The Body in the Bouillon by Katherine Hall Page Page A

was a little surprised to see Tom in his study. He got up and put his arms around her.
    â€œWhat is it? Tell me quick! My parents …”
    â€œNo, darling. It’s Farley. He died this afternoon.”
    â€œOh no! And he seemed so well when I left.”
    â€œI’m afraid they found him face down in your bouillon, Faith dear.”

3

    â€œMy bouillon!” Faith cried. “That’s impossible. There couldn’t possibly have been anything wrong with it. I tasted it myself. So did Mrs. Pendergast. And what about the rest of Hubbard House? Oh, Tom, don’t tell me there’s more!”
    â€œHoney, I’m sure it was simply a horrible coincidence. No one else is the least bit sick. Farley had a very weak heart. In fact, it’s amazing he’d gone on this long.”
    They walked over to the couch and sat down. Ben wriggled between them and, whether from fatigue or the first stirrings of tact, kept quiet and nuzzled Faith’s arm.
    Meanwhile Faith was reviewing every ingredient in the bouillon and every step in making it. Too much Madeira for a man with a serious heart condition? Mrs. Pendergast hadn’t said anything, and she had the part-time dietician’s
list of instructions by her side at all times. Besides, there wouldn’t have been any alcohol left after the soup was heated.
    A sudden thought struck her.
    â€œTom,”—she could barely get the words out—“do you think he drowned in the soup?”
    The idea had also occurred to Tom, but he had deemed it more prudent not to mention it.
    â€œI suppose it’s possible, darling. But I’m sure it will turn out to be his heart. Dr. Hubbard said he would call back to talk about funeral arrangements, and I’ll ask him to let us know the exact cause of death.”
    Tom brought his arm around to encircle his little family more closely and looked down at the two heads by his side. Every once in a while he thought he could detect a hint of red in Ben’s mop—a little like Tom’s own reddish brown hair—but today it shone as golden blond as Faith’s, and they could have posed for a Breck shampoo ad.
    â€œThey’ll never want me back at Hubbard House again,” Faith said soberly.
    â€œCome on now. You’re being ridiculous.”
    â€œWell, wouldn’t you be if someone had just died in your bouillon?” Faith retorted.
    â€œOf course it’s terribly upsetting, but if you’re going to volunteer in an old age home, you’ll have to get used to the fact of death.” Tom spoke slightly sternly. He didn’t want Faith going off the deep end about something that was not in the slightest her fault. Poor Farley could just have well fallen into his mashed potatoes. It was a question of balance—or aim.
    â€œYes, I know that. I thought of it the first day I was there, but Hubbard House is such an undeathlike place. It’s hard to believe all those sturdy people out playing golf and taking courses at Harvard Extension aren’t going to keep on living forever.”
    â€œTrue, it is hard in this case. The residents of Hubbard House represent an admirable—and! I might add very privileged—sector
of the elderly population. They have goals and don’t consider that they’re through so long as there’s a breath left in their bodies.”
    â€œExactly. And Farley was one of them until only a few hours ago. It still doesn’t seem possible that he’d dead. He was fine—a little short of breath, as usual, and that was all. We were talking about dancing together at the Christmas party.”
    â€œThink of it as a good death then. Mercifully sudden.”
    Faith felt tears pricking at her eyes. Maybe it would be too difficult to remain at Hubbard House much longer. Assuming that they wanted her back, that is. She wondered how the people who worked there all the time were able to cope with the deaths of those they