The Body in the Bouillon

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 souffle 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 .. .