GO TIGERS! GO TIGERS! GO TIGERS! GO TIGERS! GO TIGERS! GO TIGERS! GO TIGERS! GO TIGERS!
TCOT Absurd Assumption C15
Paul Drake Jr. looked at his watch with a smirk as Perry Mason made an explosive entrance into the anteroom at eight-oh-two. He couldn't decide whether to make pointed comments, or simply let silence rule. Ultimately, he held his tongue, knowing that it would irk Perry more than anything he could say.
Red spots of consternation spread high over Perry's cheeks as he strode into the inner office and saw Paul leaning against the desk, with what his father would have called a 'shit-eating grin' on his face. Damn. How would he ever keep the boy in line if he violated his own rules?
"Did you call Della last night?" After hastily exiting Della's house watched by four sets of very curious eyes, he had gone over files into the wee hours, unable to sleep, wondering exactly how much of the altercation with his brother and her brother she had overheard, and if she was sleeping better with people in the house. The alarm had failed to wake him from a dream in which he and Della lay wrapped in one another's arms in her big bed and he'd spent too much time being very deliberate in his clothing selection, because he had plans for today that began with the fact he had checked out of the Rochester.
There were chaperones now. An attorney could stay at a client's house if chaperones were present.
He just made that up.
Paul continued to regard Perry Mason with palpable smugness. "Uh-huh. She's mad you ran out on her last night. And she told me all about the will reading."
Ran out on her? Is that what she thought? Mad at him? Checking out of the hotel was looking like a foolish move and the day had barely begun. "I had work to do," he said.
"Still chewing on the theory that Bobby Lynch killed Arthur Gordon dressed as Della?"
"It's the only theory that makes sense." Actually, it was silly and far-fetched and made almost no sense, but it was all he had, and he needed to sell it.
"Well, then you'll like this: I saw a wig in Bobby Lynch's hotel room."
Perry's brows knit together. "A wig?"
Paul nodded. "A woman's wig."
Perry sat down heavily in one of the straight-backed chairs at the conference table without removing his coat. "That is interesting. Do you have an updated evidence report?"
Paul's grin vanished and he cleared his throat. "Um, the police didn't take the wig with them as evidence. I tried to convince them how important to the case it was…" There was no way he could sugar-coat what happened in that hotel room. He may as well tell the truth and let Perry have his conniption fit. "The wig is gone."
Perry very slowly turned in the chair to face Paul. "If the police didn't take the wig," he began ominously, "then where is it?"
"It was stolen."
"You stole the wig?"
"No," Paul shook his head. "It was stolen from the hotel room by a man wearing silver-tipped cowboy boots after the police left. Before I had a chance to take it."
Perry stared unblinkingly at the young private investigator, concentrating on following his story. "The police told you this?"
"No. The police don't know anything about it. At least I don't think they do."
Perry huffed out an exasperated breath, completely lost. "Maybe you'd better tell me everything you know about that wig."
So Paul did. He told how the wig was in plain view on the coffee table; how his police sergeant friend hadn't grasped the significance of the wig (he didn't relate to Perry all the snarky comments made by officers regarding Bobby Lynch's private predilections); how he had hidden in the closet and attempted to abscond with the wig himself after the police left, but was interrupted by the arrival of three men wearing cowboy boots – one pair with fancy silver tips; how he had hung off the balcony until his arms screamed in pain; and when it was safe for him to re-enter the hotel room, he discovered the wig had disappeared.
"I'm lucky I didn't fall and break my neck," Paul finished, "or worse, get caught hanging off that balcony." Silver-tipped boots probably left a hell of a bruise if someone were to be kicked by them.
Perry was silent as long seconds ticked by, the only sound in the office the dull thud of his finely shaped fingers drumming on the table top. "Could you identify the three men?"
"I only saw their feet. Their voices were too muffled to make any kind of identification, but I'd recognize those silver-tipped boots anywhere."
"Damn it, Paul," Perry's fury finally burst forth. "I can't subpoena a pair of cowboy boots!"
Paul winced as Perry's voice thundered through him.
"You've been close to important leads on two different occasions, and both times they've gotten away from you. We don't have one bit of concrete evidence on Della's behalf." Perry barked, the drumming now an agitated staccato.
"I'll admit I haven't exactly saved the day, Perry, but I haven't come up completely empty-handed, either. You can use the existence of that wig to support your theory about Bobby Lynch. Just call my buddy Sergeant Stratton to the stand to verify its existence." Stratton would hate being subpoenaed to testify for the defense, but he couldn't lie about finding that wig in Bobby Lynch's hotel room. Not with a witness who shouldn't have been allowed in the hotel room in the first place staring at him from the Defense table.
"Theories are fine as far as they go," Perry bit out angrily, the volume of his voice dialed down from eleven to ten. So Sgt. Stratton was Paul's law enforcement source. "I can formulate all sorts of fantastic theories, but that wig was something tangible, a visual leg for me to stand on. Now I have nothing. Absolutely nothing."
Paul didn't expect the discouragement in Perry's voice, especially at such an impressive decibel. "I'm just as concerned about this as you are, Perry." He moved toward the door, troubled by what he saw in Perry's posture, what he heard in his voice. Perry was an indomitable mountain, always strong and in charge, always the hero with his cape flapping in the breeze. Sometimes it irked him how his father had bellyached about the lawyer's demands on his investigative talents. "Have a heart, Perry," he complain, and then go forth and do whatever heartless Perry Mason wanted. Paul Jr. wondered if that very dynamic was why the men worked so well together, why they were such good friends for so long. Maybe his father realized that to get along with and be paid by Perry Mason he had to be deferential to the lawyer's highly developed ego. He also wondered if his father had thought all he gave was worth whatever he got in return. He must have – he'd stuck by Perry Mason for three decades. Paul attributed a great percentage of the reason his father stuck around to Della, who definitely made being in the presence of the irascible attorney tolerable, but there had to have been something genuine between the two men as well, because his father was no fool.
"I'm going to chase down a few things," he said over his shoulder. Della had given him a task aside from her own case the night before, something he should be able to accomplish relatively quickly and with very little interference in the most important task he had.
"Paul!"
His escape thwarted, Paul turned reluctantly back toward Perry Mason, who sat hunched in the chair, eyes cast downward. Guilt washed over him for being a contributing factor to the disconsolate slump of the attorney's shoulders.
"It's the large amount of money Arthur Gordon left Della in his will…it gives Barbara Scott the one thing she didn't have – a motive. I need something more than a far-fetched theory to dull the impact of that."
My God, Paul thought, taken aback by the glimpse of vulnerability in the man who was usually all confidence and bluster, an entire life of impressions flayed by new depths of understanding. Perry still loved Della. Paul hadn't factored that into any equation, but it all added up: Perry stepping down from the bench; his snappishness, and the strict standards to which he was holding an unproven, rogue private investigator; the way his eyes lingered on Della; the softness in his voice when he spoke to her and of her.
And if seeing Perry Mason clearly as a man with human feelings and weaknesses wasn't traumatic enough after spending years believing him to be the cold, heartless bastard who had broken Della's heart, realizing and accepting the fact that Della still loved Perry as well shifted the axis of Paul's world. She had defended Perry to him without detailing what had gone wrong, giving him every opportunity to include her in any blame…could it be that his perfect Della, the woman he wanted so badly to be his true mother, the woman he thought needed to be protected from the big bad wolf could be at least partially responsible for what went wrong in the relationship?
Holy crap. Could he finally be maturing?
No two people were more tight-lipped about their relationship, but he had always known Perry and Della loved each other – they hadn't been shy about demonstrating it in front of him, just about defining it. Until suddenly, it appeared that the love disappeared three years ago, and he had immediately assumed Perry was to blame because who but a complete idiot could ever not love Della Street?
Paul considered being cowardly and mumbling something unintelligible, or offering up a phantom appointment, but these two people, one he loved unconditionally and one he'd placed many, many conditions on loving deserved more of him than that in light of what he now knew to be.
"I heard enough stories over the years to understand you had far less to work with than this theory of yours, and only one client was ever convicted – and you got that conviction turned over eventually anyway. If anyone can convince a judge Bobby Lynch killed Arthur Gordon, it's you, Perry."
Perry heaved a silent sigh, shoulders rising a bit. Who would have thought he needed encouraging words from the boy? And who would have thought the boy would be capable of uttering those encouraging words?
"And," Paul continued brightly, unable to resist being a smart ass despite his emerging maturity, "you have the son of the world's best private investigator at your disposal. I'll find something concrete for you. I promise."
Perry waved dismissively at Paul. "Then why are you still hanging around the office?" he demanded gruffly.
Paul grinned. "Don't you want to know what I'm working on, Boss?"
"I sincerely hope you're working on Della's case."
"Bobby Lynch didn't have any friends to speak of, but he must have had a family. I noticed that information wasn't in the police file."
Perry's eyes showed a flicker of interest. Damn. He had missed that. "Have you located them?"
"I will shortly," he hedged, hoping his good buddy Sgt. Stratton would come through one more time. "I'll give you a full report tonight. Della invited me to dinner. Henny is making something I have to see to believe if the name is any indication."
Perry's brief smile was weary and wistful. "You're assuming I'll be invited to dinner."
"I think you will be. There was talk about you bringing the beer." Perry would be invited because as foolish as it might be to Paul's discombobulated sensibilities, if Della's sparkling eyes and calm demeanor told him anything, it was that she still loved her big oaf of an ex-employer as much as he still loved his amazing former secretary. Jeez, the way these two people, who had been as intimate as two people could be, danced around one another sometimes, Paul thought. He'd seen it from time-to-time while growing up, but hadn't been so keenly aware of what exactly they were doing until this very revealing few minutes with the man who had been his father's best friend.
He needed a drink. This new maturity sprouting within him was mentally draining.
Della arrived at eight-fifty, trim and efficient as ever, humming her favorite song. "Well, hello," she said upon seeing Perry hunched over the table. "I didn't expect you to be here so early." She removed her coat and hung it on the wooden tree.
"I had a conference with your PI at eight. You're looking fine this morning." Understatement of the century.
She had reached far back into her closet and retrieved a more tailored suit than was the current fashion, one Perry had always admired rather demonstrably. Light-weight moss green wool accented with wooden buttons that hugged her body exactly where clothing should hug, Estelle's masterful design sense undeniably visible in every well-placed seam. Accompanied by an ecru silk blouse, tasteful jewelry again primarily pieces gifted her, and three-inch heels in a muted brown kid leather that matched the wooden buttons perfectly, the suit, although ten years old, was as beautiful, sophisticated, and timeless as the lady who wore it. And how amazing was it that it still fit?
Perry stood, and with an inward smile threatening to make an outward appearance, finally took off his coat and draped it over the coat tree as well. Della placed hands on hips and gave a low whistle. "I can't hold a candle to you, Mr. Mason. Hot date?"
Perry's mood took a swing downward. His preening that morning, taking care with his attire as he had all those years ago with custom-made suits, expensive striped shirts, silk ties, and the tie bars Della confessed drove her wild, began to seem as foolish as checking out of the Rochester. Why would she say something like that? Was she being deliberately obtuse to his attenuated manipulation…or didn't tie bars make her wild anymore?
That damned contract strictly forbade him to be 'mushy' "A perfectly fine legal concept", Della had insisted as the amused bartender dutifully drew up possibly the worst treaty ever conceived with an article disallowing 'mushiness', so this morning he had decided to devise other ways to clue her in on how he felt – dressing up for her was subtle, but she was ordinarily a veritable divining rod for subtlety. "I thought perhaps my client would accompany me to lunch today and I didn't want to embarrass her in public."
Her smile lit the entire office along with Perry's darkened mood, before slowly fading. "I'm sorry Perry, but I already have a luncheon date."
Don't let your disappointment show, Mason. "That'll teach me to try to be spontaneous. I'll plan my spontaneity in future. Rain check?" Strong, steady, business-like, non-committal. He was pleased with himself, even if the damn tie bar was choking him.
Della skirted the table to take a seat across from him. She pushed the typewriter aside and regarded him shrewdly as he assiduously ignored her. "Aren't you going to ask?"
He made a nonsense scribble in the margin of Della's report about David Gordon. "I wasn't going to. Do you want me to?"
She laughed and he frowned savagely at the perfectly type-written page in front of him. "Perry, what happened to complete honesty?"
"I've decided that it's an over-rated concept," he announced, still engrossed in pretending to read, fiddling with his reading glasses. He felt that way on and off lately. Right now, that feeling was definitely on. "Were you able to make an appointment with David Gordon?"
"No. I've called a dozen times. He doesn't have an answering machine." She waited for a comment or a smile but neither was forthcoming. Oh boy. He was certainly in a mood. "David works out at his gym every day between two and three o'clock. I'll get the name of the gym and the address for you. You'll have the element of surprise on your side."
Perry grunted. Maybe that wasn't such a bad idea. Surprising the youngest of Arthur Gordon's children after the will-reading had unearthed a treasure-trove of useful information about the girl and her unfortunate choice of a spouse.
"I'm going to lunch with Bryce Hummel." Della definitely subscribed to the element of surprise maneuver.
That got Perry to look up. "I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me."
Perry returned to faking paying attention to the files in front of him. "That's nice."
Della swore under her breath. He was wearing a tie bar, and an expensive suit tailored to the minute that accentuated the strength and breadth of him. A striped shirt, a silk tie, and a tie bar, dammit. He looked…like he did years ago when he was trying to impress her. "It is nice," she agreed equably, amused by his blatantly subtle attempt at flirting. "He called yesterday to see how I was and left a message on my answering machine. I saved it."
Perry winced from the stab of that last dagger. "So you're on speaking terms with Hummel?" Keep it casual…
"Of course." For your information, Mr. Mason, I'm on speaking terms with every man I've dated more than once.
"Be careful what you say about the case," he cautioned, still not looking up.
She wished she hadn't agreed to meet Bryce. It would be an enjoyable lunch because Bryce was a very pleasant man, but…"I could call and cancel if you think I shouldn't…"
"Nonsense. Have lunch with your friend."
She tried to catch any special inflection in the word 'friend', but there was nothing discernibly different about it from any other word in the sentence. "If you think it's all right…"
"I insist." He made a big production of closing David Gordon's file and taking off his reading glasses. "And don't worry about being back at a certain time. I'll be out of the office all afternoon."
"Oh." She tried not to sound too disappointed. Didn't he remember the suit she was wearing? Maybe not, since it had spent more time scattered around the office than on her body when it was new. "Okay. Will I be able to reach you?"
"Probably not. I think I'll spend the afternoon dropping in unexpectedly on Arthur Gordon's two oldest children. I like what you said about the element of surprise. Look what we found out by sneaking up on their little sister."
"Did Paul say what he was doing today?"
"He will be trying to redeem himself for an unfortunate incident yesterday by tracking down Bobby Lynch's family."
"What happened yesterday?"
"Your PI let a valuable piece of evidence get away from him. Evidence that would have made it easier for me to introduce the concept of Bobby Lynch in court. All we have is a theory, and physical evidence would have been much appreciated."
"If you don't think you can get him introduced at the hearing, why on earth did you tell the entire Gordon family and Ken Braddock about Bobby Lynch? I nearly fainted. You never tipped your hand before like that. Sometimes you didn't even tell me what was going on and I had a hell of a time not looking surprised when you pulled a straight flush against a pair of deuces in open court."
Perry grinned, gleefully rubbing his hands together. "Old dogs can learn new tricks, Della. It has to be someone in that room who hired Bobby Lynch, and because they know I know, whoever it was is bound to make a mistake doubling back to cover up the original cover-up, and we'll catch them trying to bluff that pair of deuces against our straight flush." Financial independence for a scheming fortune hunter and four million dollars each for trust fund babies was a far greater motive than the amount Gordon left Della. He just had to figure out who had the guts to hire a killer.
Della leaned her chin in her hand. "Gosh, I miss talking in metaphors. Can we do it some more?"
"Which metaphor? The magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat? The bluffing poker player?"
"The more appropriate metaphor would be the baseball batter hitting the ball out of the park."
Perry chuckled. "And you would be the fighter going the distance."
She shook her head. "No, you're the fighter, the gambler, the magician, the baseball player, the fisherman baiting a hook, and the lily-gilder all rolled into one. I'm the ring girl, the magician's assistant, the bat boy."
"Boy?"
"I'm making a very good point here. Go with it."
Perry laughed outright.
"Perry," Della said slowly, drawing out his name thoughtfully,"you are the best criminal trial attorney this country has ever seen. You said you couldn't think of a better attorney to represent me, and I agreed. You said I should let you take care of me, and I agreed. Just because you took a detour for a few years doesn't mean you aren't still the attorney you once were. What I don't understand is these little flashes of insecurity you're having. You could very well be better than you were. Age brings with it wisdom, a wealth of experience, and a patina of respectability. You might have to learn a few new tricks, but you haven't forgotten all the old tricks. You'll find some way to work around not having that evidence you wanted, whatever it is."
Bless this fabulous, exceptionally well-dressed woman. "Am I a better attorney because I'm finally sitting in an office instead of chasing down suspects myself or risking your safety on some hair-brained scheme?"
"I gave up on that pipedream a long, long time ago after being begged repeatedly to have confidence in you and then kissed silly in front of a client."
"Not one of my better moments," he said ruefully. Except for the kissing part…that had been a brilliant moment.
"It was one of your greatest moments," she disagreed quietly. "That case* was very important to me." To us.
"Della, I – "
"Are you going to practice law again?"
"I thought you didn't want to talk about that until after you're acquitted." He wanted to talk about kissing some more, because hell, she brought it up.
"I don't want to talk about it. I just want to know the answer."
He shrugged. "I've been thinking about it."
"Will you hire a secretary?"
"I might hire an assistant…"
"Stop it."
He shifted in the chair. "You said you didn't want to talk about it." Let's revisit how I kissed you silly…
She ignored him. "Would you consider hiring me?"
Maybe she should cross-examine witnesses in her own preliminary hearing. How much fun would it be to see a showdown between Della and Paula Gordon in a courtroom? "Is there a metaphor we can insert here?"
One eyebrow crept slowly toward her hairline. Della was possessed of many talents, but what she could do with those eyebrows was transcendent.
"Yes. Yes, I would consider hiring you," he confirmed quickly. I hope to hire you. I want to hire you. But you don't want to talk about it.
"And I might consider working with you again. But we aren't going to talk about it right now."
She leaned back against the chair and placed her hands in her lap, her face expressionless. But her eyes, oh her eyes!
It was trite to describe what he felt as an enormous weight being lifted from his shoulders, but that's the only way to describe it. The insecurities, the doubts, the second-guessing niggling at him – all disappeared into eyes abounding with promise.
*That would be TCOT Velvet Claws, and I refer to the scene in the novel where Perry kisses Della, and refuses to wipe off her lipstick while Eva Belter tries one last time to seduce Perry.