Della Street stepped in a puddle as she came to the end of the alley. The harsh wind burned her face, and she was now officially, impossibly, lost in the Denver night. "Taxi," she shouted to the car at the end of the block, but the light turned green and it drove away. She stepped out onto the sidewalk, making sure that no one was watching her. "Why did I wear high heels?" she thought to herself when a man grabbed her arm.
She screamed.
"Della," he whispered. "It's me. Perry."
"Perry," she fumed. "You scared the daylights out of me. What in the world are you doing?"
He looked down at her suitcase and raised his eyebrows. "I could ask you the same thing, couldn't I, Miss Street?"
"Perry, I'm sorry," she murmured, taking his arm, "I was going to call you later and explain. I just couldn't do it anymore. I had to get out."
"I know, I know," he said. "I was leaving myself."
"You were?" She smiled. "I should have known. We always were on the same page."
"Really, young lady," he started.
"Please, Perry," she moaned. "Never call me that again."
"I have to," he shrugged. "I know it's dumb, but it's in the script."
"We're still in the script?" she asked. "Oh, Perry, we simply have to…"
"I know, Della," he said, straining to spot an available taxi cab, "We have to find a way to escape this horrible two hour television movie."
They walked together in silence for several blocks. "Are you okay?" she asked. "You're really limping."
"If I have to get one more knee surgery in this damn town I will go crazy," Mason complained. "Anyway, what kind of moron lives in Los Angeles and gets his knee worked on in Denver in January?"
She stopped in front of an all night diner. "Let's go in here and rest for a while," she suggested.
The limping lawyer sat down in a booth and ordered two cups of coffee.
"Perry," she said, "I need to tell you something – why I was leaving like that. You see, I thought it was me – you know, my mind playing tricks because I've been so bored – but I'm confused. After that chandelier accidentally fell on my head while we were staying at that haunted hotel I've started remembering things that didn't happen, or remembering them in a completely different way. And at the same time, there's blocks of time missing that I can't explain." Her eyes filled with tears. "Like Paul Drake, Jr.," she continued, "Where did he come from? I don't remember at all Paul having a son – wouldn't he have mentioned it? Or did I forget? And generally the only thing I can remember doing during the 70s is laundry."
Perry reached across the table and took her hand. "I didn't know how to tell you this, Della." He felt around in his bag and pulled out a worn paperback book. "I found this while I was wandering around this afternoon. It was in the library."
"The law library?" she asked.
"No, Della," he said gravely. "There are books that are not about law and there are buildings that are not hotels or restaurants or law offices."
She stared at him. "I always figured there were," she said slowly. "I just never seemed to have the time to see for myself."
He held up the book. "Della," he asked. "Do you remember Eva Belter?"
"Yes," she said. "I had strong feelings of dislike for her. What of it?"
The waitress brought the coffee. Perry waited until she left the table.
"This book is about us," he said. "And Eva Belter – and the case is the same as I remember it, but we're different."
Della Street narrowed her eyes. "Different? What does it all mean, Perry?"
"That's just it, Della," he said. "I'm different, and you're very different. And at the end I kissed you."
"You what?"
"I kissed you," he said, looking at the rim of his coffee cup.
Della looked confused. "I don't remember it that way." She stopped. "But at the same time, Perry, I do." She met his eyes and the color drained from her face.
"Della," he exclaimed. "What's wrong?"
"Your eyes, Perry," she gasped. "They're gray."
"They're blue," he corrected.
"No, Perry. I mean they're gray." She screamed. "All of you. You're not in color any more."
Perry threw down a ten on the table. "I was afraid this would happen," he said. "We've got to get out of here now."
He strode out of the restaurant and Della ran to keep up with him. Suddenly Perry didn't need a cane.
"Della," he declared, turning to her, "I'm going to do something that I should have done a long time ago."
Her innocent eyes looked up at him. "Take me on the sofa in your office?"
Perry frowned. "What are you talking about? We've been sleeping together for years."
"Gosh, Chief, we have?" she said. "Now that you say it, I always thought we were but was never really sure. I guess it's just never been anything to write about."
Mason looked at her sideways, "The saying is 'nothing to write home about'"
She wrinkled her nose. "So it is," she finally said. "Was that part of the script?"
"Of course not, Della. We've been out of the script since you noticed the color of my eyes."
"How do you know?"
"Take this conversation, Della. It's the most interesting one we've had in three years. And watch" He grabbed her and kissed her for several seconds.
"Gosh, Chief," she sighed. "You're right. We sure aren't in a bad 80s TV movie anymore."
Perry Mason paced back and forth in the cheap motel room. Della Street worn an expectant look of adoration on her face. A quiet understanding existed between them – something even no hack writer looking to cash in off nostalgia could destroy. Her pencil was poised over the open stenographer's notebook that rested on her knee. She smiled. It was finally starting to feel how she remembered.
"Della," he finally said, "Let me see those contracts you signed for us again." She handed them to him, and he read over them for the tenth time. "Why didn't you show these to me first? We're never going to get out of these movies."
"Chief," she exclaimed. "I've got it! Why don't we fake your death? Wouldn't that void both our contracts? After all, no Perry Mason, no Perry Mason mysteries."
Perry took her in his arms. "Della, you're brilliant. Smart, funny, sweet – and easy on the eyes."
"Thank you, Mr. Mason," she purred.
"Now let's get down to brass tacks," he declared, letting her go. "Call Paul Drake. Ask him if he remembers a case we did in '66. Tell him I need him to find out everything he can about a man named Grimes. We convicted him of murder."
"But Perry," she said softly, touching his arm, "Paul Drake's been dead for years."
He grabbed her hand and pulled her to him. "No, Della, where we're going Paul Drake is alive and probably eating a soggy hamburger sandwich about now. Hamilton Burger and Tragg are scratching their heads trying to figure out a way to disbar me, and Gertie's having a chocolate bar and reading a romance novel. Della, it's where you'll always be beautiful, vibrant, loyal and adventurous and I'll be a fighter, rugged and long legged, ready to do whatever it takes to clear an innocent client. Do you remember that place Della?"
Tears stood in her eyes. "Let's go."
A few hours later the familiar code knock sounded on the hotel door.
"Paul," Della Street joyfully exclaimed, throwing open the door. "It's wonderful to see you."
"Hi, yourself, Beautiful," he smiled, and swaggered into the room. He sat down in a chair and threw his legs over the arm.
"Missed you two," he said, and lit up a cigarette.
"Paul, put that out," Della ordered. "This is a non-smoking room."
The detective wrinkled his brow. "What's that?"
Perry stood up. "Never mind, Della. Now Paul, what'd you find out about Grimes?"
"Nice to see you too. For Pete's sake, Perry, give me a break. It's only been a few hours since Della called."
Mason's eyes twinkled. "You've had twenty years to rest, Paul. It's time to get back to work."
"You aren't kidding," Drake said. "It's been quiet without you." He opened his small black notepad. "Grimes lives in San Diego now. He works at a gas station – changed his name – He tried to make it in Hollywood, but couldn't even get a callback. Directors said he overacted every scene they gave him."
Mason thought for a moment. "Paul, I need you to get Grimes here in this room at 8 o'clock on Thursday night."
"Now wait a minute," Drake said. "How am I supposed to do that?"
"You'll find a way, Paul. And make sure he's had a hair cut and is wearing a suit."
"Just what are you cooking up this time?" Drake asked.
"We're going to commit a murder," Mason announced.
"What?" Paul Drake exclaimed, jumping from the chair. "Who? Grimes?"
"No, Paul," Perry Mason said and playfully smacked the detective on the back. "Me."
"You?"
"Remember that Grimes was practically Perry's twin," Della Street interspersed. "And we've got to find some way to get Perry and me out of these TV movies without bailing on the contract."
"But what about you, Beautiful?" Drake asked. "Don't you have a contract too?"
"Don't be daft, Paul," Perry said, grabbing a cigarette. "No one's going to make a Perry Mason movie without Perry Mason. I'm free, Della's free, and we can go back to LA where we belong."
"You've got my vote that those movies are a sham," Paul said. "But that's as far as I go. I'm not pulling your chestnuts out of the fire on this one. I've got a license to think about."
Perry's face was set. "Just get Grimes here," he said. "And you won't have to know anything else."
"You have the coffee cups, Della?"
"Of course, Chief – and I grabbed a letter opener too. I also made half a pot of coffee," she said, handing him a cup.
"Good girl," Mason said. "We need to have my prints and hers here." He looked at his secretary. "I know how you feel about this, Della. But Ken is good enough to get Amy off. And if he ever does figure out who really did it, we'll be long gone. It's the only way."
She nodded.
"Maybe you should get out of here until it's all done," he said. "This is no place for you."
Della Street's eyes blazed. "Perry Mason, I have followed you for more than half my life. Let's just watch you get rid of me now."
His arm found her waist. "That's my girl," he said softly and kissed her. "Now let's go next door and wait for Grimes to arrive."
Twenty minutes later Mason and his secretary heard a faint knock on the door of the adjoining room.
"That's him," Della said in the darkness.
Perry extinguished his cigarette.
"Perry," she whispered, reaching for him, "if you need me, call."
"All right, Della," he said, and opened the door.
"What are you doing here?" she heard him exclaim.
"Perry?" she said and rushed into the hall. "Paul Drake!"
Drake smiled sheepishly. "I was thinking," he said. "It's been awful lonely without you two, and I do have a pretty good lawyer."
A loud metallic noise clanged in the stairwell.
Della pulled Paul into the dark hotel room. "Good luck, Chief," she whispered as she shut the door. Perry ducked into a janitor's closet until he heard Grimes knock, and then enter the empty hotel room. Mason waited several seconds as he collected his thoughts. He wanted to back out, but the thought of Della and him, together and back on CBS, propelled him on.
He knocked on the door where Grimes waited on the other side. My victim, he thought. Now I understand the sort of desperation that drives a man to murder.
He opened the door and saw Grimes sprawled on the floor. Perry sniffed the air. Bitter almonds. He turned the body over to reveal a fresh pool of blood pouring from a deep wound made by a golden letter opener protruding from the man's chest.
He dashed to the next room and pounded on the door. "Paul," he shouted. The detective, with Della Street, followed Mason and shut the door to the room where the dead man lay. Della let out a piercing streak when she saw Grimes' lifeless form.
Mason clamped his hand over her mouth. "Quiet, Della," he said sharply. That woman could scream louder than any Hollywood doll he'd ever heard.
"I'm sorry, Chief," she said. "He just looks so much like you."
"How'd you do it so quickly?" Drake asked.
"That's the catch, Paul. I didn't do it."
Heavy steps echoed in the hall and stopped in front of the room. A fist pounded on the door. "Open up. Police."
Drake and Mason looked at each other. "The fire escape," the detective whispered. They had just hoisted Della through the window when the door was broken down. The three silently waited in the cold night.
"Over here," they heard a voice say.
"That's Michael Reston," Della whispered. "What's the DA doing here?"
Drake leaned over and glanced in the room. "I think I know that guy," he said. "Didn't he serve in Korea?"
Perry motioned for both of them to be quiet, but it was too late.
"What's this window doing open?" Reston asked. He moved toward the fire escape when a crash came from the clothes closet. His attention turned to the closet door, which was slightly ajar. Reston threw it open to reveal a tall young man with blond curly hair.
"Hello," the man said to the DA.
"I thought I heard someone talking," Reston said, eyeing the window.
"No, that was just me," the young man said.
Perry caught Della's eye. She smiled and shook her head. "Paul," she mouthed.
"Should I cuff him?" the officer asked Reston.
"No," Reston said. "I know this kid. He's a wanna-be detective who can't do a job without flubbing it up. Now get out of here, Drake. I'll call you when I need you."
"I'll get that window first," Drake said. "It's getting cold for you boys in here." Before he shut the window a ball of paper flew out onto the fire escape. Della Street silently bent down and picked it up.
"All right," they heard Reston tell the officers after several minutes. "We'll come back in the morning. It's a shame – losing the great Perry Mason. It's a good thing Hal Holbrook's available to guest star." The men's voices faded and the light went off.
Della Street clutched Mason's arm, "You know what that means, Chief? My contract is still valid." She buried her face into his chest.
"Della, Della," he soothed.
She looked up at him with tears in her eyes. "Oh, Perry," she sobbed. "I'd rather spend the rest of my life up against Bonanza in color rather than make one of those damned movies without you."
"Della Street," he choked, kissing her hungrily, "Don't say such terrible things. I need you and would never let that happen to you."
"Okay, lovebirds," Drake shouted from the roof. "We can stay up here until the coast is clear."
Mason helped Della up the stairs. The air was frigid, but the moon was full and the clear night blazed with stars. The outline of the mountains was just visible in the darkness. She snuggled against him and rested her head on his shoulder.
"Don't worry," Paul Drake said, reading the couple's thoughts. "We'll get Della out of here before Hargrove can even think about starting another one of those clunkers."
The silence again fell over them for several minutes. "Say, Della," Perry Mason finally said. "What was that paper you picked up?"
She pulled it out of her pocket, looked at it, and smiled. "'Dear Perry and Della,'" she read aloud. "'Sorry about the handwriting. It's dark and cramped in here. I thought I got here too late to help, but glad you're okay. Best wishes wherever you're going. Paul Jr.'"
"That's a good boy you have there," Mason said to Drake.
"My boy?" Paul exclaimed. "I thought he was Della's."
She looked at him blankly.
"Anyway," he continued. "Whoever he is, my question is when did he get into that room?"
"We left it about twenty minutes before you came," Perry said. "I'm guessing then."
"Did you hear anything?" Paul asked.
"No, not a thing," Mason responded.
"What were you two doing in there that you didn't hear a guy go in the next room?" Drake demanded.
"The bigger question, Paul," Mason said, "is who killed Grimes?"
"Well, we know we didn't do it – and certainly that young Drake didn't – so who else could have?"
"This could look worse than I thought for Amy," Mason worried. "It's her fingerprints on the coffee cup and her letter opener."
"Actually," Della Street said, "It's not."
Mason turned to her. "Then whose are they?"
"Well," Della began, "I sort of ran into Laura Robertson when I went to pick up some sandwiches, and we started talking and she invited me over for coffee. When she showed me the gold stationery set Glen bought her before she went to prison, I remembered how she acted the last time I saw her and ….." Her voice trailed off. "Are you angry, Chief?"
Mason was silent. "Damn," he said. "I called Amy and left a message to tell Ken that I had changed my mind about him being qualified enough to serve as co-counsel. Then I paid a girl on the street to sign in the hotel night registry as Amy."
He suddenly laughed. "We made a mess for the police this time. We've put Amy and Laura at the scene – and both have a motive."
"And we still don't know who really did it," Drake added.
"Of course we do," said Della. "You asked the key question, Paul. Who could have?"
Mason smiled at her. "Beauty and brains," he said. "Miss Street, you've got it all."
"Well I give," Drake shrugged. "We've eliminated all suspects. The only person in that room was Grimes himself."
"And that's your murderer," Mason said. "Remember when we found the body? What did you smell?"
"Bitter almonds," Paul started. "Cyanide. He was poisoned."
"Right, Paul," Mason said, "but unintentionally. Grimes came there to kill me – but this time he was going to make sure he didn't go to prison for his crime. He brought two flasks, one with cyanide and another with some whisky to cool his nerves. He knew that embalming fluid destroys the evidence of cyanide poisoning. Everyone would think I had a heart attack, and he'd get his revenge. The problem started when he dropped the flasks coming up the stairs. He panicked and put the wrong one in the wrong pocket. The waiting for me to arrive was too much – so he took a good snort on what he thought was hootch – but unfortunately for him, it was the wrong choice. He dropped it, but it was too late."
"Okay, Mr. Smarty Pants," Drake shot back, "But that doesn't explain how he ended up with a letter opener in his chest."
"That's easy, Paul," Della Street said. "Grimes wasn't a fool. He saw that gold letter opener on the desk. It's the sort of thing one tosses down and doesn't think about. He knew Perry wouldn't immediately notice it missing, and neither would anyone else miss it when they found the body. So he put it in his jacket pocket in the hopes of getting a few bucks for it. A few seconds later the poison gripped his chest, he slumped over, and the letter opener went right into his heart."
Paul Drake gave out a low whistle. "Only you, Perry, could successfully plan a murder that no one committed. Well, I think it's safe to bolt now." He reached down and helped Della to her feet. "It sure hasn't been the same without you two. I think even Burger will be glad to see you back."
Perry Mason smiled. "Thanks, Paul." He turned to his secretary. "Della, let's go home."
She took his arm, "Right behind you, Chief."
Della Street sat on the corner of Mason's desk and gazed out onto the Los Angeles skyline. The lawyer closed his hand around hers and kissed her. When they finally broke away he looked into her eyes and smiled. "We're free, Della," he murmured. She touched his face.
"My Della," he said. "Dazzling and well-written."
He tossed his hat on the Blackstone bust. "My office," he sighed, smiling contentedly. He kissed Della Street again. "I had forgotten what this was like," he said, "but never again."
The desk phone rang and Della picked up the instrument. "Yes, Gertie?" she said. "Okay, I will tell Mr. Mason. Thank you."
"Perry, a young girl just called for you," she reported, hanging up the receiver. "She wants to talk to you about her uncle. She thinks he may be trying to kill his wife."
"Sounds interesting. Why didn't you have Gertie send her in?"
"She called from a phone booth about forty minutes away. She's coming over here now."
"Well, then," Perry said, circling Della's waist, "that gives us more time to get re-acquainted. But what should we do?"
"I'm sure I wouldn't know," Della said demurely, lifting her face to his. "But if you'll just lean down, Chief, I'll bet I'll think of something."