TCOT Absurd Assumption C17
They were seven for dinner, Paul Drake being the seventh, and this night the topic of conversation centered exclusively on Della's case. Paul, fueled by three Guinness Extra Stouts and Henny's superb pasties (made with turnips instead of rutabagas because according to Bart there wasn't a rutabaga in the entire frigging state of California, and they had been to every damn supermarket in the entire frigging state of California), obligingly told stories about his adventures on the case thus far, and Perry allowed him great latitude in regard to veracity for the sake of entertainment. Della needed to laugh. She was too quiet, her natural spunk and sass hidden behind a bit of a wistful expression. When Val chided her for being the least talkative person at the table, Della insisted she was enjoying Bart's and Paul's stories and had nothing to add because her day had been far less interesting than everyone else's.
However, her quietness wasn't what bothered Perry the most. What truly concerned him was how she picked at the superb pasty and virtually ignored the stout. When Della didn't drink, something was wrong, and when Della didn't eat, something was very wrong. He wondered if her subdued mood had something to do with Bryce Hummel and their luncheon, and then tried to scrub the thought completely from his mind.
Because Henny and Val cooked, clean-up was the responsibility of the men, who quickly loaded the dishwasher and joined the ladies in the living room with coffee and Val's special shortbread lemon squares. Evelyn Uptegraff arrived for her scheduled night of checking on Della, and all eight of them settled down to hear the highly anticipated story of a particular adventure Paul had the previous day.
"And there on the table," he said after setting up the situation more innocently than it had been, "was a woman's wig."
"A woman's wig?" Henny echoed.
Paul nodded. "A curly grey woman's wig."
"Grey?" Della fairly shrieked, shooting a withering glance at Evelyn, her hairdresser for longer than she'd known Perry Mason. "You said this color was dark ash blonde." Evelyn had been for several years fighting the fact that the paternal side of Della's heritage included prematurely grey hair, and had lightened her friend's once lustrous chestnut curls considerably and interwoven lowlights to disguise the fact a good percentage of it was silver. Carter's thick head of hair was completely grey – white actually, and Della knew what she would look like in a few years without the miracle of hair dye.
Paul cleared his throat. "M-maybe ash blonde is a better description for what color the wig was. I didn't get a very good look at it before Sergeant Stratton cleared the room."
Della ignored Paul's gallant backtracking and leveled her gaze at Perry. "Let me get this straight. My defense will be that Mrs. Jeffries saw a man in a grey wig wearing my dress running out of the Gordon house and thought it was me?
"It's a damn fine defense," Bart interjected and Carter nodded enthusiastically.
"Bart," Val almost hissed.
"You should be worrying more about having that dress shown in open court than your hair color," Paul declared.
Valerie made a disgusted noise and slapped his arm. "Did you borrow a shovel or did you bring your own?"
Paul winced and inched away from Val. "It's not like she picked the dress out," he said defensively.
Della set her cup down on the saucer, placed the saucer on the coffee table, and folded her hands in her lap. "You all may think it's frivolous to be upset that a man in a dress wearing a wig was identified as me, but I'm going to need some time to come to terms with it if you don't mind, since those details are going to be the showcase of my defense. As for the dress, I'm pleading the fifth."
Perry watched Della avoid eye contact with everyone and what Junior said was a lightning bolt of insight: She was embarrassed by the dress. So, she hadn't chosen it herself. Who had?
"Is that what you'll say if the Prosecutor asks?" Bart wanted to know everything about the dress since seeing a picture of it. He was no fashion expert, but he generally liked what Della wore, and was married to a woman who independently bought clothing very similar to Della's, and Val would never have bought that dress. Della was far too stylish to fall prey to tacky trends, and the dress ran the gamut of current tacky trends to quote his wife.
"The only fact established in court will be that Della purchased the same dress," Perry interjected. The blood stain on the dress was a strong piece of circumstantial evidence for which he needed to present equally strong counter-evidence. The fact the mere mention of the dress caused Della to blanch visibly would make that a difficult task. How could he play down what was sure to be a centerpiece of the Prosecution's case and save her further embarrassment? Any other client he would have shaken, literally and/or figuratively, and told them harshly to buck up, but not Della. He would find a way to protect her from everything, however large or small.
"But the unspoken question –"
"Will remain unspoken," Perry said firmly. He turned to Paul Drake. "Do you feel confident the salesgirl at the boutique will make a credible witness?"
Paul nodded emphatically. "She identified Bobby Lynch without hesitation as the man who purchased the dress, and showed me a carbon copy of the receipt. We're lucky the dress boutique still uses hand-written sales receipts. The department store is on a computerized register system and unless Bobby paid for the shoes with a credit card, which is doubtful, we stand a snowball's chance in hell of proving he bought the same pair Della did. None of the salesclerks remember him, and they've sold over a hundred pairs of those shoes. The department store clerks don't even remember the most beautiful woman in the world buying those shoes, which I find appalling. Plus, those same shoes are sold in three other stores."
"Nice try at climbing out of that hole, buster," Val told him.
"We'll need to issue a subpoena as soon as possible for the dress boutique salesgirl," Perry said almost absently. "Barbara Scott probably won't think to put her on the stand. She'll rely on Della's statement to Lt. Cooper that she owned a dress that matched the scrap of fabric found on estate grounds. You can stop trying to prove Bobby bought shoes, Paul. We'll have to rely solely on the dress and testimony regarding the wig. We only have tomorrow and the weekend before the preliminary hearing." When he had requested an expedited preliminary hearing he hadn't expected the judge to have a clear calendar the next week or for Barbara Scott to readily agree on such a short time to prepare her case. Perry thought the young prosecutor was practicing a bit of psychology on him and was banking on the element of surprise to trump her hubris.
Paul grinned almost wickedly. "We might still come up with something about the shoes."
"Paul!" Henny exclaimed. "Have you been making advances to salesgirls all over Los Angeles?" She had known Paul since he was a child, accompanying Perry and Della on family vacations with her and Carter and their children. She was well aware of his flirtatious ways. As were her daughters.
"Let's just say my weekend won't be lonely."
"Oh, to be young again," Bart lamented.
"Your weekend will be filled with work," Perry reminded him. "You still have to track down Bobby Lynch's family."
Paul gave Perry an impertinent salute. "Yes sir!"
"Della," Henny said suddenly, "Val and I organized all your messages today. There are four boxes of cards and letters, a box filled with all sorts of jewelry, and twenty pages of telephone messages."
Della looked startled. "Good grief."
"We all know what you're doing this weekend, Della Katherine," Carter said over the rim of his coffee cup. He had helped the women with their chore for a while that morning before embarking on the great rutabaga caper with Bart, and was impressed with the regard so many people had for Della. He recognized names of politicians, authors, sports figures, business tycoons, musicians, and Hollywood celebrities, and a new appreciation for the life she had led with Perry Mason replaced the disesteem in which he had long held her career choice. His sister knew these famous people, yet she had never gratuitously dropped names, because he realized in their circles she was famous herself. People were people to her, whether public figures or ordinary folk such as himself, and he felt…proud of Della.
"No," Perry said emphatically, "Della will not be answering mail until after she's acquitted. I need her to be focused on preparing the case. There are subpoenas to issue and serve, information to organize –"
"She needs to relax, too, Perry," Val interrupted quietly, her voice weak and wheezy after a long day. Henny had tried to get her to take a nap before dinner, but Val had insisted upon making the lemon squares even though she'd sat down several times to use an inhaler. Her pulmonologist had opposed a trip to Los Angeles, arguing that pollution levels would adversely affect the emphysema overtaking her lungs, but Val told the doctor that she was needed in LA and by gosh, she was going. Thin and frail, she coughed horribly with moderate exertion, and had developed fretful repetitive motions a psychologist attributed not so much to the emphysema diagnosis, but primarily to other stressors in her life.
Perry Mason loved his sister-in-law and it killed him to see her so pale and frail. The strength of Val's personality would hold her disease at bay longer than any doctor could predict, but the frightening reality was that she would one day be tethered to an oxygen tank. He knew his brother was scared out of his mind over his wife's illness, and blamed himself for smoking in front of her as much as he had for forty-five years. Valerie had smoked, but mostly socially like Della, and in Bart's mind his lungs should be diseased, not his wife's.
"And she will relax," Perry agreed. "But not until all the work is done."
"Is the work ever done, Perry?" It was Evelyn who spoke aloud what everyone else was thinking.
"The work is done when the client is acquitted," Della supplied the answer. "That's the way it's always been, and that's the way it will be for my case."
"But –" Henny started a protest.
"This isn't a party," Della said brusquely and Perry hid his smile behind a bite of dessert. "I love you all and appreciate that you're here, but we have to let Perry do what he has to do how he has to do it. That's the only way I'll be acquitted, and the reason I hired him as my attorney."
Hired? Perry stared at Della while he chewed. Who had said anything about hiring? Did she think he would present her with a bill after her acquittal?
Paul jumped to his feet as if he'd been goosed. "Speaking of being hired, I've been hired to unearth as much about this case as I can, and I have things to do and people to see. Thanks for dinner, Henny. It was great."
Della followed Paul from the living room to see him out as everyone else dedicated their attention to second helpings of dessert or more coffee.
His hand on the door knob and Della still a few paces behind him, Paul turned to face her. "I left a folder on the desk in the den," he said. "It wasn't difficult to find the information you wanted."
Della brushed unruly blonde curls from Paul's forehead. "Thank you, honey."
"Why did you want information about someone like that?"
She slid her arms around his shoulders and hugged him, rocking slightly. He hadn't realized how tense he was until he felt his entire body relax. No one hugged like Della Street. "That person was nice to me when I was scared and needed a friend. I want to do something nice for them."
Paul kissed Della affectionately. "Can you handle all those mother hens and one really annoying attorney without me?"
Della patted his cheek. "Go meet that salesgirl from the dress boutique."
Paul should have known better than to use work as a cover for a date. "You think you're so smart."
"I'm smart enough to know you're not going to do any work tonight. And so is Perry, by the way."
"Yeah, and I'll be smart enough to ask Jennifer questions about Bobby Lynch so I can put several cocktails on my expense report."
Evelyn entered the foyer and after she and Paul had both left, Della closed the door and spent a moment leaning against it with closed eyes before heading for the den. Junior was so much like his father she just wanted to cry sometimes.
The lemon squares were gone and no one wanted more coffee, so Bart and Carter took all the dessert dishes into the kitchen to cram them into the dishwasher. Henny and Val remained in the living room, curled up on the couch chatting, while Perry went in search of Della.
He didn't have to search long, and in fact, the den was the first place he looked. She was seated at the desk, a manila file open in front of her, head leaning into her palm as she read. Perry stood in the doorway, watching her, marveling at the pure force of love surging within him. On second thought maybe what he felt wasn't so pure, but it was a natural part of him, like breathing.
He leaned against the door jamb and watched her sift through the contents of the file. Valerie had told him years ago she had never seen a man look at a woman as much as he looked at Della, but why wouldn't he? She was exceptionally…easy on the eyes. Good Lord. He had actually said that to her once*.
"Do you think I'm going to perform some sort of trick?" Della asked, not looking up from the assorted papers in front of her.
"I never know," he confessed. "I was just remembering something I told you a long time ago and how inadequate it was."
She lifted her head and regarded him cautiously. "And what would that be?"
"You encouraged me to put into words how much of a pleasure it was to have someone like you around. I rattled on about trust and loyalty and dependability and how well you knew me…and brilliantly ended with that you were easy on the eyes."
"Was I not trusting and loyal and dependable?" She still knew him well enough to understand he wasn't talking about those particular attributes.
He shook his head. "I should have said you were beautiful." The tie bar maneuver had been a dud. Maybe a more direct stratagem was called for since he no longer had a hotel room. "You still are."
Della pulled a yellow legal pad in front of her and began writing. "You took off your tie bar," she said quietly.
Ah ha! "It attracted attention I hadn't intended."
One glorious eyebrow inched upward in amusement. So he had worn the tie bar for her benefit. The fortitude it had taken not to mention it before now was colossal. "Do tell."
"Katherine Gordon thinks I'm cute."
Della laughed softly. "Is that all you came away with from your meeting with her?"
"Isn't that enough? Being called cute by an attractive young woman at my age is heady stuff."
"I should have warned you about Kate's penchant for older men."
"Ouch." Perry placed his hand over his heart and winced. "Unfortunately, she is already involved with an older man. Ken Braddock. Did you know that?"
"I suspected."
"Why didn't you mention it?"
"I didn't know for certain. A few months ago Ken's wife began calling at odd hours during the day because his office told her he was either at the Foundation or with Arthur when he wasn't, and I noticed certain things in the way Ken treated Kate whenever I saw them together – which was increasingly often."
"Ken says that as soon as everything quiets down, he's filing for divorce."
Della sighed. "Poor Margaret. I like her. She should get a verynice settlement as well as child support and alimony. Their youngest was an 'oops' baby and just started high school."
Perry gave her a searching look. "Don't you like Ken Braddock?"
Della shrugged. "He's pleasant enough, and was respectful and business-like whenever I had to deal with him, but there was always something…oily about the way he looked at me."
Yes, that was exactly how he looked at me as well, Perry thought. "I hope my relationship with Kate will remain confidential." Ken's smile had nearly slid off his face for the oiliness of that statement. "I can understand that." And Ken knew he could, damn him. Everything suddenly seemed to lead back to those private choices Della hoped would remain private and he'd promised to keep private.
"Did you find out anything useful?"
"I might have," Perry answered vaguely.
"Do you want to go over your meetings with David and Katherine while they're still fresh in your mind?
Since you didn't come back to the office, Perry tacked on what went unspoken in her question. "No. We'll do that tomorrow. Right now I want to know what is in that file. Did you give Paul a side job?" The boy didn't need any more distractions, considering he was probably on his way to meet one of the sales clerks he had been interviewing.
Della closed the file and tore off the sheet of yellow paper she'd written on, held it in her hand, weighing conflicting thoughts. "Just something personal. It didn't take much time." She folded the paper, stood, and walked over to stand in front of him. "Please don't lecture me about keeping Paul focused on my case, because technically it involves my case."
He took the paper from her and unfolded it. "Who is Collier Jessup?"
"He's the husband of a girl I met in jail. She was nice to me, and I'd like to do something nice for her."
Perry glanced at the paper again. "His wife is Adelaide?"
Della nodded. "She married Collier when she was fourteen, and he dragged her all the way out here from a holler in Kentucky so he could be a movie star. So far all he's done is bit parts in soft porn flicks and some catalog modelling work, and even that has mostly dried up, according to what Paul found out. I suspected as much. Adelaide is working the streets, calling herself Lady, to support Collier and her baby."
"How does any of this figure into your case?"
"I told you – she was nice to me in jail. She's quick and smart and if she didn't have to walk the streets, I would be very happy."
"What do you have in mind to get her off the streets?" Underneath Della's spunk and sass lay a most tender heart, which is precisely why Henny and Valerie were sorting through mountains of mail for her and shifting flower arrangements from room to room as more arrived daily.
Della hesitated, chewed her bottom lip, and dropped her gaze. "C-could you…would you…would you ask Max Parrish if his talent agency would take on Collier as a client?" Her words came out in a rush now. "There are pictures of him in the file. He's a handsome boy, but his accent is so thick agents don't want to take him on – there aren't many parts for someone from a holler in Kentucky no matter how good-looking he is, but everyone says he has talent, he just doesn't speak well. He plays several instruments, writes songs, and sings, and he could be a very profitable client for Max if he got the right breaks."
Perry tipped Della's chin so that her eyes met his. "And you think that by giving her husband a legitimate break, Lady can stop…working?"
Della nodded, eyes huge and hopeful.
He smiled. "I'll call Max tomorrow. I can't promise anything, but I'll call."
"Thank you, Perry."
They stood inches apart, eyes locked, for several silent seconds. Asking for such a favor was difficult for Della. She had briefly met Max Parrish a few years ago when he first joined the talent management agency that now bore solely his name, and had one enlightening conversation with his wife on the telephone the same evening. Perry kept his friendship with the Parrish family to himself, as Della kept some of her own friendships to herself, and aside from knowing Max Parrish had become very successful in the talent industry, she knew very little about the man or his family. Except for one very important thing...
"I was thinking…" Perry began, Della's chin still snugly held in his hand.
"Uh oh."
"Hear me out before you sass me. We have a lot of work to do between now and the prelim."
"Yes. I understand I will be typing and filing and organizing."
"It's fortunate you do all those things well."
"I suppose it is. For you."
Perry released her chin and eased past her to enter the den. He dropped down onto the new sleeper sofa she had bought to replace the old couch from the Brent Building office. "What do you always say? Stop it. Tell me what's irritating the oyster."
Della took his place in the doorway, arms and ankles crossed. "You are. I never know if you're going to be Perry Mason or someone who looks like Perry Mason but acts like a complete stranger."
"I promise from here on out I will be no one but Perry Mason, however good or bad that may be."
"It's good," Della said again in that same quiet voice as before. She uncrossed her arms and seemed to rock forward hesitantly before committing to crossing the room to where he sat and lowering herself beside him on couch.
Perry held out his hand and after a half second of contemplation, Della lightly rested hers against his upturned palm. "I'm sorry if I made you uneasy about…hiring me to be your attorney, Della. I was supposed to swoop in and save the day as if I hadn't been out of the courtroom for the past eight years, but reality is a hard pill to swallow, and I did a bad job of hiding my insecurities from my client."
"I haven't been worried, Perry. Irritated is actually the best word for how I've been. I have confidence in you."
One corner of Perry's mouth twitched. "You always did."
"And you never let me down."
Yes, I did. I let you down the most. "I promise, Della, you will be acquitted."
"Yes."
"I won't let anything happen to you."
"I know you won't."
"Tomorrow we'll start blocking out your defense and issuing subpoenas. Barbara Scott doesn't stand a chance."
Della smiled tiredly. "Sounds like a busy day. What time do you want me at the office?"
He placed his other hand over hers and applied gentle pressure. The dark circles under her eyes were worrisome, and knowing he was partially to blame for them cut him to the quick. "How about we have breakfast together and get to the office around nine."
Della tried not to sigh at the prospect of getting up early, because sleep continued to be nothing more than a passing acquaintance, but he'd been disappointed when she couldn't have lunch with him, so she owed him a at least breakfast. Which reminded her – he hadn't inquired about her luncheon with Bryce Hummel. That damn contract and his damnable discipline. "Sure. Where and what time do you want to meet? Maybe the Rochester dining room?"
"I was thinking your kitchen at seven forty-five"
"No, it's too far out of your way –"
Now or never, Perry my lad. "It won't be out of my way if I stay here tonight."
She looked at him, startled, and blinked several times. "What about the code of ethics? Lawyers can't stay in their client's houses."
"They can when it's full of chaperones."
"You made that up."
His erupting laughter made her jump a little. He never could put one over on her, so why did he even try? "Yes, I did. But it makes sense. We have a lot to do, and if I stay here, we'll have more time to prepare for the hearing this weekend and for you to relax so Val will get off my back."
"I have been feeling left out," Della admitted, a tiny twinkle in her tired eyes. "You and Paul were having all the fun."
"Then it's settled. Kitchen, seven forty-five, for Wheaties and toast."
"You really go all out for a girl, don't you?" She let out a three-note yawn. One of his favorite things in the world was how she 'sang' her yawns.
"Breakfast of champions," he declared. "We have to be so far ahead of Barbara Scott all she'll see is the dust we kick up as we run past her."
Della squeezed his hand, then abruptly withdrew hers, and sprang to her feet. She moved to the desk and yanked open a drawer, pulled out an olive green hanging file, then plopped herself back down next to Perry on the couch. The file fell open in her lap, revealing a small pile of defaced cocktail napkins.
He stopped breathing. Or thought he did.
The contract. He kept his copy in a small fire safe she had given him as a house-warming gift when he moved to San Francisco and she kept her copy in an unlocked drawer of her – their – desk. Obviously he had been holding the contract in far higher regard than she.
"Della –" Perry began, but Della shook her head.
"This is my conversation to start." She fingered through their 'contract', selecting one napkin and holding it out to him. "I need you to do something, and this napkin is standing in the way of it."
Perry glanced at the napkin. Article III, the physical contact clause. He was almost afraid to ask. "What do I need to do?"
"Kiss me," she said in a wavering voice. "You need to kiss me."
Well.
Well, well.
Well, well, well.
Indeed.
"Did you think I wouldn't notice the tie bar ploy, Perry?"
Another thing he had always admired about Della Street was her ability to take charge of a situation when he couldn't seem to.
"I know it's not fair to Robin and I'm not even sure you want to, but we need to get it out of the way, so that –"
Perry leaned across the space between them and kissed her, beyond a shadow of a doubt, for real. No build-up, no preparation, no anticipation. That wasn't true at all – the anticipation had been escalating since the moment she collapsed against him in jail and the build-up had been every moment they'd spent together since.
Her lips were as soft as ever, full and inviting, and his lips, usually sure of their course and intent, nearly quivered with the thrill of touching them again.
The surprised expression on Della's face when he pulled back from the kiss was priceless. "Okaaaay, Article III is formally breached."
He could have laughed deliriously at that moment. She was so…so…so Della, and for the first time in a long time he felt fully himself. He wanted to kiss her again. And again, and again. "What do we do now?" Please say we keep on kissing…
"You will check out of the Rochester and stay here until I'm acquitted." She had thought this out. "We will go to the office together, have dinner with our families after work, give each other a friendly good night kiss if either of us is so inclined, after which we will go to our separate bedrooms, and when I'm acquitted, we will have a long, long talk. What do you think about that?"
Perry regarded her with reflective tenderness. "Della, I checked out of the Rochester this morning."
"Of course you did," she said, patting his hand.
*Refer to the novel TCOT Screaming Woman