Chapter 11

Soft chimes sounded as three young women entered the Shades of Blue clothing boutique located in the winter playground's village of retail shops. Traci Hampton was Sandra Larsen's P.A. and was sent on a mission to purchase a few necessaries for her boss. She was accompanied by her friends, Bev Spaulding and Gloria Pomeroy, who were also in the employ of the actress as her hair stylist and make-up assistant. The three chatted away noisily and were obviously enjoying themselves on their working vacation. This particular boutique catered to the elite tourist folk who rarely worried about looking at a price tag attached to a silk blouse, cashmere scarf or an imported vucana wool sweater. The ambiance of the establishment was enhanced by soothing classical music playing quietly in the background. The 20-somethings roamed the aisles and had no qualms about loudly praising or criticizing the items on display as if they were in a contest trying to impress one another with their eye for tasteful and trendy apparel. Traci shooed away a sales lady when she offered to help with the trio's shopping needs. The middle-aged woman plastered a smile of courtesy on her face and resumed her duties behind a counter of exclusive jewelry designs.

Della Street happened to be concealed behind a privacy curtain in a dressing booth of the shop. She had taken up her employer's offer to augment her emergency wardrobe. She wanted to find an appropriate outfit to look her best for Perry no matter the occasion, whether it was for their dinner date, an exclusive gala or the flight home to Los Angeles. She had selected a midnight blue shift with delicate laced accents, its length modestly extending to just below her knees, the majority of her bruises concealed. She scrutinized her look in the full-length mirror. "That'll do for tonight," she told herself. She was carefully stepping out of the dress when she heard more women enter the dressing rooms. Della didn't mean to eavesdrop but she had no choice but to overhear the multi-voiced conversation as the women started trying on garments that apparently met their standards of haute couture.

"So, Traci, tell us what she's really up to this time?"

"Oh, you know—her usual."

"Meaning what, exactly?"

"Come on, you've worked for Sandra long enough to understand she knows what she wants and she gets what she wants or they'll be hell to pay for somebody."

"Oh, I get you…she's out to sabotage her competition again?"

"You guessed it, Bev."

"I wonder if she'll fall back on tried-and-true tactics or come up with something original this time? Remember the classic gift basket with the poisoned fruit? She stole that straight from Snow White and the Seven Dwarves!

"Oh my god! She didn't actually poison and kill someone, did she?"

"No silly! But her co-star did just happen to have a nasty bout of food poisoning and couldn't get more than two feet away from the toilet on the night of Stone Meijer's party in Malibu!"

"Messy but effective. Still, that was a very mean thing to do to someone."

"I don't know…I think planting the rumor in "Spicy Bits" about…what's-her-name?"

"Who?"

"You remember…the young ingenue the studio execs wanted to play the nun role in "Sacred Hearts?" Anyway! Sandra got the rag to publish a piece on an alleged abortion Miss Goody Two-Shoes had in Mexico. Et voilà! Next thing you know Sandra got the part. The role as the nun who fought off the Nazis won her a Golden Globe nomination, remember?"

"That's right, I wonder what ever happened to the other actress?"

"Ran back to her parents in Dumb Dora, Iowa I suppose—what else? Ladies, I think I'll take this blouse. I'll meet you out front."

"Okay, but wait! You've got to spill the beans. Who has got Sandra in a tizzy this time?"

Della heard Traci Hampton's answer. "Her lawyer. She's infatuated with the man—head over heels."

Della Street shuddered in anger over what she had just overheard. Her womanly intuition had been spot on all along about Sandra Larsen's true motives behind her constant need for Perry's attention. But she was at a loss about how best to handle the situation. If Sandra was predictable, then she would be the target of the actress' latest shenanigans. Della Street realized it was pointless to go running to Mason with what she had just overheard. Despite giving voice time and again to her misgivings about their famous client- Perry nonchalantly swept away her concerns. In fact, Della suspected—like most men—Perry enjoyed the starlet's flattery. Now she was privy to the knowledge Sandra Larsen had experience at being an "unnamed source", capable of damaging reputations when it suited her aims. Della's quandary now became how could she spoil Sandra Larsen's plans of conquest while discreetly remaining Perry Mason's silent partner?

PERRYMASONPERRYMASONPERRYMASONPERRYMASONPERRYMASONPERRYMASONPERRYMASON

Three hours later a snow coach came to a stop in front of La Place de Della. Paul Drake appeared on the front porch with a half-eaten sandwich in his hand. Della stepped cautiously down from the cab, accepting the hand of the driver. "Thank you, Jerry."

"No problem, ma'am. I'll get your packages for you. You be careful now." He opened the cargo department of the taxi and called over to her, "It looks like you bought out the store."

Della laughed self-consciously. "I hope it doesn't look that way when the bill arrives."

Paul hurried to hover beside Della as she made her way up the walkway and the few steps to the cabin's door. "My lady, allow me to assist." He offered his arm with the hand holding the remnants of his lunch, but realizing his gaff, quickly jumped to her other side.

Della nodded, "Thank you, kind sir!" Once Mason's secretary was safely inside, Drake ran back down to help the driver transfer her purchases to the cabin's covered porch. The men carried a half dozen boxes and garment bags between them all emblazoned with the exclusive Shades of Blue, Lake Tahoe logo.

Della met them at the door. "Paul, can you give Jerry something for his trouble…I don't have my purse…and," she trailed off awkwardly.

The detective immediately reached for his money clip. "Glad to!" He handed the helpful young man a couple bills. "Here you go and thanks."

"No sir! Thank you! You folks enjoy your stay! Just give us a call when you need transport again around the resort." He gave them a jaunty salute and then hurried back to his snow machine, started up the engine, turned in a tight circle and headed back down the trail to the hotel complex and cluster of shops in a muted blur of noise.

Paul closed the front door and let loose with a low whistle. "Yikes! You gals do love to shop."

Della shrugged out of her ski jacket which she had worn over a newly purchased casual outfit of brown corduroy trousers and a crème-colored, merino wool sweater which clung nicely to her curves. "Let's just say I had more time to shop and make selections than you and Perry did. Don't worry, Paul. There'll always be a special place in my heart for Cal State Sacramento."

"Ha ha," he droned mirthlessly. "By the way, Beautiful…you look gorgeous."

After she had left the clothing boutique, Della had kept her appointment at the hotel's in-house beauty salon where she had a full complement of services performed; hair, nails and make-up. Her self-described "frumpy housewife" look had been replaced by her normal look of carefree elegance and charm.

"Thank you, Paul. I appreciate the compliment. It will be nice to be seen in daylight again," she joked.

Paul directed her attention to a large gift basket wrapped in red cellophane with a note card attached. "Special delivery arrived for you a while ago."

Della stood with a hand on her hip. "Let me guess…from Sandra Larsen?"

"Beats me, I'm no snoop."

Della laughed, "Some private eye you are!" She examined the note card and read aloud, "Dear Miss Street—so sorry to hear of your unfortunate accident and the injuries you sustained. Please accept this gift in the spirit of which it was given. Best regards, Sandra Larsen." Della peered inside but did not undo the cellophane wrapping. She could see apples, oranges, a small box of chocolates, an atomizer of Houbigant perfume and several piccolos of an off-brand California cabernet sauvignon. Also tucked amongst the goodies was an autographed photo of the actress.

Paul was looking over her shoulder. "Hey! Dibs on the booze."

Della eyed the gift basket skeptically. "If I were you I wouldn't. It's probably tainted, Paul."

"Huh?"

"Poisoned."

The detective scoffed at Della's pronouncement of skullduggery. She went on to explain to him what she had overheard in the ladies dressing rooms of Shades of Blue and then concluded with, "So you see—I'm not eating or drinking any of this and neither should you or Perry. She's probably spiked the cologne somehow to give me a rash if I spray it on my skin."

"Della, come on—don't you think you may be exaggerating her motives just a wee bit? Prima donna, I grant you…but you make her sound like Cruella Deville come to life."

The legal secretary smiled in amusement at Drake's reference to a recent Disney villainess. "Paul, believe me—I kid you not, that woman wants to sink her claws into Perry and has went out of her way to run interference between us. By the way—where is Perry?"

Paul shrugged, still eyeing the contents of the Larsen offering. "He's up at the hotel using the phone to make plans for your big date night. Said he'd be back shortly. Say…that reminds me, I'd better hit the shower—I've got my own big night planned."

"Blonde, brunette or red head, Loverboy?"

Paul's smile was dreamy. "Blonde. Lovely Elsa, my Swedish honey of a ski instructor."

"I thought Perry said you were a good skier."

"I am, but when I saw Elsa's picture—I thought I could use a few lessons! We're having dinner tonight at the steakhouse. Uh…don't wait up for me, mom." Paul gave her a roguish wink.

Della Street laughed. "I've got to get ready before Perry gets back." She picked up a garment bag and headed to her bedroom. "But seriously, Paul," she said over her shoulder—please don't eat or drink anything in that basket."

"Scout's honor," Drake held up his right hand in the classic three-fingered salute and headed into the bathroom.