Then there were the Hubbards. They were all there, yet it seemed unlikely they would deal with their employee problems in quite this manner. She suddenly remembered the way Donald had looked at Eddie at the Holly Ball. There was no doubt he was jealous. Could Eddie have been waiting for Charmaine and gotten Donald instead? Who else? Sylvia Vale would do anything for Roland Hubbard and Hubbard House. If she knew what Eddie was up to, would she have resorted to murder to get him to stop?
She scribbled away, stopping to tie Ben's loops of spools. He insisted she put one on. She got him some cookies and milk, a shameless bribe to leave her alone for a while longer.
At the top of the next page she wrote "Leandra." She was sure whoever had pushed her had wanted something in her purse. John Dunne hadn't ridiculed the idea either when she'd mentioned it to him on the phone. But what? It wouldhave had to be something small enough to fit in Leandra's bag, which was big, but not more so than a breadbox. The bag wouldn't have held a three-volume novel or a baby, for example—however Ernest and important. The classic item would be incriminating letters, but she didn't think those were the kinds of things kleptomaniacs took, although she was by no means expert on this point. She made a note to ask Tom what he knew about the subject and then consult the Ale-ford library.
She turned a page and wrote "Charmaine." Dunne continued to be almost positive she had staged the attack on herself. That meant she was trying to divert suspicion away from herself, which revived the theory that Eddie was lying in state waiting for her. But what had she told Donald? Going out for some fun on a snowy evening, darling, don't wait up? She made another note reminding herself to find out if Donald's room had a bath attached or if an occupant would have to leave for his or her ablutions.
She leaned back in the chair and pulled Benjamin onto her lap. He had looped all the rest of the spool necklaces around his own neck. "Ben's a beautiful Christmas tree!" he chortled.
“You're my little tree," Faith said, and hugged him, mindful of the disparity of her actions and thoughts. While her arms twined around her adored son, all she could think of was whether Dunne had been able to trace the knives yet. She'd forgotten to ask him. She also wanted to know if they'd determined whether Eddie had been tied up before or after death. If after, it could have been an attempt to make it look like a woman did it—Eddie didn't seem to be the type to let a man tie him up for fun and games.
Ben struggled to get down, and as she got up to follow him, she was uncomfortably certain that she was a lot closer to the why of Eddie Russell's murder than the who.
Just before she started to put together the risotto coi funghi they were having with broiled bluefish for dinner, she called Millicent Revere McKinley. Millicent would know whatever there was to know about James Hubbard, and Faith was trying to fit him into the puzzle. So far there didn't seem to be a place for his piece.
Ben was watching "Sesame Street," which providentially popped up on the screen at all hours of the day, and Faith dialed the number, confident that she had a way to make Millicent talk.
“Hello, Millicent? This is Faith Fairchild."
“Oh?" Millicent managed to convey serious doubt with the interjection—as if perhaps it were someone pretending to be Faith Fairchild, God only knew for what reason.
“Yes," Faith declared emphatically. "I wanted to ask you something, and I also happened to remember you had asked me for my grandmother's recipe for the sherry nutmeg cake you enjoyed so much at our house.”
Enjoyed so much that she had devoured three large pieces. Faith had a sneaking suspicion that Millicent, bearer of the local WÇTU torch, had a weakness for any potent potable confections.
She'd also tossed back several helpings of a soufflé Grand Marnier at a Sunday dinner once.
“Of course, I'd love to have the recipe. So handy for the holidays." Millicent appeared to be weighing the question. She knew this wasn't a case of altruism but your basic tit for tat. Faith had politely but firmly told her the recipe was a closely guarded family secret when she had asked for it. This was partially true. It had been a family secret until one of Faith's cousins had submitted it to a contest in Family Circle magazine and, as third runner-up (twenty-five dollars), had it printed in the December issue a few years before. But with Millicent it always paid to have something in the arsenal, and Faith knew a good weapon when she saw it. Now the time had come to use it.
She brought out the Howitzer. "I'll be baking several later this week, and if you're pressed for time as we all are about now, I could make an extra one for you and tuck the recipe in with it.”
Millicent fell. "That would be lovely, dear. So thoughtful of you. Now what were you saying about a question?" There wasn't even the suggestion of a quaver in her voice. Millicent was indomitable even in defeat.
“When we were talking about the Hubbards the other day, you mentioned Donald and Muriel. I wondered if you had known James, the youngest?"
“Is this in connection with that shocking Eddie Russell business—in which I hear, incidentally, you've been rather intimately involved?" Faith had expected Millicent would make a comment like this. She had no doubt that Millicent blamed her for the whole thing, casting the shadow of scandal on such a noble edifice.
“It might be, yes. But I merely wanted to know a bit more about James Hubbard. f you know, that is.”
Millicent knew.
“It almost broke poor Roland Hubbard's heart when James ran away. He was only sixteen. He'd been a worry to his father for years. Couldn't seem to settle down like the other two. Always skipping school to go fishing or whatever. Maybe if his mother had lived, things would have been different. He was a sweet boy, never rude. But he just wouldn't listen to anyone."
“Where did he go?"
“I believe he went south someplace, Florida. The family never talked about him, of course, but every once in a while some friend would get a postcard from him, and then we'd know where he was and what he was doing.”
Faith could imagine. She knew from Tom that Hattie Johnston, the former postmistress, who had retired the year before Faith had arrived in Aleford, had had her own rules when it came to the U.S. mail. A postcard was public information and people who wrote them knew they would be read; otherwise they'd write a letter, which was sacrosanct.
“What was he doing? Did he stay in Florida?"
“I don't think I ever heard for sure what he was doing there—at first something with show business, I think. In later years he managed to get some training, and he worked as an aide in various hospitals. Mostly out west and in the south,but I did hear that he had come back to Massachusetts about two years ago."
“Anything else you can think of?"
“I asked Donald how James was when I heard he'd come back, but Donald said they knew nothing about it and that if James wanted to see them, he knew where to find them. I don't think any of them have been in touch since he went away originally. Roland felt it was up to James to make the first move.”
Millicent apparently thought she had given good value, and the tone of her voice changed slightly. "Would I be able to count on the cake for some friends I'm having for tea on Friday?" She didn't issue an invitation.
“Absolutely," Faith answered. "And thank you for all your help."
“Anytime, Faith dear. Now I must be going. Good-bye.”
Faith said good-bye and replaced the receiver. Anytime, ha. Unless Millicent wanted to start whipping up soufflés, in the future it would be back to groveling on the carpet if Faith wanted any information.