“All these types." Faith realized she was saying it out loud.
“What's that?" Dunne asked.
“I was just thinking about the cast of characters we're assembling."
“Look, why don't you go up again today and see what's in the wind? I'll try to come by your house later this afternoon.”
Faith had been planning to go to Hubbard House anyway and was happy to have the official blessing.
“Fine," she replied. "I'll see you later.”
She broke the news to Tom and set off on her familiar route. The snow hadn't melted much, and it was getting dirty only by the side of the road. If you looked beyond, it was still like a scene from the top of a fruitcake tin.
Faith walked into the kitchen and headed for the closet to get an apron. Mrs. Pendergast was stirring a huge pot of milk on the stove.
“Cup custard. That's the kind of thing they'll want today."
“Comfort food?" Faith remarked.
Mrs. P. patted her waist. "To me most food could be called that, but that's right. Nice, soothing food. Nothing complicated. Now say hello to Mrs. Fairchild, Gladys." She called over her shoulder.
Faith hadn't noticed that there was another person in the kitchen. A cheerful-looking, middle-aged woman, her hair imprisoned in a hairnet guarded by several dozen bobby pins, came bustling over with her hand outstretched.
“Glad to meet you. I hear you really held down the fort while I was sick. Feel fine now, but was I bad. I think I had all those flus at once—Hong Kong, Taiwan, whatever. Sick as a dog. Couldn't keep a mouthful down for over a week. I tell you—”
Faith wasn't sure she wanted to be told. "It's very nice to meet you. I was happy I could help." She looked at Mrs. Pendergast a bit wistfully. "I suppose you won't be needing me anymore, Violet." The name came easily.
Violet put an arm around Faith's shoulder while she continued to stir her custard. "Now, Faith, Gladys and I will manage. It's been a real pleasure to get to know you, and you come up whenever you want. I expect you need some time now to do all the things you should have been doing while you were here. Now, scoot and we'll see you Friday night."
“Friday night?"
“The Christmas party. It's lots of fun. And I'd say we could all use a little about now."
“I'll try to come. It depends on what my husband's commitments are. This is a busy time for him."
“Of course, but just come for a moment. I'm making all my specialties.”
Faith wasn't sure how much of an incentive Violet's specialties were—probably confections from the trusty cookbook like peanut penuche, marsh- mallow tea cookies, and mosaic finger sandwiches, besides all the regular Christmas favorites like nut balls—these last unknown to Faith until a parishioner had offered her one last Christmas saying ingenuously, "Have a nut ball? They're my husband's and they're delicious.”
She wandered upstairs in search of Julia Cabot. She'd talk to her, then get home before lunch. Tom would be pleased. What was in the wind was boiled dinner, and she didn't think she'd add to her knowledge of what was going on at Hubbard House by eating there. It would be more productive to sit down with John later and go over everything they knew so far—and she was pretty sure there was a lot he hadn't shared. Plus she had something to tell him too. She'd figured out a motive for the attack on Leandra.
It was possible that Leandra had dropped her pocketbook as she hastened to dinner, then lost her balance as she reached down to pick it up from the stair. But it was more likely that someone had grabbed the purse from her arm and pushed her. It would have been the only way to get it and its contents. Faith realized the unfortunate relevance of Leandra's kleptomania now. She had taken something that incriminated someone, and that person was prepared to murder again to get it back. Leandra never let the old black calfskin satchel—circa 1952, a testament to the importance of buying quality merchandise—out of her sight. It would have been too risky to try to get it at night with her husband in bed by her side, nor could the killer do what everyone else did, which was to ask Merwinfor whatever they were missing. "Have you happened to see my fountain pen lying around?”
So the murderer had to be someone who was at Hubbard House both nights. It was slim, but it was the only thing that made sense so far.
Faith decided to call Tom and tell him she would pick Ben up. Humming a few bars of "Deck Us All with Boston Charlie," her Pogo-loving father's favorite carol, she pushed open the door of Sylvia Vale's office. Muriel was on the phone.
“Now, James, you've got to go—" She looked up, startled. "I'll have to get back to you on that, I'm afraid. Why don't you give me a number where you can be reached?" She jotted the number on a pad. "Thank you very much. I'll call you as soon as I can. Good-bye." She hung up. Her cheeks were flushed. She tore the paper from the pad and pushed it into her pocket.
“I'm sorry to be interrupting," Faith said. "I wanted to use the phone, but I can find another one."
“Oh no, you're not interrupting at all. Just one of those hospital supply salesmen. They're so persistent. How are you, Mrs. Fairchild?"
“I'm fine, but I'm sorry to say this is my last day at Hubbard House. The kitchen staff is back in full force."
“Oh, yes, I heard Gladys was better. We're terribly grateful to you for pitching in, and I hope you'll join us on Friday for the Christmas party here."
“I'm going to try to come for at least a little while. I remember the last time I saw Farley, you were talking about it."
“Yes." Muriel's face darkened. "I miss Farley. It's always a problem with this job. You get so fond of people and then they go. But, of course, you will be back to see us often, I hope."
“Of course."
“I'll leave you to your call, then. See you Friday."
“Oh," Faith remembered as she was leaving, "I was sorry to hear about Leandra Rhodes' fall. Have you heard how she is getting on? And Mrs. Hubbard too?"
“It has been a dreadful week," Muriel said, obviously not a woman prone to exaggeration even when life around her was. "Charmaine is fine. Donald took her for X rays, but we don't have good news about Leandra. She's still in danger."
“Oh dear," Faith said.
“Perhaps we'll have better news by Friday." Little Muriel Sunshine brightened and left, closing the door behind her.
Left to go call James back, Faith thought. She took a pencil from the desk and drew lightly across the impression made on the rest of the pad when Muriel had written the telephone number on the top sheet. Faith had seen Cary Grant do it in North by Northwest about sixty times, and she was pleased to find it worked just as well for her as it did for him. She'd have to hope James was not holed up in Mount Rushmore or its equivalent.
Then she called Tom and left a message with the parish secretary. She'd wait until she got home to try to find James. The Hubbard House office was all too public.
Julia Cabot was not one of the people whilingaway the time before lunch reading m front of the fire in the living room. Faith remembered that she had said she was still working, but it might not be every day. There was a list of room and cottage numbers in the office by the phone, and Faith returned to see where the Cabots were. Number 20 in Nathaniel's house. She walked back to the staircase. It was hard to climb, knowing that Leandra had so recently made her descent here. Faith tried to block the picture from her mind of the old lady falling helplessly down the stairs, a well-groomed, well-bred rag doll.