Chapter 12

The lights were low in the Gala Show room of the picturesque Cal-Neva Lodge. The seating hostess led a tall, handsome man with an imposing build to a private booth. The man escorted a lovely lady at his side through the dim lighting, his hand cupping her elbow. His steps were strong and sure but anyone observing closely could see there was a hesitancy to the woman's gait, she seemed to step almost cautiously. The hostess stopped before a booth shaped in a semi-circle, a candle flickered in its cut-glass container. "Here you are, folks. A waitress will be here shortly to take your drink orders. Enjoy the show," she smiled pleasantly and then was gone.

Perry Mason assisted Della Street as she scooted awkwardly and angled her way to take her seat to have the best advantage at seeing the stage. He soon settled himself comfortably next to her and took in his surroundings. The Gala Room was shaped like a mini-amphitheater, it was on a smaller scale than the big palladium palaces one would find in Las Vegas casinos, but it afforded lucky patrons a more up close and personal experience with the performers on stage. Perry's hand found Della's. "Alright?" he asked.

Della Street's hazel eyes reflected the candle light. "More than, alright, Counselor," her fingers entwined with his. "Dinner was fabulous and now Frank Sinatra?" She mimicked a chill of happiness running up her spine to her shoulders.

Perry raised her hand to his lips for a kiss. "Not to mention you get to go home with me at the end of the night." He arched his eyebrows playfully.

Della laughed softly, "Well that goes without saying. But…I'm sorry about the dancing, Perry," she lamented. "My knee just…"

He placed another kiss on her hand to dismiss her regret, "Another time. Maybe even tomorrow night at the closing ceremonies?" There was just a hint of hope in his deep voice.

"Perry, I'm not even sure I should be at the party with you."

Her comment took him by surprise. "What are you saying?"

She sighed and chose her words carefully. "It's just that…we can enjoy ourselves and be together in a setting like this—dark and secluded. But I'm afraid what Sandra Larsen will try to pull tomorrow night if she sees us together as a couple. She'll cause some sort of scene. I know she will."

The attorney started to disagree but stopped himself. There was no point ruining their evening quibbling over the ulterior motives of a needy and demanding client. Della had shared with him in detail what she had overheard at the dress shop and her suspicions about the gift basket. They both were distracted when a voluptuous woman wearing a low-cut cocktail waitress outfit soon appeared at the table to take their drink orders. After she left Della tried to do some celebrity spotting as her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness of the theater. She nudged him at one point, "Perry…is that? Could it really be? Perry, is that Anthony Reynolds down front? Look, the man next to the woman in the mink stole? I think it's him."

Mason's facial expression registered disinterest. "Just who is Anthony Reynolds, Miss Street?"

"Oh, you know! He's an actor. Usually plays character roles—mostly bad guys like mobsters."

Perry smiled fondly. "I think you've been reading too many of Gertie's movie magazines."

Della cut him a side glance but otherwise ignored his jibe. "I wonder who else might be here?"

Mason saw their waitress coming towards them with a tray of drinks. "I don't know-but let's try not to bandy that word about while we're here."

"What word?"

"Mobster. This place is reputed to be owned partly by the Mafia."

"Really?" Della was incredulous.

Mason nodded in the affirmative as their daiquiris and whisky sours arrived. He toked the waitress generously then she swished away into the semi-darkness. Perry's arm went around Della as he raised his glass to touch the rim of the goblet she held. "Here's to us, my love."

"To us," she whispered as the house lights dimmed completely and the hidden announcer's voice boomed loudly: "Ladies and Gentlemen! The Cal-Neva Lodge and the Gala Showroom proudly present Mr. Blue Eyes himself-Mr. Frank Sinatra!"

PERRYMASONPERRYMASONPERRYMASONPERRYMASONPERRYMASONPERRYMASONPERRYMASON

Meanwhile, Paul Drake was enjoying the company of his own dinner companion. Elsa Granholm was a stunning beauty. She was tall, blonde, blue-eyed and had the upper thighs of a Nordic marble goddess. She had just missed winning a bronze medal in the giant slalom at the most recent Winter Olympics by a few milliseconds. Now she supported herself working for Big Blue Basin as an instructor and member of their ski patrol. Her throaty laughter combined with her Swedish accent had charmed the L.A. detective right down to his socks. He was convinced he had fallen in love by the time their dessert arrived.

Paul looked up from his baked Alaska to see the ever-present Sandra Larsen enter the hotel's fine dining room followed by her posse of paid assistants. He hadn't meant to make eye contact with the actress but it happened anyway. As the maître de was seating her party Larsen veered in Drake's direction. She plastered a smile on her face as she sashayed to his table. "Paul Blake, isn't it? Perry Mason's friend?"

Paul ignored her miscue and stood. "Good evening, Miss Larsen…ladies." He nodded graciously in their collective direction, standing a few steps behind their famous employer.

Miss Larsen had an air about her as if she were on a receiving line greeting her guests. "On your own tonight? Where might my favorite lawyer be?" Her eyes darted expectantly around the dining room.

Paul gave her a thin smile, "He's dining elsewhere tonight…and as you can see, I am not alone. May I introduce Elsa—"

That was as far as he got with the introductions. Elsa Granholm gazed up at the movie star—who by this time was sure she had garnered most of the restaurant diners' attentions upon herself. All that was missing was a spotlight shining upon her. Larsen suddenly realized she recognized Paul's date for the evening. "Oh, my goodness! Elsa? Is that you? How are you, darling?"

Paul looked confused. "You two know one another?"

"Yes," Elsa confirmed. "I was Sandra's stunt double for skiing scenes in "Mountain Express."

Now one of Sandra's dinner companions stepped forward. "Is that true, Sandra? Didn't your publicist insist that you personally did all your own stunt work for that film."

Sandra sniffed her reply. "Yes, Elsa was on staff and did many action scenes for some of the ladies on the film. But I did all my own skiing."

Elsa snorted in disgust-she clearly was not fond of the actress. "Yes, you did—as long as the director called for close-up shot and you were standing still."

By this time the maître de had realized he had lost the party he was trying to seat. He came back to the table where Sandra Larsen was holding court, "Ladies? If you'll follow me…?"

Sandra ignored him and kept her attention on the Swedish ski instructor. "If what you say is true Elsa—why isn't your name listed in the film's production credits as my stunt double?"

Miss Granholm shrugged and scooped up another spoonful of her dessert. "Because it is as you wanted. I did the daring, dangerous work for you. It's okay—I was paid to make you look good. Same with these ladies behind you, yes? You look good through efforts of others." She continued eating her dessert, seemingly very unimpressed by the famous actress's presence.

Elsa's comments caused an outburst of quickly hushed giggles from Larsen's squad of hair and make-up personnel. Paul Drake winced as he sat back down. This might get ugly quickly. Della Street's negative assessment of the movie star quickly came to the forefront of his thoughts. Sandra Larsen's hackles had been raised. Her aura of stardom invincibility was being challenged in front of dozens of witnesses.

"Elsa, let me assure you—I did all of my own skiing scenes in "Mountain Express". If the director shot scenes with you it was probably just for insurance purposes—in case I did take a spill—your scenes could have been spliced into the final film. That's all there was to it. But I am the woman skiing in the downhill race scenes! I did it then and I can do it again, I require no stunt double—I look good because I am good!" Her voice had risen to an unlady-like volume. The restaurant clientele had mostly gone silent and were conspicuously listening as they sipped their wine or buttered their freshly baked dinner rolls.

Elsa Granholm said simply, "No, I don't think so. You should stop talking now."

Paul Drake stood hurriedly thinking blows were about to be struck. Sandra Larsen's face had gone blotchy red in rage. Her personal assistant Traci Hampton tugged at her arm trying to pull her away from the table. Just then another diner got up from across the room and walked over to the hissing women. He handed a business card to Sandra Larsen. "Excuse me, forgive my interruption of your…ah…discussion…but I believe I have a business proposition for you, Miss Larsen. You see, I'm a field producer for ABC's Wide World of Sports—we've been here this week doing a story on this new resort. Miss Larsen, could we coax you into perhaps re-creating that famous ski run from "Mountain Express" for our camera crew? It'd make for a great thrill piece for your fans."

Elsa chortled in derision. "She'd crash and break her neck."

Sandra's nostrils actually flared. She read the producer's name off the card. "I can do better than that…Mr.… Abate, is it? I challenge little Swiss Miss here and now to a race down a black diamond run of her choice. I'll even donate my appearance fee to a local charity. That ought to make for a good show. What do you say, Elsa?"

Elsa remained unfazed. "It's your neck to break."