The Body in the Bouillon by Katherine Hall Page Read Free Book Online Page A

sort of recognizable order at the altar.
    But Tom would have said something, especially if he intended to drag her into it. She shook her head. He wouldn’t ask her in any case. Pix would do it. Pix always did everything. In fact, it was odd that she wasn’t doing it in the first place. Pix Miller was Faith’s next-door neighbor, and the Miller family’s intimate involvement in two murder investigations, which Faith had literally stumbled into, had forged a bond stronger than either the occasional cup-of-sugar type neighborliness or the “you planted your hedge over my property line” antipathy.
    She drove to get Ben, and the job of tearing him away from Lizzie effectively blotted out any and all thought. Today was worse than usual. Lizzie’s mother tactfully stood aside as Faith wrestled a screaming Ben into the car. “Don’t wanna go! Wanna stay wid Lizzie! Nononononono!” and so on. She gave Arlene Viles a weary smile and backed out of their drive. The only thought that comforted her was that Lizzie would be worse about leaving when she came to play at their house. As she drove to the market, she thought she might suggest this phenomenon to Tom for some kind of sermon. What does it say about human nature that we derive so much comfort from not being last in line? No matter how badly your child might behave, there are always worse ones. And, a friend had told her once, no matter how fat you think you are and how much cellulite is dimpling down your thighs, there’s always someone in the Loehmann’s dressing room who looks worse. Faith was some years away from these comparisons, yet the point was the same.
    Ben had calmed down as soon as Lizzie’s house was out of sight, and now her only problem would be to convince him to sit in the cart and not try to “help” by pushing it for her. She grabbed a bunch of bananas as soon as she entered the store, put one in Ben’s hand, and strapped him in before he had a chance to protest.
    Tom was later than usual, and looking at his expression
when he entered the kitchen, she could see that he was mad, not sad. So no one had died or contracted some serious disease. It was merely some pain in the ass—a congregation being like any other group of individuals.
    She put her arms around him. “Come on, let’s have a drink and sit in the living room while you tell me all about it. I fed Ben and he’s watching a Winnie-the-Pooh tape—that gives us roughly twenty-two minutes of peace.”
    â€œWonderful, darling—although whatever you’ve got in the oven smells so delicious, I’m not sure I can concentrate.”
    Faith had decided Tom needed some good, solid food—nothing nouvelle—so she’d prepared a pork roast with garlic, rosemary, white wine, and olive oil. There was curried cabbage, fresh applesauce, and a potato galette Lyonnaise to go with it. She poured herself a glass of Georges Duboeuf Beaujolais Nouveau and followed Tom into the living room. Ben was at the far end, mesmerized by Eeyore, and barely acknowledged Tom’s kiss.
    â€œAll right, what is it? They’ve discovered the bordello we’re running on the side in the parsonage? Or someone got a back issue of Playgirl and saw your centerfold? What?”
    â€œOh, Faith, I wish it were something funny. I really don’t know what to do, or rather I do, and the next couple of months are going to be so damned unpleasant. And why now? You know how much I love Christmas.”
    Faith did know. Tom’s family started getting the cartons of ornaments down from their attic before Halloween—just to check and see if any of the lights needed new bulbs. When the house was finally decorated, there wasn’t a corner that had been overlooked. Some year Faith fully expected to find St. Nick toilet paper peeking at her from the roll.
    â€œI also feel a bit petty about it. It shouldn’t bother me so much,