The Body in the Bouillon Read Online Free PDF Page B

contraption there”—she pointed to a dumbwaiter. “You don’t have to do pots or dishes. The wheelchair boys and girls do those.”
    â€œWheelchair boys and girls?”
    â€œThe college kids who work here and go get the people in wheelchairs who live in the cottages for meals or take others out for a spin around the gardens. They serve the meals and clean up.”
    â€œI think I’ll be able to help you, but most days only until eleven thirty, because I have to be home when my little boy comes back from nursery school. And only weekdays, I’m afraid.”
    â€œThat will have to do it and it may not be two weeks, but Dr. Hubbard is very particular about the food preparation, and if he thinks there’s a chance of passing the flu around with the food, he’ll have them stay home longer. Not but that I agree with him. Of course, I’m never sick myself.”
    It would take a mighty germ to fell Mrs. Pendergast, Faith thought, and found herself nodding solemnly—in tacit agreement, she supposed, or just to have some participation in the conversation that continued its one-sided course.
    â€œNow, don’t worry about the cooking. I do all of it. Have been for thirty years—the last fifteen right here. I need you to chop things, help me get organized, and dish it all out.”
    â€œLike a sous chef,” Faith commented.
    â€œI don’t know any Sue chefs. Like another pair of hands is what I mean.”
    â€œFine.” Faith reached for an apron. “Why don’t you tell me where to start.” She was a firm believer that a
woman’s kitchen was her queendom. Still, it might be possible to introduce some flavor into the cuisine after a few days. The only cookbook she could see was an ancient edition of Fanny Farmer, and while it made for wonderful bedtime reading—caramel potato cake, and her own personal favorite, Canapes à la Rector: caviar on toast sprinkled with diced cucumber pickles and red pepper, divided into sections, by anchovy fillets—she hoped the inhabitants of Hubbard House weren’t subsisting on macaroni and chipped beef and the book’s other stick-to-the-ribs staples.
    â€œWe’re giving them fish today—scrod and some greens and potatoes. The first thing you could do is start peeling these with this contraption while I trim the beans. The soup’s all made and on the back burner.” She gestured toward the stove. “There’s always some who want soup first, or they can have juice. Then we give them a salad. And I’ve got last night’s pot roast for those who don’t want fish.”
    â€œHow many people are there?” Faith asked.
    â€œOne hundred and fifteen total, but we never get that many for lunch. The cottages have kitchenettes and some people make their own lunch. And there’s usually a few who are traveling or eating out. They mark their meal choices in the morning on those little sheets. There’s sixty today and seven trays.”
    â€œTrays?”
    â€œYes, for the people in the annex. The wheelchair kids come for those first.”
    Faith worked quickly, but it took a while before the potatoes were on. She looked around to see what was next and clamped her mouth shut as she watched Mrs. Pendergast with an ancient canister of paprika, liberally sprinkling the fish before putting it into the oven to bake. They were assembling salads and Faith was about to start priming the pump to get information more relevant to her investigation than the merits of V-8 juice versus tomato when the door
swung open and she heard the click of high heels on the kitchen tile.
    â€œDo you need some more help, Mrs. P.? I have a spare half hour and it’s all yours.”
    The voice belonged to a tall, languid-looking young woman with, depending on one’s frame of reference and charitable inclinations, a long Modigliani or Afghan-hound-like face and black hair cropped