Chapter 9
The doorbell began ringing at eight-thirty the following morning as a steady stream of neighbors and mill employees appeared bearing their condolences and more food than an army could hope to eat in a year. Everything from an earthenware bowl filled with freshly gathered multi-colored eggs to a two-pound meatloaf, from platters of fried chicken to plates of freshly baked cookies of every conceivable type, the town in which Katherine Street had been born and died turned out in droves to pay their respects to her family.
Perry tried to ignore the chimes that sounded every five minutes like clockwork, almost as if the comings and goings of the visitors had been carefully timed and choreographed. He finally gave up trying to sleep through the commotion when it was merely five a.m. California time, having managed only three hours of sleep since leaving Della alone in the kitchen to clean up after dinner.
It had been difficult not to shower and crawl into her bed in the room at the top of the stairs that Carter had pointed out as Della's, but because her father and brother were less than pleased with his presence to begin with, he'd decided not to invite controversy. The room assigned to him was not large, but it was remarkably clean. The bed was soft and nearly contained his above-average height and broad physique. An oscillating table fan placed on the dresser across the room moved the heavy, sticky air enough for him to breathe and to dry whatever sweat sheened his body following bouts of restlessness brought on by the sight of Della's haunted eyes whenever he closed his own.
The foyer was crowded with hushed and reverent townsfolk when Perry descended the stairs dressed in a pair of black brushed cotton trousers and a short-sleeved dress shirt open at the neck, a concession to the oppressive heat of the new day. The two large ceiling fans in the entryway were turning on high speed, but still women and men alike fanned flushed, moist skin. All except for Della, who stood amid the throng looking fresh and unaffected by the great warmth, smiling politely, conversing quietly, shaking hands and accepting quick kisses to her cheeks and sympathetic pats to her shoulders.
Henrietta Vander Velde weaved through the crowd, transporting the offerings of food to the kitchen and dining room since the table in the entryway was overflowing with platters and bowls and baskets already. The huge arrangement of gladiola had been moved to stand beside the stairway, making the grand foyer appear even larger. Perry paused on the stair landing to watch Della for a few moments, lovely and composed in the skirt of her traveling suit and the sleeveless silk shell that went with it, both of which had been thoroughly wrinkled only five short hours ago but were now fresh and perfectly pressed. He wondered if she had slept at all, or if she stayed up to clean the kitchen and press her suit, her mind generally preoccupied with everything that had happened in the past twenty-four hours. He should have checked on her during the night, he thought with chastising regret.
He was just about to resume his descent when she glanced up and caught his eye. Her smile changed from polite to tremulous and pleading and he hastily made his way to her, skipping steps and carefully navigating the milling assemblage of ladies in a rainbow of cotton dresses and pearl necklaces and men in blue Milliron Corrugated work shirts bearing their names in red on white patches sewn above the breast pocket. He reached her just as a woman Della's age and hugely with child approached and took hold of her hand in an earnest handshake.
"It's good to see you, Del," the woman said, her eyes flickering with open curiosity to Perry Mason. "I just wish it wasn't under such sad circumstances." Her flickering curiosity in Perry became a pointed stare.
Della hesitated, wrestling with something in her mind before finally turning toward Perry and surreptitiously taking his hand. "Chief, this is Annette Gibson, a friend from school. Annette is married to Hal Gibson, the youngest ever floor supervisor at the mill." She was also the cousin of Amy, her best friend in high school who had betrayed her in the worst way a woman could. Annette had all but disowned her cousin, staunchly taking Della's side in the sad scandal – nearly the only person who had.
Perry bowed when Annette failed to offer her hand. "I'm pleased to meet you, Mrs. Gibson. Perry Mason. I'm Della's…"
"Employer," Della interrupted firmly.
"Employer," Perry echoed flatly.
Annette Gibson shifted her eyes from Perry to Della and back to Perry again. "I'm pleased to meet you, too, Mr. Mason," she said, suddenly ill at ease. She patted Della's arm. "I'm sorry about your grandmother, Della. I have to be going now. This baby is a week overdue and I promised Hal I would take it easy. But I wanted your family to know Hal and I will remember your family in our prayers. I'll miss seeing her at church."
The women shook hands one more time before Annette Gibson turned and headed toward the door in the splayed-hip waddle of an uncomfortably overdue pregnant lady. Perry cupped Della's elbow with his hand and eased her away from the food-laden table. "Come with me," he said, pulling her toward the stairs, to where the crowd had not yet advanced.
At the base of the stairs she shrugged off his guiding hand and folded her arms across her body. "It's about time you came downstairs," she grumbled, knowing it was uncalled for.
"Good morning, darling," he said quietly.
The tremulous smile reappeared. "I'm sorry, Perry. I've been up almost all night and this," she waved at the encroaching crowd behind them, "is exhausting. They just keep coming. Will you look at all that food? I hope you're hungry."
"I would have come down earlier, but I didn't think as your employer I would be required to."
She unfolded her arms and rubbed her temples. "If you came down here to pick a fight, I really don't have the time or the energy to argue. The funeral director will be here at eleven, Grandmother's attorney is scheduled at one, and Reverend Dekker is expected at three. And I think these food deliveries will continue right up to dinner time."
"Do you want me to stay here with you?"
Della looked surprised. "Of course I do."
"Then let's get something straight, Della. Am I introducing myself as your boss, as your friend, or as your beau while we're here?"
"I'd like you to be my boss," she replied.
"I see," he said in the same flat voice as previously.
"I wasn't finished," she said, picking up on the emotion simmering below his calm exterior. "I'd like to introduce you as my boss, but I'd like to make that introduction while you're holding my hand, just like with Annette."
He touched her face gently. "Let everyone draw their own conclusions, eh? I think I can manage that. "
Orv Bartel, the funeral director, a tall thin man with an uncanny resemblance to Ichabod Crane, right down to his ability to put away astonishing amounts of food, arrived precisely at eleven and the Street family excused themselves as the parade of mill employees and neighbors continued unabated. Della watched in amazement as the man polished off two sweet buns, half a dozen deviled eggs, two large drumsticks, an apple, and three cookies, all in the space of time it took to plan two visitations on Sunday, a simple funeral service on Monday, a private family gravesite scripture reading, and a wake at the house catered by ladies from the Congregational Church Katherine Street had attended during her lifetime.
The Streets emerged from the study and Carter escorted the director through the crowd to the door, stopping at the table for another cookie on the way. Della sagged against the door jamb momentarily, watching Perry as he graciously handled receiving her family's callers with Henny and swallowed over a lump in her throat. He was the best man she knew, despite what the legal profession and the law enforcement ranks of California thought of him. He bent the law to contain his brilliance, but as long as she'd known him he'd never broken it. Technically, that is. To see him in this atmosphere, so far removed from his gritty world of crime and criminals, legal strategies and slam-bang action melted her heart. She could almost forgive him for literally hog-tying her and bringing her to where she felt incapable of being herself.
Perry spied her leaning in the study doorway and broke away from the conversation he had been having with Francine Shaffer, wife of the mill's plant manager, Gale. Fran had volunteered to help with receiving condolences and Perry gratefully accepted, as hunger gnawed at his stomach and thirst made his voice hoarse.
"That didn't take long." He smiled encouragingly at her, noting dark circles of exhaustion beneath her eyes that hadn't been there earlier. "Let's go in the kitchen and grab a bite to eat before your grandmother's lawyer arrives."
They were barely two steps into the kitchen when Della flung herself into his arms and pulled his head down to hers for a long, deep kiss. "Good morning," she said, as he leaned his forehead against hers. "And thank you."
"Whatever you need, Della, I'm here."
"I need something to drink," she told him with a shaky little laugh. "I'm drier than the desert you love so much."
Perry released her and headed toward the ice box. "I hid a pitcher of iced tea from everyone. Sit down and I'll poor a glass for you. Take a look around – does anything look good enough to eat?"
Della scanned the kitchen. Every conceivable surface was covered with food. "There is a bowl of fresh eggs, a platter of ham, and an assortment of cheeses. Would you mind making an omelet?"
"There is fresh fruit, too." Perry emerged from the ice box with a sweaty pitcher of iced tea and a cut-glass bowl of melon balls, which he set down in front of her. He poured two glasses of tea, reached into the silverware drawer and extracted two forks. "Here, nibble on the fruit while I make us an omelet to end all omelets."
Della stabbed a sphere of bright green cantaloupe and popped it into her mouth. It was cold and juicy and she sighed in bliss. "The last time an omelet was made in this kitchen over a dozen eggs lost their lives for absolutely nothing."
When Perry gave her a quizzical look she launched into the story of how she had tried to make breakfast when she was home two and a half years ago as he efficiently prepared a six egg omelet in a large cast iron frying pan. Her own efforts preparing omelets had been met with displeasure bordering on hostility. "And the proper cheese to pair with eggs is cheddar. Three slices, thank you very much," she finished.
Perry turned to her from the stove with a comically stricken look. "I just put Swiss cheese in the omelet."
Della chuckled. "And did you add dill to the eggs?"
"Of course. Is there any other way to make an omelet?"
She stood, moved behind him, slid her arms around his waist and rested her cheek against his broad back. "Not in my book," she said. "I shudder to think that if Grandmother had gotten her way I might have stayed in this town and never experienced a ham-and-Swiss omelet with dill."
"That certainly would have been a shame," he agreed. "I wish someone had brought mushrooms."
"It's not mushroom season. The Morels are all gone. I guarantee if there were any to be found, I'd be out looking for them."
"I don't know what a Morel is, but by the tone of your voice I'd say that I've been missing something. Is the street this house is on named after mushrooms?"
She shook her head. "Different spelling. This street is named after the first mayor, William Morrell, spelled M-O-R-R-E-L-L. Morel mushrooms are spelled M-O-R-E-L. They must grow in California. I'll find out where and we'll go hunting."
"You have to hunt them?"
She nodded and tightened her arms around his waist as he folded the eggs in half. "There is a very strict dress code and highly sophisticated equipment involved. I think you might have clothing appropriate for mushroom hunting, but I doubt you have the equipment."
"Where are the plates?" He turned off the flame beneath the skillet and pulled a plate down from the cabinet Della indicated by pointing. "Just exactly what is this sophisticated equipment?"
"Mesh potato bags," she replied removing her arms from around his waist and retaking her seat at the table. "The dirt falls off the Morels, which makes them easier to clean before cooking."
Perry carefully removed the golden omelet from the pan and placed it on the plate. He set the plate in front of Della, pulled out the chair next to her and sat down. "Where do you find these Morels?"
"In the woods during the spring rains. They like the moist soil around decaying trees, and I've found a lot of them in fallow apple orchards."
"Sounds dangerous. We could get lost in the woods." Perry attacked one end of the omelet with gusto as Della dove into the opposite end.
"We could at that," she agreed between bites.
"It can get cold at night in the spring. What would we do for heat if we got lost on our hunting trip and no one finds us before nightfall?"
"We could use your lighter to make a fire," she suggested, scooting forward on her chair and matching Perry bite for bite. "Not only would it provide warmth, it would act as a signal beacon for the search party."
Perry shook his head and took a long pull on his iced tea. "I'm afraid it fell out of my pocket. No telling exactly where. So not only can I not smoke a cigarette, I can't build a fire."
Della puckered her forehead in thought and sipped her own iced tea. "That does pose a problem. I suppose we'll just have to generate our own heat."
"Resourceful girl. Perhaps we should go mushroom hunting next spring." He pulled the plate away from her and shoveled the last bites of omelet into his mouth with a triumphant grin.
Della grabbed his glass and drained it of tea. "I'll buy a bag of potatoes the minute we get back home."
Perry stood, picked up the plate and placed it in the sink, pausing to gaze out the window. "There is a steady stream of people walking up one side of the driveway and down the other," he reported. "I've never seen anything quite like this."
Della sighed. "I suppose we should get back out there and let everyone else eat before Emmett gets here."
"There are plenty of eggs. I could make more omelets."
"That isn't even vaguely funny. Let them forage for themselves."
He turned and faced her. "I just realized I haven't seen your mother all morning."
Della cringed. "Do you have to call that woman my mother? Henny told me she's 'indisposed' and is lounging in bed with an ice bag on her aching head. By the way, what did Paul have to say about her?"
Perry shrugged. "Paul wasn't there. I spoke with Faulkner and got a preliminary report only. I should call soon for the full report."
"Did Faulkner corroborate what she told us at dinner the other night?"
"Yes and no. Her full name is Eve Sherwood Street Akers Wyman. She is your mother and she did abandon you. But we pretty much knew that."
"She's been married three times?"
"And officially engaged three times."
Della whistled under her breath. "We should fix her up with Harvey."
Perry grinned. "That's what I said." His grin vanished. "Della, she's…she's not well."
"She's ill? Is that why she came to see me?"
"No, it's not that kind of illness. Her illness requires that she see a psychiatrist regularly."
Della stared at him in wide-eyed shock. "She's insane?"
"The accepted terminology nowadays is 'mentally disturbed'. I don't know what her diagnosis is, that's why I need to call Paul." He also had a burning need to razz the detective about letting Mrs. Wyman get the better of him. "What she didn't tell us at dinner is that she's spent a considerable amount of time in mental health institutions. She was in the hospital right before she left here twenty-five years ago. Paul should have specifics for us this morning."
Della clasped her hands on the table in front of her and spent several seconds absorbing Perry's words. "She's right up upstairs. We could ask her. Or Father. Or Aunt Mae." She looked up at him. Her lips were clamped in a thin line, her cheeks flushed with anger, her eyes reflecting hurt and betrayal.
Perry pushed himself away from the sink, took hold of Della's upper arms and lifted her to her feet. "We will," he promised. "But I want to hear what Paul and Faulkner have dug up first."
"How could you not have told me this last night?"
"You were in no condition to hear this last night. You're barely in any condition to hear it right now. But you asked so I'm telling you."
"I don't know who I'm angrier with right now, although the best odds in Vegas would be on you."
"Della – "
"You said I wouldn't be alone in this and then you isolate me from my own life – from my own past." She began to squirm in his grasp.
"Della," he began with increasing exasperation, "I'm telling you right now. Why are you so upset about a matter of a few hours?"
"Twelve hours, Perry. You've known things about my mother for twelve hours and you didn't think there was any reason to tell me?"
Perry dropped his arms to his side and stepped back from her. "Go out there and greet the good people of this town with your family. I'll clean up the mess I made and then I'll call Paul. We'll talk later."
"I'll still be angry at you later," she told him. She turned to leave, but he grabbed her hand and raised it to his lips.
"You aren't alone, Della. Believe me, everything I do is with you in mind."