The Body in the Bouillon by Katherine Hall Page Page A

appreciative murmur echoed throughout until someone started clapping, and the applause spread. One pudding was placed on Dr. Hubbard’s table and the others were lined up on the buffet. The last flame wavered and faded, and the lights went on again. The orchestra struck up “We Wish You a Merry Christmas,” and the crowd moved toward the figgy puddings for a taste.
    Everything was apparently fine.
    Faith was not a big fan of plum pudding, although she liked looking at it. Too rich and cloying. Only the English—and she was excepting those English like Elizabeth David in this case—could have thought to pair it with hard sauce, that dense mass of white sugar spiked with too little brandy.
    While Tom went to join the queue, Faith thought back
over the evening and watched the scene in front of her. Muriel was dancing with her father, stretching her arms up high to reach. In earlier days she would have stood on his shoes. Maybe she still wanted to—Daddy’s little girl?
    She had learned more about the Hubbard family, Faith realized, but nothing earthshaking. Sure, Muriel did not seem to be a fan of Charmaine’s, but then what sensible person would be? Donald was apparently besotted with her, but maybe they had great sex. Who knew? Eddie Russell presented some possibilities, and he seemed to be very friendly with Charmaine. It was possible that Howard Perkins had stumbled on this hanky-panky, but Howard was a New Yorker, and a little nooky in the linen closet or wherever was not going to cause him serious concern. It might be something with Eddie, though. That felt right.
    Tom came back with a wedge of pudding large enough for the whole Round Table and some friandises for her.
    â€œWhat are you thinking about so earnestly? I could see your beetling brows all the way across the room. Have you solved Chat’s case? Does Dr. Hubbard have his hand in the till? Although from what I understand about the finances of places like Hubbard House and how difficult it is to keep them going, there can’t be much to spare. Farley told me Roland Hubbard has never asked anyone to leave—even when the money ran out.”
    â€œI think that’s why we’re here tonight. It’s kind of a scholarship fundraiser. As to what I have been thinking about, you’re right. I’m still looking for the skeleton in the closet.”
    Tom took a last colossal bite of pudding and said, “Let’s tread a few measures, then go home. I know Samantha is spending the night and we don’t have to rush, but I’d like to get to bed myself.”
    â€œMe too,” Faith answered demurely.
    It was handy—no, more than handy, definitely a gift from the gods—to have a baby-sitter next door, and Faith
prayed unabashedly that Samantha’s devotion to Ben would continue for years to come. After all, there were lots of excellent colleges in the area. Since tonight was a school night, she was sleeping over. Faith shuddered as she remembered what Lizzie’s mother, Arlene, had told her last week—that she had called twelve people and still not been able to find a sitter. Faith couldn’t in good conscience wish zits or perpetual bad breath on Samantha, but she did wish that the fifteen-year-old would continue her pattern of infrequent dating or find someone steady and settle down immediately—preferably in front of the Fairchild fireplace watching Ben.
    Tom and Faith danced their last dance and prepared to take their leave. Tom was exchanging phone numbers with Bill Winter. They had both gone to the same high school on the South Shore, although a few years apart. New England was often like that, Faith had discovered. If it wasn’t someone Tom had grown up with, then it was someone from college or a cousin of someone who knew his brother. A village.
    Faith turned and realized that Eddie Russell had slithered up to her side. “Ready for our dance? You promised,