The Body in the Bouillon Read Online Free PDF

the side. A door directly behind the desk bore a plaque with OFFICE etched on it in small Gothic letters.
    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 to construct 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.
    â€œMrs. 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?”
    â€œMy 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.
    â€œMrs. Pendergast, Mrs. Fairchild. I take it you’re all set? Good, now I’ll leave you two ladies to your work.” After this burst of speech, she scampered out the door and Faith and Mrs. Pendergast stood eye to eye for a moment.
    â€œDid Miss Vale tell you what was needed?”
    â€œNot exactly,” Faith responded. “Some kitchen help, I gather.”
    â€œHelp is right. My lunch regular and her backup have both come down with this flu, and the volunteers so far stay long enough to learn what to do, then leave to finish their Christmas shopping or some such thing. I finally told Miss Vale that if she couldn’t find somebody to stay for the next two weeks, they’d have to start sending out to McDonald’s.
Oh, that got her, you can imagine. Most of these people think a Big Mac is a large truck.”
    Faith shuddered. She was an angel of mercy.
    â€œMiss Vale”—for apparently that was the redhead’s name—“didn’t say anything about two weeks, but I’ll help all I can.”
    â€œIt’s getting the food ready and into that