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 Gerard 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
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.'
