Chapter 6

"God," Della said with a shudder, "I don't think I'll ever forget that look she gave me. She always had to have the last word. It's like she waited for me to get there and then let me have it."

Perry took his hand from the wheel and placed it over hers. "Della, it couldn't have been anything but a reflex of some sort. The doctors said the stroke had destroyed her brain."

Della shuddered again. "The doctors had to be wrong about a stroke. She only pretended to be in a coma."

Perry gave an exasperated sigh. "Della, don't be ridiculous. How do you explain that she died seconds after opening her eyes?"

"She wanted me to feel guilty," Della replied immediately. "She belittled and criticized me every minute of every day for my entire life. She tried to break me and make me into the docile, mindless granddaughter she thought I should be. This was her supreme achievement, and I'll bet she planned it for years. I'll have the image of her staring at me burned into my brain forever. Good-bye to sleep," she finished bitterly.

Perry executed a left-hand turn as he followed Jameson Street's big Buick through the streets of Della's home town. Maybe if he let her talk and get it out of her system she would eventually realize the absurdity of her words because nothing he had said since her grandmother had taken her last breath seemed to penetrate her thinking as she spewed one ludicrous statement after another. She had seemed sullen and shell-shocked as the resident physician called the official time of death, and had remained silent during the couple of hours it took to complete paperwork and make the family's wishes in regard to Katherine Street's remains perfectly clear.

Della had gone quiet, hunched against the door, arms crossed over her chest. She had rolled down the window and puffs of hot, humid air were causing curls to tighten and flatten around her face.

"Are you through?" Perry applied the brakes a full car length behind the Buick at a stop sign.

She hunched further down in the seat. "For now," she answered sullenly. "Feel free to yell at me."

"Have I ever yelled at you?" He held up his hand as she opened her mouth to reply. "I mean when your physical safety wasn't immediately in peril?" He wanted to touch her, but she obviously didn't want him to. "All those doctors couldn't have been wrong, Della. What happened was a reflex, a fluke. Your grandmother had no idea you were there. She couldn't possibly have purposely opened her eyes and looked at you."

"Then why in heaven's name did you insist we come out here so I could say good-bye to her?" Her voice was shaking with fury. "If she had no idea I was there or not, what was the big deal? I've never been so mad at you."

"Maybe you aren't the person I thought you were," he said quietly, agreeing with her earlier statement that he thought too much of her. The Buick in front of him turned onto Morrell, a smoothly paved street lined with old trees and well-kept Victorian houses. He followed several feet behind the creeping Buick, the slow pace allowing him plenty of time to admire the beautiful architecture and meticulously manicured lawns bathed in bright moonlight in an effort to keep his temper at bay and remember the circumstances.

Tears sprang to Della's eyes. "Maybe I'm not," she said in a strangled whisper. "You just don't realize what it was like growing up with her."

Perry stared straight ahead, fingers drumming impatiently on the steering wheel, thoughts morbid with regret that he had shoved aside her teary protests about coming here and bundled her onto Byron's plane. Just because he had regrets in his life didn't mean Della would or should share the same regrets. He had adored his mother, and she had loved him unconditionally. His childhood, although fatherless from a young age and presided over by a bossy brother, had been idyllic compared to the picture Della alluded to of her childhood. He recognized that his regret over not being able to say good-bye to Lyla and tell her everything he had ever wanted to say to her shouldn't have taken precedence over Della's feelings. "I would have if you had ever trusted me enough to talk about it."

His words felt like a slap across her face and a small gasp escaped her lips. She buried her face in her hands as huge, silent sobs wracked her slender body.

Perry disliked himself at that moment. Disliked that he had forced her to fly across the United States to a place she loathed, disliked that her father and brother were cold and blatantly disapproving of her, disliked that he had made her cry. They argued, Lord knew they argued, but this was different. The emotions fueling her words were so far above his understanding that he felt as if he was drowning. But it was the disappointment he felt in her that tortured him, that made him say such hurtful things to her. He had never experienced disappointment like this. It seared his soul and seized his heart. Her tears, something that would normally have cut his knees out from under him, didn't affect him in the least.

The brake lights of the Buick claimed his attention as the big car turned into a curving, inclined driveway. At the top of the driveway stood an enormous dark grey Victorian home with a wrap-around porch and dozens of tall windows. Several outbuildings painted to match the house dotted the nearby property. He counted six garage doors on one building as he followed Jameson Street's automobile around the circular drive and brought the sluggish Ford Galaxie to a halt at the base of sweeping porch steps.

Perry turned to Della with an expression of surprise. "Your horrible childhood wasn't the only thing you've kept from me," he commented. "I thought your family lost all their money in the stock market crash."

Della wiped her face with both hands and looked up miserably at him. "They did."

"This is hardly a house of destitution, Della. I'd say you grew up quite comfortable."

The chill in his voice brought on a fresh round of tears. "My family owned it outright, as well as several properties in town at the time of the crash. They sold off most of the property to stay afloat during the Depression but kept the house." She opened the car door, her head lowered, refusing to look at him. "I was never comfortable here."

Perry closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. "You said you had to go to work."

"I couldn't stay here and be a slave to my family. When I moved to California I had to work."

Perry shook his head as he flung open the driver's door. "You said you had to work because your family had lost all their money. It's more than apparent your family still has money."

Della slid from the car just as Perry appeared to assist her. Her hand trembled as she placed it in his. "No, I said in separate conversations that my family had lost money in the crash and that I had to work."

Perry Mason was a man who rarely made assumptions and it irked him to no end that Della had allowed him to nurture this view of her personal history. He stared at her, her hand held firmly in his. "Have we been introduced?"

Della opened her mouth, but it was her brother who spoke. "Well, come on," Carter called from the porch. "We have things to attend to."

Perry let go of Della's hand as if it had burned him but continued to hold her gaze. "We certainly do," he agreed.

A woman opened the door. Blonde, blue-eyed and nicely proportioned, she watched with unguarded surprise and curiosity as Della and Perry mounted the stairs and walked across the smooth boards of the porch. Her nose was small, as was her mouth, her eyes set closely together beneath thin penciled eyebrows, cheeks and forehead broad but lacking definition. It wasn't an unattractive face; it was merely flat and forgettable.

Her figure was another matter. It curved exactly where a woman should curve and beautifully filled out the simple A-line skirt and button down short-sleeved blouse she wore, the outfit transported to classic by perfect hourglass proportions. Della self-consciously adjusted her rumpled cotton traveling suit and automatically sought Perry's hand. But he had halted two steps behind her.

"Ah, Henny," Jameson Street said warmly.

Della threw an astonished look toward her father that Perry did not miss. He too noticed the older man's tone of voice and an immediate outrage gripped him. Not since arriving had he heard Della's father speak to his daughter with such apparent warmth. He took a step forward and hooked his index finger around Della's. As much as she had disappointed him and he had hurt her, she needed a friend. Hadn't she said so?

"I'm sorry about your mother, Mr. Street," the woman said. Her voice was extraordinarily feminine, a soft soprano trill that rivaled birdsong. "She was a great woman."

"She was indeed," Jameson Street agreed without mentioning that his mother would not have abided sorrow at her passing.

The woman held out her hand toward Carter. "Grandmother Katherine was very proud of you, Carter."

Carter eagerly took the woman's hand, which did not get by Della or Perry either. "Thank you, Henny. I admired her greatly."

The woman shifted pale blue eyes to Della and Perry. "And you must be Della," she surmised. "I've been looking forward to meeting you, despite the current circumstances. Grandmother Katherine spoke of you often. I feel as if I know you already." She extended her hand to Della as her nearly colorless eyes openly scrutinized her.

Della dazedly took the woman's hand. "I'm – I'm pleased to meet you too…Henny."

Jameson Street cleared his throat. "The gentleman with my daughter is her employer Perry Mason. Mr. Mason, may I introduce Miss Henrietta Vander Velde."

The woman's tinkling laughter floated into the evening air like wind chimes stirred by a soft breeze. "Henny will do," she said. "I've heard of you and your exploits, Mr. Mason. This is such a small town and when a former citizen escapes and makes good, word gets around." She stepped aside to allow everyone entry into the house.

Perry had to push-start Della as astonishment had frozen her feet to the floor. She stumbled a bit across the threshold and Henny placed a steadying hand on her arm.

"Careful, Della," she cautioned, then winked. "These three-inch heels men like us to wear can be treacherous, can't they?"

Perry stood in the entrance hall, amazed by its stately grandeur. A very old, very valuable crystal chandelier hung above an exquisite starburst inlaid Baker table upon which a tall cut glass vase containing an explosion of gladiola rested. Mahogany paneling, crown molding and formal flocked wallpaper in pale gold spoke of the true wealth the Street family enjoyed. He felt Della's fingers tangle with his. He looked down into miserable, moist eyes and the heaviness in his heart lifted measurably.

"I'm glad you're here," Henny lowered her voice as she closed the front door and leaned back against it. "An unexpected guest arrived about an hour ago. I tried calling the hospital, but they wouldn't put me through."

Jameson Street raised one eyebrow and Perry recognized something his daughter had inherited from him. "A guest? We haven't released the news of Mother's death yet. Who is it?"

Della's nails dug into Perry's hand. He glanced down at her again and followed the riveted gaze of her huge eyes to the smartly dressed woman who stood in the entryway to the formal living room.

"Hello Jameson," the woman said in low, quiet voice.

Jameson Street paled visibly as he placed a steadying hand on the table. "Evie," he breathed.