Chapter 10

"Just so you know," Paul began the conversation after Margo clicked Perry through, "nothing you can say will get a reaction out of me."

"I think Della would label this The Case of the Defensive Detective. What's the matter, pride still smarting?"

"I'll have you know there's nothing wrong with my pride. My pride is just fine, thank you. Couldn't be better."

"Have you been to the doctor?"

The question made Paul pause before answering despite his resolve not to respond to Perry's digs. "Come again?"

"Faulkner described a troubling affliction. I've been worried about you."

"If you're referring to anything involving little red jelly beans, you were given false information."

"Are you telling me you allowed Mrs. Wyman to give you the slip?"

"My methods may be unorthodox, but she's there where you can keep an eye on her and get to know her better instead of here where I would be racking up surveillance expenses that Della would argue with me about later."

"Yeah, you stick with that story, Paul. You're afraid of Della. But the question begs: do we want to get to know Eve Wyman better?"

"Not if you ask Faulkner, but he's prejudiced because his nasty ex-wife left him with empty pockets. He's suffering flashbacks and considering organizing a club for Mrs. Wyman's ex-boyfriends and husbands but claims he can't find a meeting hall big enough to accommodate them all."

"What if I ask you?"

Paul paused once again. "I'm with Faulkner," he admitted reluctantly. "I sure as hell wanted to like her Perry, for Della's sake, but she is one screwball dame. She goes through men, money, and psychiatrists like so much water."

"Don't feel bad, Paul. Della likes her even less than you do," Perry assured the detective, "and I'm right there with you both."

"Well, if you've got about seven hours, a pot of coffee, and a fresh pack of cigarettes, I'll take you through everything we've learned so far."

"I have about seven minutes, it's too hot for coffee, and smoking is not allowed in the house. I'm sitting at Della's father's desk but he's locked all the drawers, so I won't have much to add to the report about him aside from personal impressions."

"Anything you can add will be helpful to complete our dossier on him. He's a mysterious chap. All of her subsequent conquests mentioned him in their interviews as the standard by which Mrs. Wyman judges all men. Should I begin at the beginning, the middle, or the end?"

For the next twenty minutes Paul fed Perry information gathered by himself and two of his top operatives from hours of telephone calls to the various cities in which Eve Sherwood Street Akers Wyman had settled for any length of time. Perry occasionally broke in with additional information or personal observations or to request clarification, but for the most part he scribbled notes on a pad advertising the local funeral home left behind by the director. There was only one piece of blank paper remaining and Paul was still talking when the door opened and Della entered her father's study on tiptoes.

He looked up and smiled and she managed to lift the corners of her mouth briefly. "Can you wrap it up with Paul or move to the phone on the stair landing? Grandmother's lawyer is here a bit early and Father is anxious to begin the meeting."

Perry nodded and shifted his attention back to the phone. "Paul, we're done for now. The room is needed for a meeting with Mrs. Street's attorney…yes, I'll call back later. How about in three hours?...fine…yes, you heard Della…yes, I'll tell her." He slipped the receiver back onto the cradle. "Paul sends his condolences."

"Just as long as he doesn't send any food," she said tiredly, slumping into one of the leather wing chairs facing her father's desk.

"With everything that will take place in the next few days, we'll be grateful for all that food."

"I know," she admitted irritably. "You don't have to lead me to such an obvious conclusion."

"Snap out of it, kid," he said sharply. "I'm your friend."

Della literally sprang out of the chair and crossed to the tall windows that looked out over the circular driveway. "Take me home, Perry," she said in a quiet, broken, pleading voice, her back to him. "No one truly wants me here. The whole point was to get here before she died, and we did. I've spent all morning playacting and nodding my head when people who didn't know her tell me what a great woman she was. It's wearing me out."

"A person can be many things to many people."

"Can you be on my side for one minute? A little more empathy and a little less chastising would be appreciated, my friend."

Perry remained seated behind Jameson Street's desk, silent and brooding, knowing that no matter what he said Della would pounce on it as an affront. She certainly was in a mood.

"Please take me home," she repeated. "I'm suffocating here."

"I'm not going to let you run away from this, Della. You can get as mad at me as you want, but we're staying. I'll arrange to have Byron fly us home immediately after the funeral, but not a moment sooner."

There was a knock on the door and Carter poked his head into the study. "We're ready to meet with Emmett," he announced, then pushed the door open wider and stared pointedly at Perry. "Father requests that just the family be present."

Perry slowly got to his feet and picked up the pad that contained his notes about Eve Wyman. "If the family has no objection," he said coolly, moving around the desk, "I'll make myself useful elsewhere."

Della found Perry in the kitchen with Henny, standing a few feet apart at the counter, wrapping what food they could in thick white paper in preparation of placing it in Katherine Street's deep freezer. She stood in the doorway and watched them for a few minutes, eavesdropping on the few innocuous words they said to each other, achingly touched by Perry's willingness to do what had to be done even thought it was far removed from his frame of reference, but perversely unable to let go of her snit.

"Need any help?"

Perry turned and gave her a smile. She felt herself shrink under his genuine affection, unworthy of the feelings he so willingly put on display within the circle of her fractured family. "That was a short meeting."

Della shrugged. "It was really a meeting to schedule the real meeting tomorrow. Grandmother left very specific instructions with Emmett in regard to her will."

"Mr. Mason, why don't you and Della pour tall glasses of tea or lemonade and go sit on the porch," Henny urged. "The sun is off that side of the house and it might be pleasant out there. I can finish wrapping the rest of this in no time."

Perry hesitated. "Are you sure? I haven't seen you take a break all morning."

"I'll take one when I'm done in here," she promised with a tinkling little laugh. "Round two will begin about four o'clock after the first shift at the mill gets out. There won't be as many people dropping by, so we won't be run ragged as we were this morning."

Perry looked to Della. "Tea or lemonade?"

For some reason Perry's solicitude toward Henny aggravated Della's already jangled nerves. Under normal circumstances it would be she who did what had to be done, she who organized and planned, she who was strong and smiling, and her current ineffectual attitude allowed only a terse, one-word reply. "Tea."

Perry knit his brows briefly before turning to the refrigerator and Della wanted to burst into tears as he poured not two, but three glasses of tea, silently handing one to Henny, who gave him a brilliantly pleased smile of thanks. Della managed not to say anything petty or sarcastic, even though such words bubbled up in her. At that moment she was truly ashamed of herself.

"You've trained Mr. Mason well, Della," Henny commented, taking a sip of the tea. "He's very handy in the kitchen. I don't think your father or Carter could manage to fill the tea kettle to boil water."

"I can't take any credit," Della demurred, surprising herself with the prompt pleasantness of her reply and the strength of her voice. "He came completely self-contained."

Henny laughed as Perry hastily ushered Della from the kitchen, up the hallway, through the foyer and out onto the porch. He nodded toward two wicker rocking chairs placed beneath a set of windows outside the parlor. They seated themselves and sipped on the tea for an extended period of silence.

"Feeling better?"

Della set down her empty glass on a glass-topped wicker table before answering. "I won't feel better until we're no longer in this town." She hoped her tone was neutral and matter-of-fact and not as cranky as she felt.

"Two days, and we'll be gone," he told her. "Just two more days. You can do it."

She heaved possibly the biggest sigh ever in the history of sighs. "It's so much worse than I imagined." Her voice cracked on the word 'worse'. "And I have a feeling it will only go downhill the longer we're here."

"In what way?"

"In too many ways to count." She said a mite more tartly than she intended. She sighed again. "Can we call a truce if I say I'm not mad at you anymore for bringing me here?"

"Baby, the only person you're at war with is you. Sure, your father and brother are reserved, and the situation with your mother is odd at best, but everyone else has been nothing but cordial and caring toward you, especially Henny."

"Under different circumstances Henny and I would probably be friends," Della admitted. "Right now the thought of someone or something tying me to this place is terrifying."

"Two days," he said again. "In two days we'll be at the lake with nothing to think about but each other."

Della closed her eyes, leaned her head back, and yawned loudly, which she knew never failed to tickle Perry for some reason. "Two days isn't that long," she conceded. "Then I'll be myself again."

"You need a good night's sleep and to stop worrying. Tell me what the agenda is for the remainder of our stay."

"This afternoon we meet with Reverend Dekker to go over scripture readings and the graveside service and tomorrow at ten Emmett will read Grandmother's will. She left instructions to read it two days following her passing. She had a few quirks, if you haven't gathered that by now."

"That's not so quirky. A lot of will readings take place prior to the funeral service. Be glad that she requested it so we don't have to hang around after the funeral."

Della opened her eyes to look at him with teary tenderness. "You're full of rainbows and sunshine, aren't you?"

"It's so bright where I'm looking I need sunglasses."

"Have you always been this wonderful?" She rocked herself forward and with a fluid grace that took his breath away, exited her rocking chair and slid onto his lap, draping her arms around his neck and laying her head on his shoulder. He circled her waist with both arms and hugged her close.

"No," he confessed seriously, "not always. A certain dark-haired, hazel-eyed beauty captured my heart and I instantly became wonderful."

Della sniffled through a chuckle. "Handsome and modest. That's an irresistible combination in a man."

"I am a teller of truth."

Della snuggled closer to his broad chest and nuzzled his ear. "You are full of it."

"Yes I am," he agreed without hesitation. "Except when it comes to how I feel about you."

Della sighed happily. "If it wasn't so darn hot I would pass out right now and sleep for days."

"Go ahead, take a nap. I'll even tell you a bedtime story Paul wrote."

"I'd almost forgotten about that! See how you distract me? Is that woman crazy?"

"She definitely has crazy tendencies." He shifted her slightly on his lap. "But that word is frowned upon in the realm of modern psychology. Her official diagnosis is a character disorder termed hystrionic. Her behavior deviates from prevailing cultural expectations in that she has a consuming need to be the center of attention, and seeks that attention inappropriately."

"So all of the men…her husbands and fiancé's…her overt flirting with you and Paul…it's a need for excessive admiration that drives her?"

"Paul spoke at length with Dr. Craig, and he says individuals suffering from character disorders often exhibit something called ego-syntonic behaviors – behaviors that are inappropriate in so-called normal societal morality but which are perceived to be appropriate by the individual. They are preoccupied with their own self-importance, believing that they are special and entitled to special treatment."

"How long has she been this way?"

"David told Paul the onset of character disorders are typically at the beginning of adulthood, but can sometimes be traced back to adolescence and in rare cases to early childhood. She married your father at eighteen, and was committed to a mental hospital for the first time when she was twenty. The timing fits perfectly with her diagnosis." He kissed the top of her head where it rested on his shoulder. "David says such individuals have virtually no effective coping skills, which often results in complete breakdowns as the illness progresses. He theorizes that your mother was highly functioning until some catastrophic event pushed her over the edge."

"Me?" The single word was filled with agony. "Was I that catastrophic event?"

Perry hugged her so hard she let out a squeak of protest. "Of course not! There is a lot we don't know about that time. Paul and Faulkner couldn't interview your father, and I instructed them to stay away from Mae."

"I told you I had a bad feeling about what we'd learn," Della fretted. "Did David Craig say this…this character disorder thing is congenital?"

"Any self-respecting psychologist will tell you that the notion of inherited mental deficiencies is an embarrassment to the profession." He ran his fingers across her hip with intimate familiarity. "Her propensity for marriage certainly isn't congenital."

"Ha, ha," she said with no trace of humor whatsoever. "That woman appears on my doorstep twenty-five years after abandoning me, and I find out she left because she's certifiably nuts. What a heritage. You should be thanking your lucky stars I never said yes."

"I thank my lucky stars every day for a very different reason," he said quietly.

Della pushed herself to a sitting position, her face just inches from his. "Are you feeling sorry for me?"

"No. Are you feeling sorry for yourself?"

Della blinked at the question. "I – I don't know. I haven't had time to process everything you've told me."

"Della, it may have been the best thing for you that your mother left. Think about what your childhood was and factor in a mentally ill parent to go along with your grandmother and father."

"But why didn't anyone tell me she wasn't well? I never even saw a picture of her, and no one ever answered my questions about her. It was like she never existed." She averted her eyes fleetingly, "I was a baby. I had no memories of her at all."

"We'll ask Mae. I have a feeling that aside from your grandmother, she knows more about what went on back then than anyone."

"Are you catching on to why I dislike this house so much? So many secrets."

Perry put his arms around her once again and cradled her slenderness against him. "Two more days," he reminded her. "We only have two more days to get through."

"What else did Paul have to say?"

Perry stared thoughtfully at the parched grass of the sloping front lawn for several seconds. "She doesn't work. Unless you consider moving from man to man and taking with her not only part of his heart, but most of his bank account a career."

Della clutched his shirt and buried her face in the crisp fabric. "I wish I didn't look so much like her," she said in a muffled voice. "No wonder my father never had any use for me. I reminded him of his greatest humiliation."

"What was it your grandmother said to you? Pretty is as pretty does? Nothing she's done has been pretty, Della, but everything you do is pretty."

"Now that I know she exists and where she lives, do I have to let her in my life? I really would rather not have to compete with her for your affections."

Perry laughed despite the seriousness of the moment. "She hasn't a chance with me," he assured her. "I have a feeling what we've seen so far is the 'normal' Eve, and I don't care for her one bit. I can't imagine what my reaction would be to her in the throes of her illness."

"I've decided I'm not going to feel sorry for myself, but should I feel sorry for her?"

"To a degree, I suppose you could. I can't tell you how to feel about her."

She pushed herself away from him again, but this time climbed completely out of his embrace and stood in front of him shaking out her wrinkled skirt. "I'm going to take a nap in front of a fan," she announced. "It really is too hot out here to cuddle."

Perry took her hand, well aware that she was running away from him to mull over everything he'd told her about her mother, closed off and alone. Della's predictable coping methods more than made up for her mother's deficiencies in that area. "I'll wake you up in an hour."

She squeezed his fingers. "You'll tell me what else Paul found out after dinner."

He nodded at her command. He'd told her the worst part, the part he'd dreaded, and she had taken it like a trouper. He could only hope she emerged from her nap in the same mood and that he could keep things on an even keel for her until she slept properly. She was floundering before his eyes, and it hurt to see her so out of sorts, unwilling to be placated by good sense. He would have to watch what he said very carefully, something he had never had to do with Della.