Read Online The Body in the Bouillon by Katherine Hall Page - Free Book Online

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 Hubbard House 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 joint-and-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 Charley 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.
    â€œThis is Cyle Brennan. Cyle, my wife, Faith.” Tom had the grace to look deeply chagrined.
    â€œAn apt choice of name, Mrs. Fairchild.” Cyle smirked.
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œAnd well you should.