Chapter 26
"I daresay this in an anniversary we'll never forget no matter how hard we try." Perry, freshly showered and dressed in a clean pair of khaki shorts, a loose-fitting navy blue, white and tan short-sleeved Hawaiian shirt and his new Converse sneakers, collapsed in the metal chair and reached out to take Della's hand. Eve had gotten sick all over him again as two orderlies at the hospital removed her from the back seat of the car and he stood holding the door open, necessitating his second shower of the morning. Despite the best efforts of a swarm of nurses and aids assisting him in cleaning up, his sandals were now in the burning barrel behind the garage along with Eve's ruined negligee and the ruined towels Henny had used to clean up the disgusting mess left behind from what had happened.
She gave him a quick smile and tangled her fingers with his loosely. Recently showered herself, she wore another of the $11.98 high school Home Economics sundresses, this one with a lightly gathered scoop bodice in a rusty red and cream check pattern and a band of red trim curving under the bust, a nipped waistline, and a very full skirt. The dress was simple but nicely made, and Perry thought she looked utterly charming sitting beneath the weeping willow. Her anniversary necklace matched the dress perfectly, and gave Della something to finger fretfully. "What did Paul have to say?"
"Pretty much only a meek 'yes sir' after I made it very clear how sadly lacking his report on your mother was and what information he'd better have for us damn soon. I don't understand how something like this could have slipped through."
"Perry, didn't Faulkner report she had a tendency to engage in destructive behavior?"
"He did, but that statement covers a broad spectrum of behavior. If she has a habit of injuring herself, we should have known about it before coming face-to-face with it as we did this morning."
"What if no one thought anything of her injuries, assuming there were any? What if we're all wet in thinking she purposely injures herself?" And why didn't you ask for details about Faulkner's statement, she thought traitorously.
Perry's face was all hard lines and frowning concentration. "We'll know about that later today," he replied shortly.
Della pulled her hand from his and wrapped her arms around her and shuddered as if suddenly chilled. "After all, it's only a suspicion I had since the waffle iron was cool to the touch and there were bloody footprints over by the cabinet where the liquor is kept." When she had pointed out this fact to Perry, they had both realized with sickening clarity that Eve Wyman must have injured herself with forethought.
"Everything adds up to Eve deliberately burning herself, Della. Stepping on the glass was probably an accident, as was miscalculating the amount of whiskey it would take to give her the courage to actually close the waffle iron on her hand, but it can't be any more obvious what happened was not an accident. Blame it on her mental problems if you'd like, but it doesn't take away from the fact she's very deliberate in her actions when she wants attention."
Della stared out over the lawn at the flower garden, a brilliant splash of color against the weathered grey privacy fence, and suffered a pang of regret that her grandmother wasn't there to enjoy the fruits of her diligent care. "It's not fair," she said.
"Very little in life is fair in general, but what specifically isn't?"
"Do you remember much about your father?"
"And you say I don't answer questions directly…yes, I remember quite a bit about him. Lyla didn't allow me to forget what I did remember."
"You have good memories of your parents."
"Far more good than bad, yes."
"It's not fair," she repeated. "Your parents loved you and did their best to raise you well, but they're not here. Neither of my parents loved me and contributed virtually nothing to my upbringing…and it's not fair. Your parents should still be alive and mine…" she couldn't finish her thought, one that simultaneously horrified her and made her incredibly sad. "I wish I could have met your mother and that you had never met mine."
"Della, she's your mother only by virtue of giving birth to you. As you said, she's had no part in your life, and if that's the way you want it going forward, that's your decision."
"Would your mother have liked me?"
"She would have loved you."
"She wouldn't have thought that as your secretary –"
"Della, my mother had no pretentions. She took people at face value. It's one of the greatest examples she set for me."
Della turned her gaze on Perry. "Stand back, I'm about to blurt something," she told him.
Perry chuckled with soft affection. "Warning me about it defeats the purpose, my love."
"I feel nothing for that woman. Absolutely nothing. I've tried to summon up an emotion, but I can't. Shouldn't I feel something?"
"Only if you want to feel something, Della. As far as I know, there aren't any written rules for how someone should handle a situation like this."
"I would hope not enough people face a situation like this to require written rules," Della commented earnestly.
"It has been an interesting few days," Perry agreed with a chuckle.
"I'm glad you can laugh about it," she said, slightly irritated because she couldn't.
"You'll laugh about it someday, too," he assured her.
"Miranda stole her grandmother's ruby starburst necklace and bracelet from this house."
Perry stared at her, stunned despite her earlier warning about blurting. "What?"
"Grandma Esther's gold starburst ruby necklace and bracelet, the pieces of jewelry Emmett couldn't find," she explained, her voice low and tinged with misery. "Remember how Miranda clutched her evening wrap up around her neck when we bumped into her and Peter at the club? She did it to hide the necklace and the bracelet. When I went back in to the dining room to get my wrap, I saw…I don't want to think of how she got the necklace because I can tell you with certainty that Grandmother didn't give it to her."
"Maybe your grandmother loaned it to her?"
Della shook her head. "No, she wouldn't have done that, either. Not even for Miranda, who she considered the perfect granddaughter."
"Wouldn't she have begrudged the jewelry only to Mr. and Mrs. Allensworth? After all, it was they who didn't uphold the bargain with Esther, not Miranda."
Della shook her head. "It wouldn't have mattered to Grandmother. She saw things very simply, and a deal was a deal. What should I do?"
"Who do you want to answer that question?"
"You. I want you to answer that question, not my attorney."
"Stick with the original plan," he said quickly and decisively. "You were happy with the decisions you made and from a selfish standpoint I benefit greatly from it, so the last thing I want are any changes to be made."
"Even after that woman threw up on you twice?"
"Especially after that woman threw up on me twice." He reached out and ran his finger down her arm. "I have a confession to make. The more I've gotten to know your mother, the less I think she resembles you, but when the doctor told Eve she had to have a tetanus shot and your father and I had to restrain her, I got a glimpse of what she must have been like when she was younger, and what I saw reminded me of you."
"Since I wasn't in the room at the time, should I be offended?"
"Not at all. She's stubborn and independent, much like a secretary with whom I'm well acquainted. But she's also royally messed up, because her coping mechanisms aren't as developed as yours."
"But you hate my coping mechanisms," she pointed out, grudgingly fascinated but nevertheless perplexed by his observations, unwilling to point out that her mother was as unbalanced mentally as a young woman as she was at the present time.
Perry heaved a huge sigh. "I don't hate anything about you, Della. If I ever used that word, I apologize."
"From here on out hate will be an emotion reserved for anyone who harms children, ugly Victorian pianos, and broccoli," Della declared.
"And the New York Yankees," Perry added very seriously.
Della laughed out loud. "And the Yankees," she amended.
Perry stood and stretched. "Why don't you stay out here and mull over what you want to do in regard to your mother and Miranda while I go inside and scrounge up something for lunch? It's almost one o'clock."
"Anything but fried chicken and potato salad," she called after his retreating back.
Perry rummaged around in the refrigerator and managed to cobble together a salad of freshly picked leaf lettuce, hard-boiled eggs, crumbled bleu cheese, red onion, and thin slices of London broil. For a dressing he combined home-made cider vinegar and oil in a crystal cruet and placed it on the very same tray he had used to carry Della's waffles to her earlier that morning, which Henny must have retrieved from the caretaker's apartment, bless her overly efficient soul. There were loaves of crusty French bread stacked on the counter and he helped himself to a loaf, as well as a plate of butter. Two tall glasses of iced tea joined everything on the tray and he nodded, pleased with the meal.
"That looks good."
Perry looked up in surprise to find Jameson Street standing in the doorway of the kitchen, a wooden box in his arms. "Della likes salad in the summer," he said a trifle lamely, for some odd reason feeling as if he needed to explain the food on the tray.
"You know my daughter well."
"I knew from the instant I met her she was worth knowing well. I can't believe you've known her a lifetime and never realized it."
Jameson Street moved into the room and placed the box on the table. He waved away Perry's pointed remark. "Here's the proof."
Perry knit his brows. "Proof? Proof of what?"
"I told you I had proof my mother cared about Della," Jameson replied with impatience. He placed his hands on the wooden chest and lifted the lid.
Perry leaned over to peer into the box and nearly gasped aloud. Staring at him was a framed picture of an infant Della, dark hair cascading down her back in soft curls, arms flung in the air above her head, a huge smile on her face, big eyes sparkly with pure delight.
"She was ten months old in that picture," Jameson told him. "Evie would ask her how big she was and she would throw her hands in the air and giggle…she was a beautiful baby. Everyone commented on how much hair she had."
"Yes," Perry croaked, totally enthralled by the visage of the smiling baby who was now the woman he loved.
"Evie called her 'pretty girl' almost as much as she called her by her name. Her first word was 'pretty'. As a matter of fact, she said it right after this picture was taken. She pointed to herself and said 'pre-ta'. Then she pointed to Evie and repeated it. At ten months old she understood the concept of prettiness." He shook his head as if in disbelief of the memory. "Everything was 'pre-ta'. The painting of flowers in the parlor, the sun as it sparkled on the snow, the cardinals that came to the bird feeder, the mangy stray cat Evie let into the house." He reached into the box and removed the photo. Beneath it was a tiny pink dress, an exquisitely knitted sweater and matching bonnet, a folded square of fabric edged with satin, a pair of scuffed white baby shoes with bells tied to the laces, and a coat made from the softest wool. Jameson laid out everything on the kitchen table for Perry to see. "This is the dress she's wearing in the picture. Esther made it, as well as the coat. My mother crocheted the sweater and the bonnet."
Perry was silent, still overcome by the photograph.
"Mother saved all of her school pictures, her reports cards, pictures she drew, and even all the birthday cards Della gave her." Jameson pawed through the remaining contents of the box. "Here are all her piano and dance programs, her first place ribbons for spelling down the school two years in a row…" he suddenly straightened and pushed the small wooden chest away from him. "Mr. Mason, I want you to give it to Della."
Perry cleared his throat. "Mr. Street, you should give this to Della yourself."
Jameson shook his head. "No, I want you to. And I want you to tell her that her grandmother cared. She'll believe you. She won't believe me."
Perry picked up the framed photo and stared at it, a lump in his throat. Those three little girls, the babies Della said weren't meant to be...would they have looked like the beautiful, laughing baby in the picture? He closed his eyes momentarily and took a deep breath. "All right. I'll give it to her." He put the photo back down on the table and picked up the tray. "I'd also like to arrange to have her great-grandmother's trunk and the slipper chairs from her bedroom shipped to L.A. Oh, and a couple of featherbeds she's partial to."
"Of course, whatever she wants. It all does belong to her."
Perry listened very carefully to Della's father but detected no bitterness in his words, just simple acceptance. "We won't take anything without asking you first." He turned to leave but a hand on his arm stopped him.
"Mr. Mason, thank you for taking care of Evie this morning. I should have insisted that she stay with Bitty, but I think by now you've figured out what a weak man I am. Since the failure of my last marriage I've tried to avoid confrontation with women since I generally come out on the losing end of those confrontations. Evie is particularly difficult to deal with as you well know."
Perry met the man's empty eyes over his shoulder. "She's a very attractive woman."
Jameson Street let out a little sigh. "Yes, she is. But unfortunately she hasn't changed much in the past twenty-five years. Her behavior is still predictably unpredictable. You must suspect that what happened to her this morning was no accident."
"I'm suspicious of most things," Perry replied carefully, "it's a hazard of my trade."
"I can tell you without reservation she deliberately burned herself. She used to hurt herself whenever she didn't get her way – fingers pinched in drawers, stubbed toes, sprained ankles, that sort of thing. I'm afraid I reinforced such behavior by giving in to whatever it was she wanted. This is the worst injury I've witnessed. I have a theory as to why she did it, but I'm not absolutely certain."
"I'll give you three guesses, and the first two don't count." Perry turned back to fully confront Jameson and set the tray back down on the table. Guilt stabbed at him for laying into Paul about Eve Wyman's penchant for harming herself when it was he who told him not to interview Jameson Street.
Jameson Street visibly wilted in front of Perry Mason. "I was afraid of that."
"What do you know of her life since she left?"
"Very little. But you know quite a bit, don't you, Mr. Mason?"
"I had her investigated," he replied cagily.
"Evie says you're a tight-lipped s.o.b." Jameson flashed one of his all-too-brief smiles.
"If you're speaking with your ex-wife and want information, why don't you just ask her?"
"Because she wouldn't tell me the truth...and maybe I really don't want to know. I've watched her around you Mr. Mason, and it's brought back some memories I'd rather not relive. I'll let her stay for only as long as you and Della are here, and then I'll insist she leave." He jabbed his finger at the photograph on the table. "I want Evie to be the young woman who laid on the floor in the parlor, asking our daughter how big she was so she could take that picture. She's not, and I'm responsible for what she's become."
"I believe your mother shares some culpability in that," Perry observed. "And let's not forget her mental state."
"I don't need you to excuse any part of what I did to Evie. There is no excuse. There is only shame and regret. Certainly in regard to Evie, but mostly in regard to Della."
"It's not too late. You could have a relationship with Della."
Jameson Street shook his head slowly. "No, Mr. Mason, I burned that bridge too. I'm not going to ask for something she doesn't want and can't give."
"Talk to her," Perry urged. "She'll tell you what she thinks in language that would make an old sailor blush, but in the end it will be worth it. She's quite remarkable."
Jameson Street's sad smile reached almost all the way across his mouth before disappearing. "I'm glad she has you as her champion and protector, Mr. Mason. Despite what you may think, I do want what's best for my daughter." He extended his hand. "I have business associates in the dining room waiting for me to begin our luncheon meeting. Since there are no suitable restaurants anywhere near, Mother always insisted upon preparing lunch herself here at the house. But I wanted to give you this now before things get any more complicated."
Perry took the man's proffered hand and shook it. "Think about what I said, Mr. Street."
"I've had twenty-five years to think, Mr. Mason. It's best this way for Della." He took a step back then stopped as a thought occurred to him. "Since the mill belongs to Della, maybe the two of you should join us for the meeting."
"No, I don't think we'll involve ourselves in anything until after the meeting tomorrow with Jeremy Brandis."
"You are a tight-lipped s.o.b.," Jameson Street said with obvious admiration.