Note: After a couple of 'filler' chapters, here is where something familiar comes in: the meal at Della's house.

I don't like this scene.

There is no way someone tasked with framing a murder on someone would use a flipping garden trowel to jimmy a window that had been painted shut. Especially a window that opens outward. And if the windows were painted shut, wouldn't that have been apparent when they were opened - because they are open in this scene.

Another thing that bothers me about the scene is the 'as always this is terrible' and the reply 'as always you flatter me'. Good grief...every time I watch the movie I want to throw something at the TV.

~ D

TCOT Absurd Assumption C5

Perry Mason was leaning against the rental car, ankles crossed, one hand stuffed into his trouser pocket, smoking a cigarette when Asher Langlois finally emerged from Della's house. He dropped the cigarette and crushed it with his foot on the curb before resuming his carefully crafted posture of disinterest.

"Back already or haven't left yet, Mason?" Asher came to a stop two feet in front of the attorney who could easily be mistaken for a former football linebacker, physique and demeanor impressively intimidating for a man his age – hell, for a man of any age. He shoved his hands into his own trouser pockets and rocked back slightly on his heels.

"I've been back for a few minutes. I didn't want to interrupt."

"That was noble and self-sacrificing of you."

"Look Langlois, the last thing we need to do is engage in petty antagonism. That won't do anyone any good."

"Are you speaking as Della's attorney or from your personal relationship with her?"

"Let's get something straight, Langlois. I don't play games, especially when I'm defending someone accused of murder, so if you can't be a grown up, then just move along before I punch you in the nose." Punching Asher Langlois would not be antagonistic. It would be justified. Justified by the churning jealousy within him.

Asher regarded Perry Mason with a bemused smile. "Punch me in the nose? Grow up yourself, tough guy. I assure you I'm being as grown up as I can at this particular moment. Considering I've known Della very well for nearly two years and I didn't know who you were until right now, I think a little antagonism on my part is justified, don't you?"

"Not when Della needs her friends to be focused on her wellbeing I don't."

Asher's smile widened snarkily. His affection for Della would be eternal, and he would remain her friend as she asked, but he didn't have to like or be friendly with her vaunted and daunting knight in shining armor who had smote him with next to no effort. "So I take it Della has filled you in on the status of our dearly departed relationship?"

"She said you asked a question she couldn't answer to your satisfaction. I ran with it."

"Well put, Mason, well put. I understand you asked the same question and received a similar reply." Tit for tat you oversized, arrogant, s.o.b.

"I could very easily knock you into next Thursday, Langlois, but I won't, because I'll tell you again it's not about you or me right now. Everything is about Della. Why don't you jump in your car and tootle on home."

"Does Della know you threaten to hit her former lovers?"

Perry Mason smiled suddenly, boyishly, and with much amusement. "I daresay Della knows all about that particular proclivity."

Asher narrowed his eyes, uncertain whether or not to take the attorney's threats or his amusement seriously. "I didn't mention this to Della, but an Assistant District Attorney named Barbara Scott tracked me down in Texas and asked very officiously if I would talk to her about Della. I thought you might be interested in what I'm going to say when I meet with her tomorrow morning."

Perry had turned to reach into the convertible for the In-n-Out bag that contained the burgers Della craved. He straightened and slowly faced the former lover of his former lover, bag in hand. Barbara Scott worked quickly. "You'll tell me the same thing you tell the DA when I question you – if I question you."

"Won't it be awkward for you to question me?"

It took all of Perry's strength not to flinch. "Since the DA has chosen to question you I might have no choice but to question you as well. And if I do, it will be strictly as Della's attorney. I can assure you that my demeanor will be professional, my questions germane to the case. If you can't separate what I do from who I am then you're not only a fool, but a damned useless fool. Get the hell out of my way. Della's food is getting cold."

Asher Langlois obediently stepped aside as Perry Mason stalked past him, footsteps heavy and determined against the pavers of the walkway that led to Della's front door. He imagined the experience of facing the attorney on the witness stand would be like dental work without nitrous oxide. "Mason!"

Perry halted with one foot on the small slab of concrete that was Della's abbreviated stoop but didn't turn around to respond. "Make it snappy."

"Della says you're the best. You'd better be."

Perry turned then, slowly, not just his head, but his entire body. He stood as straight and tall as he could in the face of Asher Langlois' open threat. "I am."

Asher Langlois nodded his head in satisfaction, although thoroughly intimidated, before heading toward the street where his car was parked. He had formed an instant dislike for Perry Mason, but he knew without a doubt that Della couldn't be in better hands. Damn the lawyer's smug confidence.

"Iced tea or lemonade?" Della called from the kitchen when Perry entered the house and closed the door behind him, thoughtfully replaying bits of the scene with Asher Langlois in his mind. The man carried buckets of bitterness on a yoke over his shoulders, but the lawyer commiserated with him, empathized with the desolation he must be feeling over losing Della.

"Bourbon." He moved through the living room to the cheerful kitchen where Della was setting woven placemats and old green Fiestaware plates on the oak pedestal table in what was technically the breakfast nook.

"Unless you stopped at a liquor store, the choices are iced tea or lemonade." She folded thick paper napkins and tucked them beneath the edge of each plate before looking up at him with one raised eyebrow. "Would you grab silverware?"

"We're having hamburgers and fries, darling, we don't need…" his voice trailed off as her expression became decidedly clouded. "What?"

"Hamburgers and fries who?"

"You who. What are you talking about?" He unerringly reached for the silverware drawer and withdrew two forks and two knives.

She pursed her lips and gave him an odd, searching look. He had no idea what he had just called her. "Nothing."

Della crossed to the refrigerator while Perry pulled food from the bulging bag and placed paper wrapped burgers on the plates, then dumped piles of fries next to them. Della came up behind him and plunked a jar of mayonnaise and a bottle of ketchup in the middle of the oak pedestal table as Perry pulled out one of the Windsor chairs for her before circling the table and taking the chair opposite. He immediately grabbed the jar of mayonnaise and unscrewed the lid, before she realized her breach in the hard and fast no-condiments-on-the-table rule.

"I will never understand dipping fries in mayonnaise," she commented with what she hoped was an airy lilt, as she poured an alarming amount of ketchup over her fries.

"That's because I truly like fries and wish to enhance the flavor, not ruin it." He dragged one long fry through a glob of mayonnaise and smacked his lips. The condiment bottles on the table and her lack of concern unnerved him. And it unnerved him that he was unnerved.

"Fries were invented specifically as a vehicle to deliver ketchup. Everybody knows that." She removed the top bun of her burger and gave a satisfied cluck to discover the proper proportion of mustard, onion, and pickles.

Perry glanced at her surreptitiously as she examined her food prior to taking her first bite, one hand positioned to quickly remove the mayonnaise jar from the table if need be. He never tired of watching her eat. She did everything with efficient grace, and eating was no exception, but it was the giddy enjoyment she derived from food that tickled him. Food was just another adventure to her and one of Perry's favorite things had been to surprise her with new recipes with unusual ingredients whenever he had time to cook. She liked every conceivable part of a cow, from burger to filet mignon, and had once gamely eaten a beef tongue that had made him gag.

"Is the burger everything you'd hoped it would be?" He scooped a healthy serving of Della's macaroni salad onto his plate, his pleasure almost child-like that she had taken the time to make one of his favorite things in the world to eat. And relieved that she wasn't commenting on the double dose of mayonnaise.

"Was your talk with Asher everything you'd hoped it would be?" Della countered, taking a bite of her burger. She had peeked out the window at the two men, observing in both coiled up antagonism as they metaphorically circled one another to gain the advantage.

"I'll remind you again, young lady, that I ask the questions around here." He shoveled macaroni into his mouth. "I've always hated this. It's terrible. I have to keep eating it because I can't believe how terrible it is."

Della concentrated on chewing so she wouldn't smile. "We don't hate macaroni salad, Perry. It's not the New York Yankees." She did smile as Perry nearly spit macaroni over the table suppressing a laugh. "What did you and Asher talk about?" Besides me.

"Asher's been asked to come in for questioning by the DA. He wanted to know if I would like a preview of what he intended to tell Barbara Scott."

"It's starting already." Dismay forced her to put the half-eaten burger down. It had been a good decision not to stand waving goodbye in the doorway as Asher had wanted. She picked up the ketchup bottle and slowly replaced the cap before leaning over and placing it on the empty chair beside her. Off the table but close at hand.

Perry very deliberately put down his fork and rested his hand protectively next to the mayonnaise jar. "I'm afraid so. This DA is a go-getter. She's compiling your life's narrative before we've even hired a detective."

"That's not entirely true. There's Paul."

Perry's face brightened momentarily with an indulgently pleased smile before becoming stern and stony. "How is the son of our favorite detective? I haven't seen him since…well, that Fourth of July you dragged him to San Francisco because you didn't feel like having a direct conversation with me." Two weeks later he found out why.

"He's getting his feet underneath him," Della replied a tad evasively, choosing to ignore the blatant accusation, as well as the mayonnaise jar he was practically hugging. "The PI business is a lot different than when his father ran the agency."

"A lot of things are different than when his father ran the agency. I would have expected the boy to move out of that rundown building Paul moved into after I closed my practice."

"It's an urban rehabilitation building," Della reminded him for the hundredth time. "I like it. The high ceilings, big windows, wood paneling, the heavy doors with the original frosted glass…"

Perry impatiently waved aside the description. "I don't care about all that. Does it have a phone and electricity?"

It does if Paul paid the bills. She crossed the fingers of one hand beneath the table. "Of course."

"How about a desk?"

"Certainly there's a desk. Paul's desk."

Perry snorted and 'harrumphed' simultaneously, recalling the furnishings, or lack thereof, in the boy's apartment. "A folding card table is not a desk. I can't get my legs underneath one of those things. Remember when he had us over for dinner? We had to eat standing up."

"Paul Senior's desk," Della said softly.

The hard lines of Perry's face softened to match Della's voice. "Oh."

"I had it removed from storage along with a table, a few chairs and some artwork a few months ago." She took another bite of her burger then put it down again and daintily wiped the corners of her mouth with a napkin. "Would you do me a favor?"

"What kind of favor?" he responded warily, tapping his index finger against the iconic blue ribbon of the Best Foods label. Their history of favor requests was long and bumpy.

"I'd like you not to purposely antagonize Paul."

"What do you mean? I don't antagonize Paul. Quite the contrary. The boy antagonizes me."

"That's antagonistic."

"What is?"

"Calling Paul a boy. He's young, but he's not a child. And he only antagonizes you because you pick on him."

"I do not pick on him. I pick on what he does."

Della let out a sigh. "He thinks you don't like him, Perry." She might scream if he continued to deflect her concerns with petty distinctions.

Perry frowned, deep furrows crossing his forehead. "Of course I like the b…Paul. He's my best friend's son. I helped raise him."

"When was the last time you complimented him or told him that you're proud of him?" And while we're on this subject, when was the last time you told the boy you loved him?

Perry shifted slightly in the chair, trying not to appear uncomfortable with her question. "We…we haven't talked much. Not since…"

Della pushed her plate away, and leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin resting on clasped hands. One eyebrow crept upward slowly with each passing second Perry didn't finish his thought. "Since when?" she finally asked, resisting the urge to yank the mayonnaise jar away from him.

"You know very well since when."

"I might." She did.

"If Paul is the investigator you want, I'll consider hiring him."

"We don't have a lot of time to search for an investigator. Paul will be fine. You'll see."

Perry studied her from across the table and she stared right back at him, for the first time in a long time. "All right. We'll call him when we're finished eating."

"Actually, I tried to call him already."

"You did? When?"

"They allowed me to make two phone calls in jail this morning. The matron remembered me from when we still worked together and she bent the rules a bit."

"You said 'tried' to call him."

"He didn't answer."

"I don't know why he didn't show up at the jail the instant he heard about what happened," Perry said musingly. "Or why he's not here right now."

Della shifted in her chair, suddenly ill at ease. "He's probably been trying to call, but you unplugged the phones," she reminded him.

"The boy knows where you live, Della." And not merely because he'd lived in the guest room for six months after his father died.

"It's been hours since I called him. He's probably heard what you did and is waiting by the telephone for one of us to call."

"Then that's what we'll do. Finish your burger. We have a lot of work ahead of us. Murder cases don't solve themselves." Why was she handing him excuses for Paul's absence? He wanted a cigarette badly. Having quit then started again only made his cravings that much more difficult to ignore when things began to bother him. And he had been bothered by a lot of things in the past three years.

Della's eyes dropped to her plate. "I'm finished. I guess I wasn't as hungry as I thought."

The quiet tiredness in her voice and uncharacteristic lack of appetite brought him out of his chair and next to her with an almost youthful sprightliness. "I'm sorry, Della. I forgot what a tough time you've had. Take a bath and go to bed. I'll go to a hotel…"

"No!" She pushed back the chair and stood unsteadily, fatigue and stress overcoming her in suffocating waves. "I mean, please…stay. I-I d-don't think I c-can…please don't go."

Perry Mason had never, not once in thirty years, denied Della what she wanted. He couldn't break with tradition now, not when he knew the toll it was taking on her to admit she needed him. "All right. I'll stay. I can work in the den so I won't disturb you."

The tenderness in his voice buckled her knees, and Della collapsed against his broad chest. As his arms slid around her gently, weariness and fear were replaced with rock-solid knowledge that this man would not abandon her if he said he wouldn't – that is, unless she pushed him very, very hard.

Perry propelled her toward the stairs, his hand a dear old friend on the small of her back. "Can you make it up by yourself?"

She turned then, and buried her face in his shirtfront, small hands gripping the lapels of his suit coat so hard her knuckles went white. "Thank you. You didn't have to come…you don't have to – to do this for me."

Perry stroked her curls as he nestled her slenderness against him. Della was still the only woman who fit so perfectly in his arms. "Yes, I did. Yes, I do."