Chat. She's calling tonight. I got a letter from her yesterday announcing the fact so that she'll be sure to find me home, I suppose."

“Anyway, you're having fun, aren't you?"

“Yes, I suppose I am. I like the people at Hubbard House, even though some of them are a bit like characters from that game Clue. The cook, Charmaine, Sylvia Vale, Leandra Rhodes—her name may not be Mustard, but I heard at the ball her husband is a colonel, retired, and he does have a mustache."

“Just so you don't find a body in the conservatory with a candlestick next to it."

“Don't worry. Whatever this is, it isn't murder.”

She slipped Ben back into his polar-fleece jacket and headed for the door. The dogs began to bark in disappointment. Ben started to join them.

“He has got to stop identifying with your dogs so totally," Faith said. "When Lizzie was over the other day, they were running from bush to bush lifting their legs and falling down convulsed with laughter.”

Pix was convulsed herself, and they left her surrounded by her canine children, Dusty, Arty, and Hanky.

Chat did call that night and seemed satisfied by Faith's description of her activities to date. After Faith told her about Eddie and Charmaine, she commented, "They sound like the types who go around selling shares in nonexistent diamond mines—not literally, because the residents of Hubbard House seem too savvy for that, but its equivalent. Perhaps this delightful duo approached Howard, or someone else told him about a scheme. Try to see if you can get close to them and maybe they'll try to rope you in. Act dumb and naive. I know that's a stretch, dear."

“The idea of getting any closer to Eddie than the next county is pretty loathsome, but for the moment it's all I have to go on."

“In any case, it doesn't appear that anything at Hubbard House is going to place your pretty little head in peril, and you're leaving Benjamin at home, so he's safe—as opposed to your last escapade. I may have a large number of nieces, but you know you're my favorite and I wouldn't want to be the cause, though indirect, of any harm."

“Hope told me you told her she was your favorite niece," Faith chided.

“And so she is. You all are. Now, this is costing me a fortune and I'm saving all my pennies for Christmas gifts."

“I hope you haven't changed your mind about coming to Aleford for Christmas, instead of going to Darien with Mom and Dad—especially if you are doing all that shopping."

“No, I'll be with you. But I simply can't understand why your sister and Quentin are dragging poor Jane and Lawrence all the way to Connecticut on Christmas Day to be with Quentin's parents when it is Lawrence's busiest time of the year."

“Because Hope thought it would be nice for the two families to be together. Remember, come January we'll all be related by marriage.

“Well, much as I love her, I think it's a bit selfish, and besides, I was used to going to them for Christmas Day.”

Faith thought it was a bit selfish of Hope herself. After Christmas Eve and Christmas Day services, Theodore Sibley was always exhausted and had been known to doze off while carving. But she also knew how delighted her parents were with the upcoming nuptials, and they had met Quentin Lewis' parents only once before.

“You were invited, Chat," Faith reminded her.

“I'm just beginning to get used to Quentin. I certainly don't want to meet any more of them before the wedding.”

Hope's fiancé's Filofax was filled into the new millennium, and fortunately Hope fitted into the general scheme of things. Since Hope herself had been reading The Wall Street Journal and Forbes since early adolescence, they had everything in common. The one thing that made it all palatable so far as Faith was concerned was that the two of them were crazy about each other.

“We're just happy you're going to be here, Chat."

“That's kind of you, dear. I'll get you something especially nice, and don't worry, I'll stop at Dean & DeLuca before I get on the plane and bring as much as my poor old arms can carry. Now good-bye.”

She hung up before Faith had a chance to express her delight and thanks. She was very happy that Chat was coming. With a husband and father in the business, holidays could not be spent en famille, and even though Tom's family would be with them, she liked having a member of her own tribe around.

“It's already beginning to snow," Tom commented the next morning as he looked out the kitchen window. "Are you sure you ought to go over to Byford today? Those back roads could get pretty treacherous before noon."

“Don't worry, sweetheart. Besides, I promised Mrs. Pendergast I would help finish cooking enough for the weekend in case the storm is as big as they're predicting."

“All right, but go slow and leave early if things start to look bad.”

Faith was in a cheerful mood as she drove to Hubbard House. The snow was beginning to stick, and it looked like Christmas was just around the corner, which it was. She was planning her Christmas Day menu in her mind and hadn't gotten past duck versus goose when she realized she was at the Hubbard House driveway. A small truck was spreading sand on the hill, and she followed it up to the parking lot. Eddie jumped out and came over to open her door. His cheeks resembled ripe McIntosh apples, and he looked excited.

“I bet we're in for at least ten or eleven inches. Reminds me of the storms when I was a kid around here and we'd go plowing. We'd be out all night. It was great.”

He looked like a kid again for a moment, and Faith felt she might have liked him then—before all the layers of crap had built up.

“There is something exciting about the prospect of a storm," she agreed. "I'd better get in and start helping Mrs. P. fill the larder."

“I think I'll go grab a cup of coffee, and if she's in a good mood, she might give me a doughnut." She wasn't.

“We don't have time to waste today, Eddie," she told him abruptly. "Now get your coffee and skedaddle.”

Faith had never heard anyone in real life use that word, nor seen anyone actually skedaddle, which Eddie very quickly did.

“Talk your ear off, that one—and worse," she told Faith. "Never so much as an 'Anything I can do to help, Mrs. P.?' Oh no, just born with his hand out. Now let's get going.”

Mrs. Pendergast obviously thought all of Hubbard House might be snowed in for the rest of the winter, and the next few hours were spent baking breads and cooking enormous pans of such Yankee staples as Indian pudding, baked beans, and brown bread. In between, they got lunch together. Faith went upstairs to the office at eleven thirty to hear a weather report and call Tom. There was still a great deal to do, and she wanted him to pick up Ben if he could. The snow was falling in thick sheets, but according to WEEI the roads were clear. She told Tom she wanted to stay a few more hours, and he agreed with such alacrity to get Ben that she knew Cyle must have trapped him in his office.

“Cyle is there, right?"

“Absolutely. Yes, indeedy. No trouble at all, honey. You do what you need to do."

“Poor baby. There's lentil stew in the fridge and some of that Virginia ham. Fry it up and heat the stew for lunch. That should get the bad taste out of your mouth."

“Okay, thanks, and drive carefully."

“No, Tom, I want to spend the night in a snow-bank. Stop worrying!”

She went downstairs, and after refusing as tactfully as she could some of the finnan haddie Mrs. Pendergast and her paprika can had prepared for the residents' lunch, she set to work.

“We may have some of the day crew stuck here this weekend, so let's do extra of this chicken casserole," Mrs. Pendergast advised. The casserole bore a distinct resemblance to chicken à la king—exactly which monarch was to blame Faith had never heard. She managed to keep Mrs. Pendergast from going crazy with the canned pimientos and substituted some tarragon instead. She also convinced her that the biscuit on the side would be a novel change from the soggybiscuit-underneath-and-on-top approach. She looked down at her watch and realized with a start that it was past three o'clock. "Oh! I didn't know it was so late. I'm sorry, but I do have to go now."

“Thank you so much, Mrs. Fairchild. I'm going to stay on myself and spend the night here, but everything is in fine shape."

“Who knows? Maybe the storm won't be that bad. And please, call me Faith."

“Thank you, Faith—and you can call me Violet if you like.”

It would be hard, Faith thought, but she would try—for Violet's sake.

She ran up the stairs and through the living room. Several of the residents were standing by the windows looking at the mounting drifts of snow and making predictions.

“It might be another 1978," Ellery Cabot observed.

Faith could never figure out if local residents made this remark (which they tended to do when more than a few flakes of snow fell) fearfully or nostalgically. It was usually followed by reminis- cences of exactly how many days they were without power and confined to their respective dwellings by the over-three-foot snowfall.

Ellery's wife, Julia, turned and saw Faith. "Are you sure you should drive home in this? It's really coming down now."

“I'll be all right," Faith replied. "Aleford isn't far, and once I get on Route 2, the rest will be easy."

“If you change your mind, there's plenty of room here," Julia offered.

“Thank you," Faith said, pulled open the front door, and stepped outside. A blast of snow and cold air hit her full in the face as the door slammed shut behind her. It was worse than she thought, but she had no desire to spend the night away from home.

The car started at once, and she inched down the long driveway. It had been sanded again, and she pulled onto the main road with a sigh of relief that was was immediately drawn back into her lungs less than half a mile later as the car slid completely out of control. She steered in the direction of the skid, stayed calm, and came to a halt hood down in a pile of snow the size of the state of Alaska.

“Damn, damn, damn," she muttered aloud and smacked the steering wheel. She didn't even have her Leon Leonwood Bean boots on, the ones for which she had reluctantly traded her Joan and Davids her first winter in Aleford. She was wearing her down parka and warm gloves, though.

She got out of the car and tied her red muffler to the antenna, where it waved cheerily in the wind. "Damn this weather. Damn this climate. Damn this place." She'd never gone off the road in Manhattan. She didn't even have to drive in Manhattan.

She crossed the road and started back the way she'd come. Soon her feet had lost all feeling and the snow was choking her. Her cheeks stung painfully. She kept her head down and tried to keep the flakes from gluing her eyelashes shut so she could see where she was going. She felt like Little Eva on the ice floes. After what seemed like twenty-four hours, she saw the almost obliterated sign for Hubbard House and started trudging up the steep driveway. When she got around the bend, the sight of the lighted houses looming up ahead was so welcome that she started to sprint and immediately slipped and fell headlong, but unhurt, on top of one of the frozen rhododendrons.

The Cabots were still gazing out the window and had the door open before she reached the top step.

“Oh, Faith, what happened? Are you all right?" Julia cried.

“Come over here by the fire, dear," Ellery said. "Julia, get some brandy, would you?"

“I'm fine," Faith whispered. "But my car went off the road. I've got to call my husband."

“Of course, but warm up a moment first," Ellery advised, and guided her over to the hearth, where she took off her things. The snow fell in large clumps on the deep-red oriental rug. Ellery gathered up the sodden garments and Faith collapsed in an enormous wing chair. Her toes and fingers immediately began to throb painfully.

Julia returned with a large snifter of brandy, some slippers, and a towel. She also had a lap rug, which she threw over Faith. After a few minutes, pleasant feelings of warmth and safety began to creep over her. Various parts of her body stopped hurting. She almost nodded off, then sat up with a jerk. "I've got to call Tom. He'll be frantic.”

He was. After she had reassured him, she told him how admirable it was that he wasn't saying "I told you so."

“I know and I did," he said. "I was afraid you'd get stuck, and I hate to spend the night without you."

“Me too," agreed Faith. The brandy and warm surroundings had restored her. "Well, since I'm here I'd better go down to the kitchen and help Mrs. Pendergast get dinner."

“I think you've done enough, honey, but if you feel like it. It's up to you."

“It's that or learn to play cribbage."

“You could sit and read a book. In any case, it hasn't been my impression that Hubbard House was filled with sedentary cribbage players."

“You're right. They're probably out shoveling snow, filling bird feeders, or looking for other hapless maidens, like myself, with kegs of clam chowder tied around their necks.”

Faith hung up and went back to the living roomto thank the Cabots. They were waiting in front of the fire, and when she told them she was going down to the kitchen, they were adamant she remain with them and sit at their table for dinner.

“Mrs. Pendergast has all the help she needs and then some," Julia told her. "I was down there a little while ago, and Leandra has organized crews from now to the end of the emergency, which could be months from the look of her forces.”

Faith gave in and tucked herself back before the fire. She picked up a newspaper and pretended to read. She missed Ben. She missed Tom.

Ellery left to get something from their apartment, and Faith asked Julia, "Have you lived here long?"

“For about five years. The house was getting to be more than we wanted to manage, and although Ellery is in excellent health, we thought it best to be in a facility where he could get more extensive care if he needed it and I could be near him. He's over eighty, you know." Faith had been surprised to hear Ellery's age at the Holly Ball and expressed it aloud now.

“He certainly doesn't look his age," she commented, swiftly changing "that old" to "his age" in the interests of politeness.

Julia nodded, "I'm somewhat younger, and a few of my friends warned me about moving here. In some places the less elderly residents become a bit like pets—infantilized. Even though at times a woman in her sixties might like to be thought of as a young thing, as a steady diet it wouldn't have been too pleasant."

“Then it hasn't happened."

“No, partly because I'm still working, so I'm only around in the evenings and on weekends. And Ellery and I are out a great deal. It's also because so many of the people here are fiercely independent. They don't need or want someone to wind their wool or fetch their slippers.”

Faith stretched her feet out in front of her. "It was very nice of you to fetch them for me, though." She decided she liked the Cabots. On closer inspection, Julia was even prettier than she had seemed at the ball. Her hair was down now and framed her face in soft waves. Ellery looked like the generic New England Yankee gentleman of advancing years he was—ruddy complexion from sailing out of Marblehead, tall, wiry, white-haired, with clear blue eyes that didn't miss much. She guessed he did something downtown. It was immediately confirmed.

“Ellery's first wife died early in their marriage. We met when I came to practice in his law office. He likes it that I'm there to report back to him, and he still goes in occasionally. He's painstakingly working on a book of memoirs—wanted to call it My First Hundred Years, but Eddie Bernays beat him to it.”

Faith spent what was left of the afternoon in front of the fire chatting with Julia and meeting some of the other residents. She was confirmed in her first impression—that the group at Hubbard House was a resilient, vigorous one, involved in both the small world around them and the larger one outside. One man spent a half hour describinghis work organizing a local recycling station. Another woman stopped by to remind Julia that the committee that met to invite local authors to come and speak would be meeting on Monday night. Faith didn't doubt that the inhabitants of Hubbard House suffered the aches, pains, and various discomforts old age brought—some of them serious—yet they dealt with them and kept on going. Business as usual, if possible.

Ellery reappeared and they went in to dinner. The dining room was full and everyone was enjoying the novelty of the first big storm. There was an air of excitement in the room and a noise level, though subdued, that Faith guessed was higher than usual. She was hungry and dug into the chicken casserole. It wasn't Lutèce, but the tarragon had perked it up a bit.

There was no sign of the Hubbards, and Faith asked if they took meals with the rest of the residents.

“Muriel is usually too busy upstairs and has a tray, but Roland eats with us most nights. I imagine he's had things to do because of the storm, and Donald lives in Aleford.”

They were eating their apple crisp when Leandra Rhodes appeared in the doorway and sailed over to their table. Hair wisped out from her braid and she was flushed. She had somehow managed to get a smudge of flour on her face, which she wore as a badge of honor.

“Goodness." She plopped down in one of the empty chairs at the table. "We've been busy in the kitchen. I see you got stuck, Mrs. Fairchild, and as soon as I finish downstairs, I'll get you settled. Mrs. Pendergast says you're a caterer and that you made the dinner tonight. It certainly was delicious.”

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-berevealed (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. Asthey 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 tosleep, 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 Hub- bard 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 into 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 moonlightstreaming 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.

But Faith was happy with her discovery. It almost made having to spend the night worthwhile. She turned out the flashlight and prepared to go to her well-deserved rest. As she opened the door, she heard a sound from the direction of the stairs and darted back. Someone else was up.

She ducked into the closet in case it was Dr. Hubbard and waited. Nothing happened. After what she judged to have been ten minutes—she'd left her watch next to the sink upstairs—she tried again. No noises this time, and she crept quietly to the bottom of the stairs. She had her headache story in case she ran into anybody there. It would have been harder to explain why she was coming out of Dr. Hubbard's office.

She heard more noises at the end of the hall upstairs and slipped into her room in relief. It looked like a busy night at Hubbard House. She took off her robe and decided not to turn on the light in case it shone beneath the door. She didn't want any insomniac visitors asking her why she was up too. She crawled up the stepladder, slid beneath the icy sheets, and reached over to the other side of the bed to pull the covers closer.

But instead of the quilted spread, her hand touched flesh. Wet flesh.

She screamed and turned on the light. Her hand was covered with blood, and lying beside her where he had no doubt dreamed of being was Eddie Russell.

Only Eddie wasn't going to get any action tonight or ever.

Eddie was dead.

Six

Faith screamed again. Eddie's wrists were bound to the bedpost behind his head with a black silk cord, and his ankles were tied together with more of the same. In between, his body was bare except for two knives sticking straight up one from his throat and one from his chest. The brass trim on the handles picked up the light and glittered menacingly. Blood had seeped out around each wound and dripped onto the spread.

She jumped out of the bed, nearly breaking an ankle in the precipitous descent, and raced for the door. She was down the stairs before she paused to think what to do first.

Eddie had been murdered—and recently. Whoever had done it was still under Hubbard House's roof someplace, unless he or she had left by dogsled. No one had responded to her screams, which meant either she hadn't been heard or someone didn't want to be noticed. Faith shook her head to drive away the feeling of faintness and disbelief that threatened suddenly to overwhelm her.

This couldn't be happening.

She went back into Dr. Hubbard's office and called Charley MacIsaac, trying to keep her eyes from the blood on her right hand. She let the phone ring, and finally he answered in the tone of someone who had planned to sleep until spring. As soon as she explained what had happened, he was fully awake.

“Now, Faith, you go get Roland and don't move from his side. The two of you sit outside that door until you see me or someone else from the police. I'll be there as soon as I can. No nosing around. When you hang up, just go straight to Roland. You'll be safe with him.”

Faith hung up. What did Charley think? She had had no desire to join Eddie while he was alive and considerably less now that he was dead. She wanted to scream again at the thought of the dead body lying next to her in bed.

She went to the rear of the house and, by opening several doors, came across what was obviously a living room. There was a closed door to one side, and she guessed this must be Dr. Hub-bard's bedroom. She walked acrqss the room and knocked loudly. She was shivering without the bathrobe, and the cold winter light comingthrough the windows was like a shower of ice. She knocked again and heard someone stir.

“Dr. Hubbard," she called, opening the door a crack, "Dr. Hubbard, it's Faith Fairchild, and I'm afraid there's been an accident.”

Roland Hubbard appeared at the door. He was wearing a flannel nightshirt and struggling into a voluminous navy-blue bathrobe.

“What's happened?" he asked briskly, not at all drowsy. Faith imagined doctors must be used to waking up in a state of complete alertness. Like mothers.

“Eddie Russell is dead. He's been murdered. I've called the police and they'll be here soon.”

“What!”

Faith could understand his expression of total bewilderment. She felt that way herself.

She repeated herself. "Eddie Russell is dead. He's been murdered. I called the chief of police in Aleford and someone will be here as soon as possible. Chief MacIsaac said we were to sit outside the door and wait."

“What door?" he asked.

Faith felt foolish. Of course, "What door?"

“The door to the guest room in the front of the house upstairs." This was getting trickier. She was going to have to use the aspirin ploy after all. "Actually, I was sleeping there—my car went into a snowbank and I had to spend the night here. I woke up with a headache and left the room to try to find some aspirin."

“You mean the body is in your bed?"

“Well, yes. But I wasn't." Faith took Dr. Hub- bard's arm and steered him toward the door. "I think we'd better get upstairs. I can explain while we wait." Although there really wasn't anything more to explain—at least not to Dr. Hubbard.

As they were about to enter the corridor, Faith glanced at her hand.

“I've got to wash this off—and maybe you could find me a blanket. I'm freezing."

“Of course, of course." Roland was all business and soon the damned spot was washed away—though not the memory of the location—and Faith was bundled up in a heavy Hudson's Bay blanket.

They reached the door of the guest room and Roland stretched his hand out toward the ornate brass knob.

“Chief MacIsaac said we weren't to go back in the room, just sit outside." He hadn't exactly said so, but after two other murder investigations Faith knew what they liked you to do. Stay put and don't touch.

They sat side by side companionably on the floor with their backs against the thick door. Faith hoped whoever was coming wouldn't be long. It wasn't that the position was so uncomfortable. She had no wish to get back into bed, but it was a challenge to all her social skills to come up with adequate small talk. The one question she wanted to ask besides the obvious "Who killed Eddie?" was "So, Dr. Hubbard, what's the story with your son James?" and that hardly seemed appropriate. In the end, it was Roland who broke the silence.

“I've known Edsel Russell since he was a boy. He's always had his problems, but I can't believe he's come to the end of his life in this manner. He had a decent, hardworking mother who married the wrong man. Oh, Stanley was good-looking—like Eddie—and had a lot of flash." Dr. Hubbard sounded so bitter that Faith wondered if he had been one of Mrs. Russell's rejected suitors. "Those two boys never really had a father. Even before he abandoned the family, he was always off someplace on various dubious get-rich-quick schemes." The bitter tone in Dr. Hubbard's voice had distilled into acid. "Stanley Junior, the older one, went into the service. He's been all right, but Eddie never found his feet, and the tragedy is he had so much influence on other, weaker people he came into contact with." His voice changed and now he sounded tired. He paused a moment. "I like to think his work here had changed all that, and we had no complaints. I don't suppose it could have been suicide? Although he wasn't despondent to my knowledge.”

Evidently wishful thinking, and Faith was sorry to disappoint him. It wasn't going to be pleasant, or good for public relations, to have a full-scale murder investigation at Hubbard House. She pictured the knives sticking straight up like soldiers at attention from Eddie's body.

“It wasn't suicide, Dr. Hubbard.”

He was silent after that. They heard the clock strike two. Was it only an hour since she had crept down the stairs to conduct her investigation?

“Well, Mrs. Fairchild, with this storm, we could be here a fair amount of time. You start with your life story and I'll tell you mine.”

Faith would have preferred that he go first, but he was right. They were going to be waiting a while, and she obediently sketched in the salient details of her life to date. He was very interested in all the clergy in her family. It led to a lengthy digression on his part concerning his maternal grandfather, who was a Congregationalist minister in western Massachusetts, and Roland's boyhood days in the Berkshires. Faith was trying to move him along when they heard someone pounding vigorously at the front door.

“It must be the police, and the door is locked," Dr. Hubbard said.

“I'll be all right here. You go and let them in." Faith wasn't altogether sure that he wouldn't take advantage of her absence to nip into the room for a quick look.

It didn't take long, and a few minutes later she heard him say, "Up here" and then there were footsteps on the stairs. One pair was reverberating throughout the house. Faith closed her eyes. When she opened them, an enormous figure—dwarfing Dr. Hubbard, who stood respectfully to one side—loomed over her. She was right. It was him again.

“Aren't we getting a little long in the tooth to be a candy striper, Mrs. Fairchild?" It was Detective Lieutenant John Dunne of the state police.

John Dunne hated being called out at night—especially winter nights—and Faith Fairchild was the last thing he needed in an investigationthat had already gotten him ticked off before he'd even started.

“Why, Detective Dunne. This is a surprise. I didn't know Charley was calling you."

“He did. Now, if you'll kindly step aside. I presume the victim is in here.”

He entered the room followed by a younger—and smaller—man also in plain clothes carrying a camera and a large briefcase. Dunne came out soon after.

“I understand the name of the deceased is Edsel Russell and that he was in your employ, Dr. Hubbard?"