TCOT Absurd Assumption C11

"Well, I never, Della Street!" Perry Mason's good-natured, romantically disposed former receptionist repeated.

Quick as a flash, Della picked up a random piece of paper and waved it at Gertie. "You're number one on my list. I was going to start making calls right after lunch."

Gertie propelled her ample curves toward the desk, unceremoniously pushing her employer from bygone days out of the way like so much clutter. Perry stifled a laugh as Della was quickly enveloped in an extravagantly demonstrative hug. "The police can't be serious arresting you! And what on earth is Jack Welles doing handing your case off to that horrid Barbara Scott? She gives women a bad name, picking on other women who don't deserve it. How are you? I called and called, and you didn't answer! When did you get an answering machine? I drove by the house, and you weren't there, so I thought to myself where would you be, and the only place I could think of was this office." She took a huge breath. "Hello, Mr. Mason. I won't go so far as to say it's nice to see you, but I'm okay with you being here if Della is."

Perry accepted the fact that Gertie still didn't forgive him for closing his practice, despite the very generous severance package he had given her, and that the fact his promise to Harvey Sayers had ultimately separated him from Della didn't play well for her, either. "Gertie, I can't put into words how I feel about seeing you again."

Gertie didn't release Della from the vice-like hug, but merely turned both of them toward the attorney. "What you did pushed you up a couple of notches on my list, Mr. Mason, but not far enough for me to be your friend again. You'd better take care of our girl, that's all I have to say."

If only that was all Gertie would say. "I promise to take very good care of Miss Street, Gertie. You don't have anything to worry about."

Gertie released Della and almost reluctantly offered her hand to Perry Mason. "Don't think I don't mean what I say," Gertie told him, an ominous overtone in her Betty Boop voice. "I may be what they call a grey-haired old lady, but I can still hurt you."

Perry laughed out loud. "Gertie, you are anything but a grey-haired old lady, and I know without a doubt you can hurt me."

Gertie glared at him, then nodded. "Don't you forget it, mister. Now, what's the plan for ending this travesty of justice as quickly as possible?"

Perry sat back and watched Della as she ate a turkey, avocado, and alfalfa sprout sandwich with one hand and efficiently dispatched with the mountains of paperwork that apparently comprised the sum total of Paul Jr.'s caseload since he took over the agency with the other hand. At one point the stacks surrounding her were so high he could barely see the top of her head, and if she hadn't sneezed occasionally or every now and then made an exasperated tsking sound, he might not have known she was seated there at the desk.

Hell, that wasn't the truth at all. It had never been the truth, no matter what he told himself.

In fact, he was highly conscious of exactly where she was, at all times, in every way possible.

Uncomfortably so.

Della had admitted once early in their romantic relationship that she knew precisely when he entered a room, that the small hairs at the back of her neck prickled and her breathing became shallow because the force of his presence sucked up most of the oxygen around him. More than a bit overwhelmed by her confession, he had laughed it off with insolent discomposure, and then proceeded to give her possibly the greatest physical pleasure she had ever known, because that's how he let her know when she had astonished him. Now, many years later, regret was overpowering that he hadn't admitted that even in another room, he could smell her, could taste her essence in the air, could feel her heart beating. She would have liked to hear that.

Perry knew he had loved Della well, because loving Della Street was the easiest, most staggeringly satisfying thing he had ever done in his life, and when he enjoyed something, he gave it everything he had. He was confident he had been good at loving Della because he enjoyed it so much, despite the inevitable rough patches that popped up every three years or so. All couples went through that, didn't they? He wished he had been as brave and unguarded as Della early in their intimate exploration of one another and used his formidable arsenal of words to admit that he drew breath because of her, that she was his catalyst for getting out of bed every day, that she was the reason he could honestly say he was a happy man. It had taken him several years to put into is own words how elementally connected he felt to her, and she had cried, which upset him, and maybe that was why he hadn't told her sooner.

He looked down at the 'California cuisine' roast beef sandwich she had brought him from a small deli at the end of the block. California beef, California cheese, California lettuce and those damn California alfalfa sprouts were trucked in from small outlying farms just so an upstart deli could dole out a teaspoon of 'special homemade' horseradish mayo on dense whole wheat bread, and charge five dollars for the experience of eating healthier. Clay's roast beef sandwich, served on a buttery toasted hoagie bun, slathered in authentic honest-to-goodness oily mayonnaise and delectably pungent prepared horseradish that dripped down your hand when you bit into it had cost less than two dollars. Perry and Paul used to rate sandwiches on a 'napkin system': the goodness of a sandwich directly correlated to the number of napkins required to eat it in a civilized manner. Clay's roast beef sandwich typically required four napkins (four and a half if ordered with melted cheddar cheese), which put it into the excellent category. Perry doubted he would need a single napkin for the abomination in front of him now.

"How is your sandwich?"

Perry guiltily bit into the sandwich, and was surprised to discover that it was delicious. "Fine," he grunted, enjoying how the mild, crisp sprouts mellowed the sting of finely grated horseradish. He took another bite, and it was better than the first. Potato chips or fries would have been nice, but instead there was a pile of celery sticks. California celery sticks. The napkin ranking system was exposed as seriously flawed since this sandwich would require only one and it was definitely excellent.

"It's not one of Clay's special creations, but it will tide you over until dinner."

Being uncoupled for the better part of three years hadn't dulled her ability to read his mind. Her telepathic skills had always simultaneously spooked and aroused him. "It really is good," he insisted. "Gertie hasn't changed a bit."

Della set down her sandwich and touched a napkin to her lips. She had managed to eat Clay's four-napkin roast beef sandwich with only two napkins, he remembered. It was a serious blow to realize the napkin system had been empirically dispossessed.

"Gertie is a joyous constant of life. Thank heaven."

Gertie had stayed for only a few minutes, just long enough to be brought up to speed on Della's case. "I wish I could stay longer, Della, and help you out, because Lord knows you look like you could use it, but I have a date for lunch." Her creamy blonde complexion suddenly went rosy. "I met him at Evelyn's salon of all places. She cuts men's hair now, too, you know. Well, anyway, I was early for my appointment and Evelyn was finishing up Al's haircut – that's his name, Al, Albert Pajor – and the three of us got to talking and he asked if I'd like to go out to lunch someday and that day is today. We're meeting at Tony's. Remember how Mr. Drake liked to eat at Tony's? I sure do miss that man, so I hope I don't get too sentimental in the restaurant. That would be hard to explain to Al on a first date. Maybe we should go somewhere else. I'll probably have a salad and no dessert, because this dress is a little tight. I shouldn't have worn it, but it's such a nice dress. Do you think I should have a cocktail? I know wine is acceptable nowadays at lunch, but wine gives me a headache. I think I'll have iced tea instead. Where is Paul Jr.?"

Della hugged Gertie, beautifully covering her urge to laugh, head spinning. "You go out to lunch and have a marvelous time with Al, Gertie. I'm fine here. I'm calling in a cleaning crew for the real dirt, and once I get these files organized I'll be able to concentrate on other things. The boss already has an assignment for me, and when Paul returns from digging up information, I'll have even more to do."

Gertie held Della at arm's length, her big, pale blue eyes searching Della's face thoroughly for any sign of stress, but all she saw was her patented calm expression. She glanced over her shoulder at Perry Mason briefly, then leaned in and whispered, "Are you really doing okay, Della, with all of this? With him?"

Della smiled. "Yes, Gertie," she replied in a whisper as well. "I'm really doing okay with all of this. Even with him. Now go. I don't want you to be late for lunch with Al."

Gertie's smile was quick and a mile wide. "I have a good feeling about him. He could be the one, Della. We have tons in common. Maybe I will have dessert after all so lunch will take longer. I'll call you."

And she had exited in as much of a whirlwind as she had arrived, leaving Perry and Della completely drained, as per usual, but in a good way.

"Don't take this the wrong way, or read anything deep into it, because I have nothing but the purest of intentions – why has Gertie never married?" Perry asked. He finished the sandwich and with great attention to detail, folded the waxed deli paper it had been wrapped in around the pile of celery sticks. Celery sticks were meant to be used as a stir stick in a bloody Mary. Or noshed on with olives while drinking martinis, preferably slathered in chive-laced cream cheese.

"Gertie is convinced that men don't like her."

"What?" Perry exploded. "She's the most likeable…she's had more dates…"

Della laughed at his confusion. "She is likeable – no, she's lovable. She's a hopeless romantic, a total clown, and she would do anything for a friend, but what we find so endearing about Gertie is exactly what sends men running. It takes a special man to understand and appreciate Gertie, and she just hasn't found him yet. Maybe Albert Pajor is that special man. She never gives up."

"I apologize on behalf of my colossally dimwitted gender," Perry said solemnly. "Some man could have been very happy for a long time with that woman."

"You are a nice man, Perry Mason." She held up her hand as he began working on a protest. "I won't let anyone know the truth. Your secret is still safe with me."

Perry turned fully in the chair to face her. The piles of files no longer hid her from him and he had to smile. That's what Della did. Had always done. She made him smile. From the moment she'd stepped into his office all those years ago, she had made him smile just to look at her. Today she looked young and fresh, dressed in a much more flattering outfit than the day before, something softer and flowing, jewelry minimal and consisting primarily of items he had gifted her, including a bracelet that would now be referred to as 'vintage' – a heavy link gold chain with two charms dangling from it that he'd given her on the second anniversary of her employment, the night he finally 'caught' the love of his life. Well, when he'd given it to her there had been only one charm. The second charm had been added later.

He cleared his throat. He had to stay focused. The police report he'd been studying yielded a bona fide mountain of circumstantial evidence against Della and he had to stay the course for her sake, had to rearrange the pieces so the true events of the night Arthur Gordon was murdered would be revealed. That's what he did. He did it well. Or at least he had done it well at one time. The master puzzle-solver. "When do you think you'll be able to get me information on the Gordon family?"

Della didn't look up from the file she was perusing. "I'll have it for you tomorrow morning. By the way, just as I was leaving the house this morning a messenger from Ken Braddock's office dropped off a letter addressed to you."

"For heaven's sake, Della," Perry said, exasperation creeping into his voice, "that was almost four hours ago."

Della looked up and blinked. Yes, she should have handed the letter to him the moment he arrived. Except that she was preoccupied with the filth surrounding her, Paul's need for a little ego-boosting, Gertie's sudden appearance, the calls to several cleaning services before she found one that could send a crew over that afternoon, and then her walk to the deli for sandwiches. And the biggest reason of all – Perry's aversion to mail.

"Let me see it," Perry said tersely, holding out his hand, wondering why she hadn't opened it herself.

Della retrieved the letter from her purse, and since Perry remained seated, unless she folded it into an airplane and tossed it, she would have to get up and walk it to him, which she did. As she turned back toward the desk, Perry grabbed her wrist.

"That wasn't like you. Are you sure you can handle helping with your own defense?" Maybe he was transferring his own thoughts of inadequacy to her, but it truly wasn't like her to be absent-minded.

She looked down at him steadily and shook herself free from his grasp. "I can handle it," she said crisply, moving away from him back to the desk.

Perry tore the envelope open with his fingers since Della had yet to unearth a letter opener, if in fact Paul owned one, and the office supplied had yet to be delivered. He unfolded the single page of fine watermarked stationery and gave it a cursory glance. "Della, did you have any idea you were named in Arthur Gordon's will?" Oh, this was not good, not good at all in so many ways. And why did Ken Braddock address the letter to him, but send a messenger to Della's house? It was an odd way to handle such matters.

Della's knees instantly turned to jelly and she sat down, hard, in the chair. She shook her head dazedly. "No, I did not."

"This letter is notification that my client, Miss Della Katherine Street, is named a beneficiary under Arthur Gordon's will and as such is expected to be present at the reading, which is to take place tomorrow morning at the Gordon estate." He looked up at her, suspicion in his eyes. "You promised to be completely honest. Tell me. Was there more than friendship between you and Gordon?" His mind jumped fleetingly to the computer in Della's den and the many business trips she'd taken with her boss.

She shook her head again, less dazed, becoming cross with Perry. "No. He was married."

"Could there have been something more than friendship between you and Gordon if he wasn't married? Tell me the truth, Della."

"No, there couldn't have been something more than friendship between me and Arthur Gordon. I went down that path. Once bitten, twice shy, as they say."

Perry's lips tightened involuntarily into a thin line. "Della, I don't have to tell you that if anyone witnessed signs of affection between the two of you that could be construed as more than friendly – "

"No one did," she said quietly. "Arthur Gordon was even more irascible than you as an employer. His temperament was no-nonsense and lacked humor. Some people would describe him as all business – cold and calculating – but effective."

"You said you cared about him. How could you be friends with a man you've described as difficult, humorless, ruthless, cold, and calculating?" Or more implausibly, how could you have at one time fallen in love with a man often described as 'granite-hard' and considered ethically bereft?

"Arthur was tough, but fair. If he liked or respected a person he was loyal and very generous. He let his guard down every once in a while, and I was honored he trusted me with insight into his personal life. I think he had been reassessing his life right about the time he hired me, and even though he couldn't fundamentally change who he was, he tried to add a little more…humanity to his dealings with people. That is, with people other than his family. I suspect his children didn't fare so well in his reassessment. Except perhaps for Laura – who reminded him of his first wife, so he allowed her extra latitude."

"And Paula? How did she fare in his reassessment?" Perry picked up a pen and began scrawling notes on a legal pad. In years past Della would have been scribbling pothooks and curly q's in those ubiquitous notebooks and typing them up for him in a language he could understand. Lord, how he missed those days. Was he a fool for thinking he could recapture even a fraction of those days?

"He moved her out to Century City," Della said brusquely. "Draw your own conclusions."

Perry leaned back in the chair and regarded her solemnly with lowered lids. "This doesn't look good at all. When do you think his will was last updated?"

"Heavens," Della exclaimed, "how would I know that?"

"As my secretary you knew whenever I revisited my will."

She smiled at him with sweetly patient amusement. "That's because our relationship was very different from my relationship with Arthur. You told me whenever you updated your will. And I wrote the check for Jim's fee out of your personal account, remember? I didn't have that kind of relationship with Arthur. We didn't coffee-klatch or discuss our innermost desires over a bottle of Pinot Noir. I dealt solely with business matters. We shared an administrative assistant, and his personal invoices went through her and then directly to accounting." How does your will read now… don't go there, Della!

Perry didn't like the way she almost over-emphasized her relationship with Gordon as being strictly business, but that may have been purely his personal feelings getting in the way of his duties as her attorney. He needed to have a stern conversation with himself. "Beginning four years ago."

"Beginning four years ago," she admitted after a moment's hesitation.

"Do you remember ever approving any invoices from his personal attorney for services in connection with amending his will when you were his personal secretary?" He'd better have that conversation with himself soon, because her slight hesitation clenched at his innards.

Della's smooth forehead furrowed in a slight frown. "Y-yes. Ken Braddock had just been retained following the retirement of Arthur's long-time attorney. He and Arthur revisited most of his private holdings."

"When?"

"About six years ago."

Perry made a note of the date. "That's the last time you are personally aware that Arthur Gordon changed his will?"

"Yes," she stated confidently.

"Good. You may have to testify to that. And be convincing." His best defense might very well be Della's impression on the judge unless he could poke enough holes in or cast enough doubt on the Prosecution's evidence. He had such a short time in which to find the piece of the puzzle that could allow him to present either an alternate hypothesis or outright finger the true murderer, because he was going to end Della's exigency at the preliminary hearing. No way would he allow her to endure a jury trial. He suddenly felt queasy. Years ago adrenalin would have been coursing through his veins and he would have stayed up for days chasing down that elusive piece of the puzzle, fighting tooth and nail for his client. Why was he so trepidacious now faced with his most important case? Had his confidence finally confronted stakes that were simply too high?

"I had no idea the content of his will," Della pointed out. "I have no idea the content of his will. I can't imagine why I am named as a beneficiary. Unless…"

"Unless…?"

"Unless I'm mentioned in regard to Gordon Industries or the Foundation. The company was his life, and I think he would have tried to protect it in all the ways he could. None of his children are capable of taking over. And we're well aware of how he felt about Paula's inadequacy to continue running the Foundation."

"Exactly when did Gordon make those changes you talked about – in particular the decision to install you as Director of the Foundation?"

"He approached me about it a little over two weeks ago. There was to be a formal announcement next week."

And were you going to tell me of this momentous achievement in your life, Della? He directed his attention to jotting down more notes, double underlining them. Check date of will! "If his children weren't expected to take over the company, who would be named his successor as President and CEO?"

"Most likely it will be Curtis Fielding. Arthur brought him on board as Vice President six years ago during that reflective phase. He's sharp. He'll do a good job with the company. Does the letter list other beneficiaries?"

"You know such letters are specific to the addressed beneficiary. How did you get along with Fielding?"

"Very well. We worked together quite a bit, as could be expected. He's tough, but not the same kind of tough that Arthur is. That Arthur was. He's more accessible. And no, there was absolutely no chance of a personal relationship with Curtis. Trust me. Absolutely, positively none whatsoever."

"Six years ago, eh?" He made a mental note to ask why she so vehemently denied the possibility of a relationship with this Curtis Fielding fellow. "The same time at which you were last aware Gordon revisited his will?"

"Yes, but I don't see how that – "

"Della, we have to explore every thread. You can't let personal feelings get in the way of discovery."

Della sighed. "This will give Barbara Scott the motive she was missing, won't it?"

Perry dropped his pen and looked at her with open tenderness. "We won't know that, my dear, until the will is read."

She cleared her throat with some uneasiness. "It may not be the best time to tell you this, but I spoke with Henny last night. She and Carter are flying in tomorrow."

Perry ran his hand over his face. "I doubt anything I say will make a difference in Henny's plans."

Della ventured a smile. "I daresay my brother's wife is even more stubborn than I am."

Perry smiled back at her. "That," he said, "is impossible."