Chapter Seven

Della took great care dressing for work Friday morning, still a bit stung by Laura Cavanaugh's silent critique of her the previous day and the disdain for the barrette that had ultimately caused her injury. So today she pulled out her favorite summer dress, one that depending upon how it was accessorized was suitable for either work or dining out. The price had exceeded her budget, but she bought it anyway as a reward for landing the job with Perry Mason. She also packed her best evening jewelry and shoes in a small tote so she could change at the office and not be late to meet Rodger at the restaurant for their Friday night date.

She hummed quietly to herself as the elevator deposited her on the ninth floor. She fitted her latch key into the lock of the outer office door and entered the office, stepping on something that her spike heel punctured and caused her foot to slip off the side of the open-backed peep toe pump, twisting her ankle slightly. Cursing beneath her breath she picked up her foot and snatched the impaled envelope from the heel of her shoe. She completed the walk across the outer office to her interior office gingerly, wincing with each step at the twinge of pain that shot from her ankle to her instep.

Seated at her desk with her foot raised on a box of files, Della glanced over her daybook, made a few reminder notations, read the messages left for her and Mr. Mason, and then moved on to yesterday's mail. The last letter she unfolded was from the envelope that had been shoved under the outer office door, and now sported three holes in a row down the middle. Addressed to Mr. Mason and signed by Margaret Singleton, it was an atrociously penned invective assault on Della personally in regard to the firing of her daughter, Alice. If Margaret Singleton hadn't been so sadly misguided, Della would have laughed. Instead, she sighed loudly, unlocked one of the cabinets behind her desk, and pulled out Alice Singleton's personnel file with all of the gathered evidence and notes regarding the young woman's nefarious activities in partnership with Jeanne Getty.

She started a pot of coffee, then pushed open the connecting door to Perry Mason's private office and limped across to his desk, where she placed the personnel file in the center of the blotter, and arranged the most urgent stack of letters above it, followed by the important letter pile, and then the pile she would handle herself but her boss needed to at least be aware of. She was just heading back to her office when she heard his latch key in the lock and turned to greet him.

None of his usual morning cheerfulness was evident in his expression or bearing. "Good morning, Della. I hope you're feeling better." He moved to his desk chair and sank wearily into it, plopping his briefcase onto the floor and carelessly letting his hat fly in the direction of Blackstone. Remarkably, it found its target and settled at a slight tilt over the barrister's right eye. He didn't appear to notice. "Do we have coffee?"

"I do indeed feel much better, and the coffee should be ready by now. I'll get a cup while you're reading the letter and the file in the center of the blotter. I'd like to get a reply posted in the morning mail." She limped into her office and returned a few moments later with a cup of coffee for each of them. As she settled herself in her steno chair, she watched for a reaction to the documents in the file and then to the letter. His face remained nearly expressionless. She wondered if he suspected she had overheard his conversation with Miss Cavanaugh.

He slapped the file shut, sat back in his chair and looked at her searchingly. "What's the matter with your foot?"

No wonder he was so good in court. He never asked the expected questions. "I twisted my ankle slightly. It's nothing. I'll walk it off soon enough."

He raised the punctured letter. "I take it this is somehow connected to your twisted ankle? The holes look suspiciously like the heel of a woman's shoe."

She sat back in her chair, and smiled. "If you are wondering if I stamped on it in anger, the answer is no. It was slipped under the door and I stepped on it when I opened the office this morning. That's how I twisted my ankle."

"Well, now you have something to take your mind off the bump on your head," he pointed out with skewed logic. "You've had a couple of bad days, haven't you?"

"Nothing I can't handle. I'm afraid I'll live another day to hound you about the mail."

His expression remained oddly unreadable. "Why didn't you come to me with your suspicions about Alice?"

She met his blankness with an equally benign expression. "Because you gave me responsibility over the administrative staff and I handled the situation as I saw fit. Alice is gone and there will be no more confidential documents leaving this office. The amount of money and supplies stolen can be written off. A highly recommended temporary from a reputable agency will be starting today, and if we like her, she is willing to work full time. The only matter that requires your attention is the letter from Alice's mother. If she hears it from you, she'll be satisfied."

He studied her silently for a moment. "You look especially nice this morning," he said quietly.

"My, aren't you are in a mood," she commented, immediately regretting her insolence. "Thank you."

He studied her silently for another moment. "I've gotten used to you," he blurted, then scowled ferociously at the inept attempt at conveying his thoughts. He wanted her to know he appreciated her loyalty, her tireless efforts to correct the course of his practice, and her straight forward manner of speaking to him. How could he tell her that her smile had become his touchstone, a comfort that calmed him and put his life in perspective?

Della couldn't help but laugh at his expression. "I've gotten used to you, too, Chief," she replied with cheeky sincerity

"That's very – hey, what's with this "Chief" malarkey?" A sudden smile twitched at his lips.

"Well, you asked me not to call you Mr. Mason," she reminded him. "I thought about it, and decided to borrow from Gianni. He's right. You look like a Chief."

"I always thought I rather looked like a Perry," he commented with raised eyebrows.

She appraised his splendid countenance thoughtfully. "No, not really. You look like a Chief. Besides, you're the Chief of this outfit."

He sat back in his chair and looked at her with bemused eyes. "Della, I may technically be the boss, but you are undoubtedly in charge around here. How you handled everything yesterday was irrefutable proof of that."

Her eyes sparkled merrily as she treated him to her most brilliant smile. "Now that you've affirmed that most important fact, what say we dispatch with this pile of mail?"

After an hour of dictation and five minutes of typing, Della was sealing an envelope addressed to Margaret Singleton in which Mr. Mason politely expressed his regret that it had been necessary to let her daughter go, firmly standing behind the decision of his office manager, Miss Street. She affixed a stamp and quickly walked through the outer office to the mail slot in the corridor to deposit it, so that it would be posted in the morning mail. She was half-way back to the office when a gravelly feminine voice hailed her, and an out-of-breath Raylene Avery lumbered up beside her.

Mrs. Avery was the positive to the negative of her husband. Above average in height, firmly fleshed, confident in bearing and speech, she exuded an aura of authority and competence sorely lacking in her jittery husband. "Miss Street!" She puffed. "I have to speak with Mr. Mason for just a few moments. I don't have much time, because Ronnie is home alone, but Mr. Mason needs to know what's been going on since he got Ronnie out of jail. It's ridiculous. A parade of women went through our house yesterday."