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-a-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... .