The Body in the Bouillon by Katherine Hall Page

room. “The wall between the hall and the Aldrich living room was removed to make a larger space.” Faith commented that it was a beautiful room, and Sylvia agreed.
    â€œYou know the basement, and I understand you’ve also seen our nursing wing.” Sylvia tactfully omitted any further comment. “This corridor connects the annex with the other house. Upstairs in this house is devoted to residents’ apartments and rooms. So important to have one’s own space and possessions, I think. I’d hate to end up with nothing except a locker and a bed. But Dr. Hubbard has assured me that there will always be a place for me here.”
    â€œAnd certainly you don’t need to think about that for a long time,” Faith assured her. Sylvia looked to be in her mid-fifties. She brightened at Faith’s remark. “Thank you, my dear. But I’m not as young as all that.”
    Maybe sixty, Faith amended to herself.
    She went home after retrieving Ben from school and spent the rest of the afternoon cooking and cleaning. Tom was leading a study group on the Apocrypha and trudged in wearily at nine o’clock. He was ready for bed. The Holly Ball was beginning to look like not only an investigative outing but a welcome break in Faith’s domestic routine. It was definitely time to get out of the house.
    Â 
    Wednesday Faith rushed through her chores at Hubbard House. She was trying a new hairdresser, not Denise’s but one she had gotten from a perfect stranger whose cut she’d admired in the checkout line at the Star Market.
    Just as Faith was leaving, a woman burst through the door and ran over to Mrs. Pendergast. “Mrs. P., you absolutely saved my life! Here, I brought you these.” She thrust a slightly wilted centerpiece of roses and orchids into Mrs. Pendergast’s hands. “It was from the table, and I thought you might be able to use these for lunch.” She put a brown
paper bag on the counter. “They’re the leftover caviar canapes. It’s my way of saying thanks.”
    Mrs. Pendergast wasn’t rushing to make any introductions, so Faith did the honors herself.
    â€œHello, I’m Faith Fairchild, a volunteer here.”
    â€œHow sweet of you, I’m Charmaine Hubbard. I’d love to stay and chat, but I have a million things to do to get ready for tonight. Hope to see you there.” And she was gone with one final wave from the door before exiting.
    So this was Charmaine. Charmaine—a woman fighting an all-out battle against advancing years armed with turquoise Spandex and plenty of mousse. So far she hadn’t been doing too badly. Very svelte, and a mane of glistening streaked hair. If there had been tucks, they were out of sight. She looked a little like Charo, or Farrah Fawcett when she had a mane of hair, and the faint southern accent, real or assumed, gave her a perennially youthful allure.
    Faith knew better than to ask Mrs. Pendergast a direct question. But even Mrs. Pendergast, faithful unto death, couldn’t stifle her annoyance. She was emptying the contents of the bag into the garbage disposal and muttering aloud, very aloud, “As if I’d serve leftover soggy fish egg canapes nobody wanted to eat in the first place to my ladies and gentlemen!” She looked over her shoulder at Faith with a slight grin. “Called me up in tears last night about seven o’clock. The fancy chef she’d hired to do her dinner party couldn’t figure out how to turn on her oven, and she’d never done it either. I had to drop everything and go over. They were both in a tizzy. He was carrying on about his cream brewlays or some such thing and she was wailing that the guests were arriving. I guess they never heard of a match.”
    Where was Donald while all this was going on? Faith wondered in passing, but this thought was quickly overshadowed by one of greater interest.
    What would Charmaine wear to the