The Body in the Bouillon

“Yes, he was the head of buildings and grounds. He's been working here for two years.”

They were interrupted by the arrival of several more police officers—two in uniform hovering over a frail man wearing a badge pinned crookedly onto his down parka. He looked to be in his late eighties and had a woolen watch cap pulled over his ears. Erratic tufts of white hair on his cheeks and chin indicated he had missed the same spots while shaving for several months. He was walking slowly and careened first toward one wall, then the other. He stopped in front of them, took off his gold wire-rimmed glasses, which had fogged over, wiped them carefully on a large white handkerchief pulled from a pocket, replaced them, and put out his hand to Dr. Hubbard.

“Bad business, Roland. They tell me young Russell is dead. Very bad business. Probably a vagrant driven in by the storm. Seen anybody like that about?”

Who could this possibly be? Faith wondered. It had to be a mistake.

It wasn't. It was Francis Coffin, Byford's venerable chief of police.

“No, no strangers around." Dr. Hubbard looked at Faith. "Mrs. Fairchild here is not a resident but a volunteer stranded by the storm. She was sleeping in the room."

“And didn't notice anything? Young woman, you must be a sound sleeper indeed."

“I wasn't in the room when the murder took place." Faith hastened to correct any possible impression that she might be the most likely to perpetrate.

John Dunne was getting impatient. Francis Coffin was the reason Charley MacIsaac had called him. Francis Coffin was the reason he wasn't home lying next to his wife under an emperor-sized down comforter.

Dunne was from the Bronx and had moved to this alien territory to please his wife. She was from Maine—up near the Canadian border—but she knew she could push him only so far from his native turf. When Charley had called to tell him there was a problem in Byford, a murder no less, Dunne had moved heaven and earth to get there before the locals. Quaint, picturesque, whatever, but Francis should be in a rocker at Hubbard House, not investigating a murder there. Dunne found it typical of New England that the residents of Byford insisted Coffin keep his post, never thinking about what this might mean for their own health and well-being, just because he'd beenthere for fifty years. Francis Coffin was a living legend, with an increasing likelihood of the legend part overtaking the living.

Dunne took charge. No one objected.

“Dr. Hubbard, the state police are cooperating with the Byford police in this matter, and a crime prevention and control unit from the district attorney's office will be joining us soon. I'd like to wake the residents in turn, starting with this section. Is there a room we can use for questioning?"

“Certainly. You may use my office downstairs if you like."

“I'll start with Mrs. Fairchild, and perhaps one of the officers here could drive her home afterward." He looked at her sternly. Sure, thought Faith, find out what I know, then pack me off. She was used to Dunne's ways. It hadn't stopped her before.

“I'll show you my office, then. Francis?" Dr. Hubbard stepped forward, but Chief Coffin didn't follow.

“I haven't seen the body yet, man. Can't start asking questions until I've seen what happened." He rubbed his hands together. Francis enjoyed being a cop. Retirement wouldn't have been any fun. Not that much ever happened in Byford, but whatever did came his way.

Dunne had been afraid of this. If he let the old codger in, they'd have his prints—along with Faith's—to eliminate from everything.

“Detective Sullivan is going over the room now, and the CPAC guys will be here soon with the medical examiner, Frank. I'd appreciate it if you would come with me and assist, since your knowledge of the local scene is so much more extensive than mine." It might work.

Faith caught his eye. Dunne couldn't help a slight grimace, which on his very much less than handsome face contorted the expression into death throes. She took it for what it was and did her part.

“If there is some way of getting me home, I would appreciate it very much." And she would. She was struck with a longing for the parsonage, Tom, Ben, and her own safe, warm bed, for which she didn't need a ladder.

Her words got them moving. Dunne took the hall in two strides and was quickly out of sight while the rest straggled on behind Chief Coffin. Roland sprinted ahead to lead the detective to the office.

The clock struck three as they descended the stairs. Time was creeping by.

Faith felt a bit odd upon entering the room she had so recently been casing. All the lights were turned on and it was full of people now.

“Would you like to question Mrs. Pendergast, our cook, after Mrs. Fairchild? She too was forced to spend the night here and is in another room upstairs. When you are finished, she could provide us with some coffee.”

Dunne looked at Dr. Hubbard gratefully. This must be why everybody thought he walked on water.

“Great idea. Perhaps one of your guys would like to go with him, Frank"

“I'm sure the good doctor knows the way, Johnny," Chief Coffin said, and smiled at Roland.

Detective Dunne gritted his teeth, whether at being called Johnny or Coffin's ineptitude Faith couldn't be sure. Probably both.

One of the Byford officers stepped into the breach. "I'll go, Chief. No problem." He ambled out with the doctor. They were used to scenes like this.

Dunne sat down at the desk and Faith took one of the chairs in front. But this was no doctor-patient consultation.

“Now, Mrs. Fairchild. Faith," he said wearily. "What are you doing here?"

“There's a flu epidemic and most of the kitchen staff is out sick. I'm helping for a few weeks. When I left today, my car went off the road and I had to come back and spend the night." She looked him straight in the eye. Had Charley told him about Howard Perkins' letter?

Charley hadn't taken the time, but had said that Faith was over at Hubbard House snooping around like usual. Dunne looked straight back at Faith.

“I'm sure you are anxious to get home after the shock you've been through. I'll be by in the morning to talk to you further.”

So he did know, Faith guessed, but didn't want the others to know. Francis looked like a babbler.

“However, I do need a few more facts. What time was it when you left your room and how long were you gone? And"—it seemed to have oc- curred to him suddenly—"where were you going?"

“I woke up with a headache"—Faith was almost beginning to believe this herself—"and went to find some aspirin. I heard the clock strike one just before I left my room. I came downstairs to see if by chance Dr. Hubbard or someone else was still up, but there was no one around. I was probably gone no longer than thirty minutes.”

She saw Dunne lift an eyebrow. It was one of his endearing gestures.

“Thirty minutes to find an aspirin?"

“Well, I'm not sure of my way around yet," she demurred.

“I'll bet." He jotted something down. "Then you came back to your room, and tell us please exactly what you saw."

“I couldn't see anything. The room was dark.”

“You didn't turn on the light?" he interrupted. Faith flushed slightly, "No, I didn't want to dis- turb anyone."

“I see."

“Besides, there was so much light from the windows, I didn't need a light. I got into bed and reached over to pull the blanket closer.”

She shuddered. "Only I touched Eddie's neck instead. My hand was wet. Then I did turn the light on and I saw the blood and the knives and I think I screamed. I jumped out of bed and I know I screamed. Then I ran downstairs, called Charley, and went to get Dr. Hubbard."

“Was the door open or closed, when you went back upstairs the first time?"

“It was closed. And I had closed it when I left." Dunne wrote some more. "Was there anything else you noticed? Take your time.”

Faith thought. "I did think I heard someone in the hall when I was downstairs shortly before I went back to my room, and again upstairs in the rear of the house when I got to my door," she reported.

Dunne started to ask something, paused, and seemed to reconsider. He stood up without asking anything further.

“I will need you to have another look at the room." He meant the body and Faith knew it. "We have to be sure nothing was apparently moved during the time you were away from the door.”

They went up the stairs. Faith felt like a small rowboat being guided down the Hudson by Big Toot. Dunne knocked at the door and Detective Sullivan answered.

“Just about finished here, John. And the others should be here any moment. No forced entry at the window and nothing odd. Some women's clothes in the closet. His are on the floor next to the bed."

“The clothes in the closet are mine," Faith said, glad she had been tidy. Old admonitions about clean underwear and not using safety pins to hold up your hem came floating back incongruously into her head.

Dunne ushered her into the room. "We'll go over this later, Ted. For now, I want Mrs. Fairchild to tell us if she notices whether anything has been disturbed."

“I didn't really see much," she said.

“I know. Take a quick look at Eddie and tell me if somebody's been here.”

Faith did. He looked garishly white in the dim light in the room. The two knives were still standing stiffly erect. The black bondage cords looked tight enough to cut off his circulation—if he'd had any. His eyes were closed and his lips parted. His face looked exactly the same as it had when they had danced together briefly at the Holly Ball.

“Nothing's been changed that I can see," she told them.

“Okay, take a look in the bathroom.”

Faith walked across the room and looked in.

“One of the towels is gone," she said immediately. "There were two on the rack. But I didn't go in here when I came back, so it could have been taken by the murderer either the first time or while I was getting Dr. Hubbard. Probably the first time. He must have needed to wash his hands." She rubbed at the spot on her own hand so recently despoiled. "Which reminds me. I used the towel from Dr. Hubbard's bathroom to dry my hands after washing the blood off there, so you can eliminate that one."

“Good girl. Now let's get you out of here and you can tell me what's really going on tomorrow. By the way, Charley was going to call Tom.”

Faith was relieved. She'd been rehearsing various ways to tell him—and they all stank.

Mrs. Pendergast and Dr. Hubbard were waiting inside his office with the Byford police. Faith remembered Mrs. R had come prepared to spendthe night. No one at Hubbard House could have had a bathrobe of such proportions, or such style—turquoise, orange, and yellow parrots perched in a quilted jungle. She looked like an exotic tea cozy. She greeted Faith with some confusion and possibly an attempt at humor in a grim situation: "Another body? Didn't give him any of your bouillon, did you?"

“Bouillon? Another body? What's this all about?”

Before Faith had a chance to reply to John Dunne's query, Roland Hubbard spoke. "Mrs. Pendergast is a little upset—as are we all. She's referring to the unfortunate death of one of our residents of heart failure a week ago. He had been eating some of Mrs. Fairchild's delicious soup at the time he was stricken.”

Dunne looked incredulous. He had half a mind to take Faith into the office and find out what she knew, but he wanted to see her alone.

“Tomorrow," he muttered, then remembered all his dear mother's chidings and held out his hand. "Thank you for your help, Mrs. Fairchild. We will be in touch.”

Faith left with one of the officers, and as the door closed behind them, Francis Coffin jumped up excitedly.

“Piece of cake, eh, boys? `Shersay the femme.' It's obvious they had a lovers' quarrel and she did him in. And what about the story about being asleep when it happened!" He began to laugh helplessly. "Did you have that soup of hers tested, Roland? Maybe we've got a Typhoon Mary on our hands. Well, no need to look further. We've got the killer.”

Dunne nodded his head toward Mrs. Pendergast, whose mouth had dropped open to the carpet. "Shut up, Frank. I know Mrs. Fairchild. Her husband's the minister over in Aleford and she's not a suspect at the moment. Why don't we get on with this and perhaps—Mrs. Pendergast, is it?—could make a pot of coffee?" He'd had it with the niceties, and he knew Chief Coffin wouldn't even notice the difference.

“Don't see what a minister husband has to do with it. Their wives are just like anybody's else's. Put their pants on one leg at a time.”