The Case of the Defendant's Daughter

by LilDrake

From a school assignment prompt, "Stuck Inside A Favorite TV Show." Features the OG characters and additions. . .you'll see.

The Case of The Defender's Daughter

"Beep-beep! Beep-beep! Beep-beep! Beep-beep!" There goes my annoying IKEA "KLOCKIS," right on me like a hound of hell. I groan and roll over to my left, intending to turn the clock off.

Just as I manage to get my hand on it, the sound is abruptly cut off. Then the clock disappears. My room starts to fade at the corners of my vision. What the—

That's when I feel it—I'm being sucked into some sort of vortex. Now I'm falling, falling, falling. . .

I shade my eyes against the noontime sun. It feels pretty warm—I'm definitely not in Michigan anymore. No, somewhere else. . .California maybe.

I turn around. Yep, definitely California. I'm standing in front of a looming building with LOS ANGELES COUNTY COURTHOUSE written on the face of it.

Self-consciously, I glance down at myself to check what I'm wearing. I was only wearing a thin long-sleeve T-shirt and leggings at home. . .

But thankfully here I'm attired in a sky blue sundress with lilac petals (fake of course) strewn about it.

"Hey," a voice behind me whispers.

I start and then sigh with relief. It's just Dora Mason, my best friend. She's attired in the exact same outfit as me, which isn't all that surprising; Dora and I typically match each other's outfits at home to provide the appearance of twins—even though I'm blonde and Dora's brunette.

"How did we get here?" I ask her.

She shrugs. "No idea. . .Hey, look."

Oblivious to whatever caught her eye, I stare puzzledly down the street while Dora saunters off in the direction of. . .well, whatever she saw.

A minute later she comes roaring back in a black convertible so polished that it gleams like brand-new silverware. Laying on the horn, she shouts, "Get in!"

"Where'd you get that?" I ask as I pull open the shotgun-side door and climb in. I don't ask if this is what she saw; it obviously is.

"I liberated it," Dora replies airily with a chuckle.

I consider this for a moment, then reply, "You didn't tell me that your dad taught you to hot-wire."

Abruptly, she switches off the engine, then switches it back on. The engine revs up, roaring to life. "No, dope, he left the keys in the car."

"Your dad? That's a stupid mistake. Your dad doesn't make stupid mistakes."

"Everyone makes stupid mistakes, Lilah, at least sometimes."

"Not your dad."

"My dad isn't a god, you know."

"Really? I didn't know that."

She shakes her head. "Shut up, I have to concentrate." She releases the clutch and puts the car in first gear. "God, this is hard. Should we go over to my dad's office and say hi?"

"No, he's probably busy."

"Is there a map in this car? I don't know where the hell I'm going."

I open the glove compartment, reach in, dig around for the better part of a map, and come up empty. . .

at first. Then I grasp a map and pull it out. "Just found it."

"Well, unfold it and just. . .pick a route. I don't care."

"There's nowhere in this city that you want to go?"

"Well. . ." Dora suddenly spins the car in a crazy turn.

"This is your dad's office."

"I know that."

"So you decided not to listen to me."

"Oh, I'm not going to Dad's office. Not yet. There are other people with offices in this building, you know. We should talk to Paul."

"He won't know us. Not yet. Not in this reality."

"This isn't a reality, Lilah. It's just. . .an era of the past."

"It's our reality right now."

"Look, do you want me to leave you in the car?"

"No."

"Good. That settles it."

We take the elevator up to the 9th floor. The elevator girl stares at us intently the whole way up. "Where are you girls' parents?" she asks suspiciously.

"Oh, my dad works here," Dora replies.

"I see." She turns to me. "And what about you?"

"Oh, mine too."

When the elevator stops, the girl says, "Good luck" and we step out.

Dora turns to me, puzzled. "Who's your dad supposed to be?" she whispers as we start heading toward Paul's office.

"Oh, that. Well, if she asked, I was going to say that—"

"—That Paul's your dad?" Dora finishes.

"Well, yeah. I mean, he could be. You look at him, you look at me. . ."

"Superficially, perchance."

I grin at "perchance" and knock at the door.

A young woman—Paul's secretary, I'm guessing—opens it. "Yes?" she asks.

"Is he free right now?" Dora asks, jumping right in.

"Yes. Do you have an appointment with him or. . .?"

"Oh, we don't need one," I hastily reply. "He's my dad."

Her eyes narrow. She doesn't believe me. She hesitates.

"Please?" Dora puts on her sweetest smile.

The secretary sighs. "Fine. Just a minute." She ushers us into a waiting room. "Wait here. And don't touch anything."

We nod and she steps into Paul's office.

I start to reach for a framed photograph of Perry, Paul, and Della.

Dora smacks my wrist. "She just said not to touch anything!" she hisses.

I sullenly pull my arm back. "He's my dad, remember?"

"Not really—"

A swing of the door cuts her off. Paul steps out and whispers something to his secretary. She nods and vanishes into her own office.

Paul strides over with a broad smile. He pulls me and then Dora into a hug.

Wow, I think. He really does know us.

Paul, his arm around my shoulders, leads the way into his office. Dora jogs beside him.

"How was school, honey?" he asks affably.

"Oh, the same. . .just the same, Dad."

He nods, shuts the door, and steers us to two chairs. Sitting jackknifed in the big armchair, his eyes half-closed, he asks, "So, who are you and just what are you doing here?"

Both of us start talking at once. I glance at Dora. "You go first."

"No, you go first."

"No you. . ." I trail off as Paul noisily sighs. I take it upon myself to answer the question. "Uh, 'Lil' and 'Dor,' remember?"

"No. I've never seen you two before in my life."

"Well, that's odd," Dora replies. "I suppose you can explain this, then." She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a photo of her, me, and Paul. She walks over and hands it to him.

Paul inspects the photo. His gaze flicks to us, then the photo, then back to us, then back to the photo again. "Where did you get this?" he asks slowly.

"Our home. The hotel."

"The hotel?" Paul echoes.

"You know, my house," I explain. "In Pinckney."

"Pinckney, Michigan," Dora clarifies.

"I'm the girl from the frigid arctic tundra, remember?" I grin at him.

He shakes his head. "How did you even get here?"

"In Dad's car," Dora answers.

"Who's your dad?"

"Perry Mason."

Paul laughs aloud. "Right. That's good. And your mother?"

"Della Mason."

"There's no Della Mason. There's only Della Street, his secretary. . ."

"I can prove it."

"Oh really?"

"If I'm not his daughter, why would he leave his keys in the ignition. . .for me?" She pulls out the keys and tosses them to Paul. He catches them, almost robotically. "I can personally vouch for the fact that he never does that, but when we got there, he did. He wasn't there; it was parked in front of the courthouse—with the keys in the ignition. How do you explain that, Mister Detective?" She smiles despite herself.

Paul stands, walks to his desk, and pulls something out. I'm hoping it's a top-secret message confirming who we really are—or maybe even instructions on how to get out. It's not. It's a package of cigarettes.

He pulls one out. "Want one?" he offers.

We scoff and shake our heads.

"Suit yourself." Soon he's back in the armchair, serenely smoking. "So, let me get this straight: You're Perry Mason's daughter—no, Perry and Della Mason's daughter—and you and your pal here decided to take a road trip into the past. Do I follow?"

"I believe so," Dora agrees.

"We don't really know how we got here," I add.

"Hmph. All right, fine. For the moment, I'll believe you." He looks to Dora and gestures toward the left-hand wall with his cigarette. "Do you want to go in there? Your parents aren't busy right now."

"Oh, well. . .Maybe later."

"In that case. . .Hmm. . .There, I've got it." He leapt to his feet. "Get your best clothes on, girls. You're going to a party."

We exchange a glance, at once thrilled. . .and dismayed.

We turn to Paul. "You see here. . ." I trail off.

Paul sighs. "Let me guess. You left your entire wardrobe in the future."

"Uh. . ." Dora begins.

"More or less," I finish for her.

Paul shakes his head, then brightens. "Well, we might be able to manage something. Come along."

He heads for the door. We follow right on his heels.

We split up after exiting the office. Dora and I start to head for the elevator while Paul calls to his secretary, "Margo, I'm out for the day."

"Mmhm." She hardly seems to hear what he's saying. A moment later Paul joins us in the elevator, which we've been keeping open for him.

As we make our way down to the ground floor, Paul double-checks that the elevator girl isn't eavesdropping and then whispers to us, "So, what's the future like?"

"It's. . .different," Dora responds.

"How different?"

"Well, these—" She gestures to the elevator—"are all electric. You just push a button for the floor you want to arrive on. There aren't any elevator girls. . . .Hmm, let's see. Cars have an automatic transmission. . .

Computers are different than they are now. They're smaller, for one, and then there's these mini ones called cell phones. . ." Dora reaches into her pocket before realizing she left her phone at home. "Anyways, there are a lot more ways the future is different. . ."

She trails off as the elevator doors open. Dora takes out a wallet—a black leather one from her dad's car—pulls out a Ben Franklin, and hands it to the elevator girl. "Keep the change," she tells her before walking out.

Paul and I gape at her. "Dora," I whisper. "That was a hundred dollars."

"I know it."

"It's your dad's money."

"I know that too. Trust me, he can afford it."

"But still. . .a hundred dollars, Dora!"

She shrugs. "I was feeling generous."

We reach the car. Paul opens the driver's side door and points to the back. "You two can sit there. I'm driving, and that's final."

We don't protest; we simply ignore the first part and climb into the front seat beside him.

Paul sighs, mutters something under his breath, and stomps on the accelerator.

Panicked, we shout at him to slow down. "Hold on to something, then," he responds. "Or would you rather walk?"

That shuts us up permanently—for the rest of the drive at least. Pretty soon we arrive at Robinson's, where Dora and I pick out two identical sky-blue dresses.

A little while later, we arrive at the house of "a friend" of Paul's—he won't tell us more than that. After we enter the house he turns us loose to mingle.

I notice that there's more adults than kids there—and quite a lot of alcohol. A waiter passes by carrying champagne glasses. "Champagne?" he offers.

We each take a glass.

"This is illegal, you know," I admonish Dora as she downs her glass and quickly reaches for a second from the tray.

She shrugs and nudges my shoulder playfully. "Come on, Lilah. Live a little! It's 1960, not 2025."

"I know that."

"Well then, act like it."

I sigh in resignation and take a small sip, and then a larger one.

"It's good, isn't it?" Dora asks smugly, grinning proudly over her victory.

"Perchance." I'm not letting her win, no sirree. She may be a Mason, but I'm not going to lose to her.

"Come on," she coaxes and raises her glass. "Cheers."

I smile and we clink glasses.

"Come on over!" a girl about our age calls out. We follow her to a wide circle. . .and a bottle in the middle.

"Oh no," I groan.

The girl grins wickedly. She pulls her hand to be in front of her to form an imaginary microphone. "I'm Julie Vanderbilt, and it's time to. . .SPIN THE BOTTLE!"

There are cheers from the boys and groans, murmurings, and shudders from the girls.

Julie Vanderbilt whirls to face us. "What are your names?"

"I'm Dorothy—Dora."

"And I'm Lilah."

Julie grins again. "Well, well, boys, here are two more."

More cheers. I groan and tug at Dora's sleeve. "Dora, can't we—"

"Shut up," she hisses to me. "You know Paul put us up to this on purpose. If we chicken out now we'll never hear the end of it. If we suck it up and come out on top. . ."

". . .He'll never hear the end of it," I finish.

She grins. "Exactly." With that, she whirls to face Julie. "We accept your challenge, Miss Vanderbilt."

"Julie, please. Miss Vanderbilt sounds like the name of a princess."

"You are a princess," one of the boys mutters.

The group—including us—shares a laugh.

"Anyways, enough dillydallying. You—what was your name again?" She points at me sheepishly.

"Lilah."

"That's too long. I'll just call you Lil. Spin the bottle, please, Lil."

"All right." I reach for the bottle while silently praying it doesn't land on me.

Thankfully, it doesn't. The front lands on Dora. . .and the back lands on a boy who seems disturbingly familiar.

"Kiss him! Kiss him, Dora!" Julie exclaims, grinning wildly.

Dora groans herself and turns to the boy. . .Suddenly her eyes widen. "Sam?" she exclaims in disbelief.

Sam gapes as he recognizes her. "Dora?"

"What are you waiting for? Kiss him!" Julie practically screams at Dora, while I turn to Sam and ask, "Why don't you kiss her instead of talking her to death?"

He sighs and then does, indeed, kiss her. The entire circle erupts in cheers.

Julie turns to Sam, glances at him, then Dora, then back to him again. The rest of the game is already entirely forgotten. "Do you two know each other?"

Sam and Dora glance at each other. "Uh. . .yeah. I'm her boyfriend."

"And I'm his girlfriend," she adds unnecessarily.

"What! You can't. . .I mean, maybe for other spin the bottle games. . ." She says "other" with the most contempt I've ever heard in my life. . ."But ours clearly dictates that you can't kiss your boyfriend or girlfriend. You have to kiss someone else."

Sam stammers for a moment, then bursts out, "Well, if that isn't stupid as hell. . ."

The circle erupts in chaos, everyone shouting at someone else. I—along with a few other girls—try to break it up, but to no avail. The most heated quarrel seems to be between Dora and Julie, who's insisting that Sam is her boyfriend.

"You mean you've gone out with him?!"

"Hey, he never told me he had a girlfriend or anything! Don't blame me here! Blame him!"

"If you've kissed him I'll kill you."

". . .Does spin the bottle count?"

Dora leaps to her feet, fire in her eyes. If someone doesn't step in soon, she might actually kill her.

So I take it upon myself to be the one. I lay a hand on her arm comfortingly. "Come on, Dora. Let's go upstairs."

She glares at me for a moment. I hold her gaze. She sighs and swaggers toward the stairs with me in tow. When she reaches the first room with an open door she pulls me inside, then slams the door. The sound carries throughout the house.

I open my eyes, unsuccessfully attempting to hold back a yawn. I roll over, flop to the floor, and groan.

"Lilah? Was that you who made that noise?"

"Uh-huh."

"Want to go home?"

"Do I ever!"

She laughs quietly. "Want to go for a walk?"

"Sure." By the time I've pushed myself up Dora is already standing by the door, her hand on the knob. "Come on."

We walk down the hall and down the stairs to the first floor. I tug on Dora's sleeve. "Look."

She follows my gaze to a singular first-floor room—the only one with the door open and the light on.

Without a word, we slip into the bedroom.

The chrome lamp shines overhead, illuminating the sleeping form of Julie Vanderbilt. . .

Wait. Is that blood? It is. . .and how did that disco ball get in pieces. . .?

I gasp. "Dora, she's. . ."

Dora stumbles over to the bed, grips the disco ball shard. . .

"Don't touch that!" I grab her arm. "We're not even supposed to be in here. . .And now you just got your fingerprints all over the murder weapon."

Dora gasps as the gravity of the situation sinks in. "Well, come on, let's pull up the bedsheets, people won't notice right away."

"Dora, isn't that a crime?"

"Well. . .no. . .not exactly. . .Come on."

So we unroll the bedsheets and cover Julie with them, giving the appearance that she's merely sleeping, covering up all the gory stuff. And we would have gotten away with it, too. . .

If Paul Drake hadn't chosen that particular moment to come into the room. "Girls, what the hell are you doing?"

We swing around to face him. "Uh, nothing!" I reply. "Nothing at all."

"Yeah, we were just. . .adjusting the sheets," Dora tags on.

"Yeah, adjusting the sheets, they were. . ."

"Crooked," we finish in unison.

"Yeah, right," Paul scoffs. "You're not fooling me, Lil." He swings his head to Dora. "And you're not off the hook either. I saw everything."

Dora and I exchange a glance. "So. . .you remember us now?" I ask.

"I remember enough." With that, he heads for the door.

"Where are you going?" we cry out desperately.

"To make a phone call."

Ten minutes later Dora and I are seated in—you guessed it—Perry Mason's office. Dora's father sits at his desk, with Della sitting beside him, taking down our conversation. Paul sits by the door, apparently dozing in an armchair.

"So you didn't kill Miss Vanderbilt?"

"No. . .and Lilah had nothing to do with it either."

"You also claim to be my daughter." He and Della share an amused smile.

"That's right, I am."

"And you didn't even threaten to kill her?"

"Well. . .no."

"Tell the truth, Dora."

"Well, I did. . .But I didn't mean it. I wouldn't kill anybody."

"But it sounds like you intended to kill her."

"But I didn't!"

He raises a hand. "I'm not saying you did. I'm saying it sounds that way. . .which means Hamilton will believe you killed her."

"Hamilton," Dora groans. "Hamilton Burger."

"Is there any other Hamilton?" Paul calls out teasingly.

"Shut up, Paul, this is serious," Dora snaps. Then she shakes her head. "Sorry."

"Forget it."

Dora turns back to her father. "Dad. . ."

"Although the two of you didn't commit the murder," he interrupts, "you did try to cover up the fact that she had been murdered. Isn't that correct?"

She sighs and looks at the floor. "Yeah."

Suddenly the door opens. . .and in bursts Lieutenant Arthur Tragg. "Dora," I whisper.

She looks over her shoulder and groans. "This gets better and better," she mutters.

Tragg appears surprised to find all of us here, but I know he's no fool. "Perry and Della, what a surprise." He closes the door and spots Paul. "Paul too—a full house."

He strides over to Perry Mason's desk, acting like he owns the place. His gaze lights on us. "Ah, just the two young ladies I came to see. You wouldn't happen to be Dorothy Mason and Lilah Coelius, would you? It's imperative that I. . .chat. . .with them."

"Perchance, perchance not," Dora whispers to me. I giggle, despite myself.

Tragg's features harden even more. "I'm afraid I'll have to take the two of you into custody. Hands behind your back, please."

Dora and I exchange a look. This is it, then. But there's nothing else we can do but comply.

"This is ridiculous," Dora protests. "We didn't murder anybody!"

"Miss Mason—and Miss Coelius as well—you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand your rights?"

"Yes," Dora and I chorus crossly. Tragg marches us out of the room.

"This is nice," Dora whispers to me, after we've been locked in our cell. "All this time to ourselves. It's like being on vacation."

"Stop quoting Spy School and start thinking."

"About what?"

"About who could have murdered Julie Vanderbilt, dope."

"Well, not us."

"Duh. But who?"

"Hmm. One of those boys, maybe? Maybe the one who called her a princess. . .or one of his friends."

The cell door opens and shuts. We turn to it expectantly. . .

But it's not Perry who stands at the front of the jail cell. It's Della. For some reason, I'm happier that she's there. A glance at Dora confirms she's thinking the same thing.

"Sorry, girls, it's just me today."

"Where are. . ." Dora trails off.

"Your father and Paul are off on an. . .errand."

"To help with the case?" I pry eagerly.

She shakes her head. "That's all I know." She pulls Dora into a comforting embrace, then pulls me in too. She sighs. "What were you even doing at the Vanderbilts' home?"

"Paul took us there," I reply, not wanting Dora to get in more trouble.

She shakes her head. "Paul. I should have known."

"What's wrong with the Vanderbilts?" Dora wonders aloud.

"What's wrong with the—Oh, that's right. Well, honey, let's just say the Vanderbilts are. . .associated with some. . .questionable elements."

"You mean, like criminals?" I blurt out.

"Yes, like criminals. . .Mr. Vanderbilt especially. He's involved in some particularly shady activities

. . .And I don't suppose Paul has told you about Mrs. Vanderbilt. . ."

"What's wrong with her?" Dora asks innocently.

Della shakes her head again. "Not her so much as Paul. . .and her."

"You mean. . ." I trail off, horrified to continue the thought.

"What?. . .Oh, not like that. Not exactly."

"So, have they found anything yet?" Dora asks nervously.

"I don't know. The police seem to have a pretty solid case. . .what with your fingerprints on the murder weapon and the other shards on the floor—and yours and Lilah's fingerprints on the bedsheets."

I groan and turn to Dora. "The sheets! I told you that was a bad idea!"

"Let me guess: you thought it'd slow the discovery of her death."

"Well, it did a little. . ." Dora begins.

Della shakes her head a final time, checks her watch, and gasps softly at the time. "Well, I have to get going." She gives us one more hug and then leaves.

When she's gone I turn to Dora once more. "Dora, what on earth did your mother mean. . .about your fingerprints being on 'the other shards'? Why would they be on the rest of the disco ball? You didn't touch that."

Dora sighs and looks away. "No, actually, Lilah, I did. I was in that room earlier that night."

"What? Why didn't you tell me? Or. . .?"

"Because it would make me look guilty. I went into the room, intending to talk with her, when she swung the disco ball at me. We wrestled over it for a solid minute—it was above the bed, which we were both standing on—and then it. . .and she. . .crashed to the floor. But she wasn't dead, I swear! She was just hurt. I promise!"

"Best friend honor?"

"Best friend honor."

"That's not good enough. We have to shake on it." We perform our secret handshake.

"Okay. Happy now?"

"Good enough."

I fidget in my seat a bit as Hamilton Burger calls his last witness to the stand. He's already established that we were present at the scene of the crime, that the police found our fingerprints on the bedsheets and Dora's fingerprints on all the disco ball shards—including the one used as the murder weapon, and that Dora had plenty of motive—jealousy over a boyfriend—and furthermore "threatened to murder the decedent."

Now he's called the boy who called Julie Vanderbilt a princess: David Randolph.

After he's sworn and takes his seat, Burger strides over to him. "Mr. Randolph, where were you on the night of July 17th?"

"I was at the Vanderbilt house."

"In other words, the home of the decedent."

"Yeah, you could say that."

"I am saying that. Now, Mr. Randolph, what were you doing at the home of the decedent?"

"I was taking part in a social gathering—a party, to be specific." He sounds like he's rehearsed the line, like he's reading it off a script.

"I see. And were the defendants present at this. . .'party'?"

"Yes, sir, they were."

"Tell me, Mr. Randolph, did either of the defendants suddenly become violent, or threaten someone with violence?"

"Well, the dark-haired one there—I think her name was Dora or something like that—got really mad at Julie—excuse me, Miss Vanderbilt—when we were playing Spin the Bottle."

"And for those of us not familiar with Spin the Bottle, can you briefly explain what that is?"

"Certainly. It's a game where you spin a bottle, and when it stops spinning, the rear part faces you and the front part faces the person you have to kiss."

"I see. And what did Miss Mason say to the decedent?"

"Well, there was some trouble over the girl's boyfriend—I guess Julie had been dating him or something like that—and the girl got real mad all of a sudden and said something like 'If you've kissed him I'll kill you.'"

"And those were the defendant's exact words?"

"Yeah, that's what she said."

"Thank you." Burger turns to Perry with a malicious smile. "Your witness, Counselor."

Perry stands up and strides over to the witness stand, unfazed by Burger. "Mr. Randolph, I apologize for the inconvenience," he says rather graciously. "This shouldn't take too long."

"All right."

"Now, isn't it true that you were in love with the decedent?"

"Your honor, I object!" Burger exclaims. "Whether or not the witness was in love with the decedent is incompetent, irrelevant, and immaterial."

"Those aren't your words," Dora whispers to me. We share a grin.

"Counselor, what is your reason for asking this question?" the judge asks.

"I intend to connect it with potential motive, Your Honor."

"Very well. Objection overruled. Answer the question, Mr. Randolph."

"Yeah, I guess I was."

"You guess or you were?"

"I was. So what?"

"Isn't it true, Mr. Randolph, that you knew of the relationship between the decedent and the defendant Miss Mason's boyfriend, were jealous of said relationship, and decided to—"

"Objection! Leading questions!"

"Your honor—" Perry begins.

"Yes, Counselor. Objection overruled. The witness will answer the question."

"Yeah, I was jealous. But I didn't kill her!"

"I submit that you did, Mr. Randolph. I submit that when the defendant Miss Mason had left the room, you entered it—you were waiting outside and had seen and heard everything that had transpired—and found Miss Vanderbilt stunned on the floor. I submit that you picked up one of the shards of the disco ball off of the floor and came toward Miss Vanderbilt. I submit that she tried to fight you off, but you overpowered her and stabbed her, that she fell back on the bed, and—"

"All right, all right, all right! I did it, okay? I did it. I killed her." He takes a breath and adds, "My whole life I loved her. . .and did she ever, even once, acknowledge my existence? So I decided that if I couldn't have her, no one else could. Ever!"

The next day, Dora and I sat with Perry, Della, and Paul at Clay's. "So I was right, then," Dora says. "It was him."

"I have to say, Perry, how did you figure that out?" Paul asks.

"Well, Paul, it's the oldest story in the book—the unrequited love who determines, as our criminal did, 'If I can't have them then no one else can.'"

"Right, that makes sense. But how did you know that that was the motive?"

"A few things, actually. For one, the line 'I was taking part in a social gathering. . .' was obviously rehearsed, something to elevate his image—or to cover up something.

"Second, he seemed just a little too cavalier on both direct and cross. In direct, he responded with 'Yeah' too many times to not be considered suspicious. And you'll remember on cross he kept getting more and more insolent with me—more and more defensive.

"But what made me absolutely certain was his vehement denial that he had committed the crime—a sure sign of guilt. Satisfied?"

"I suppose." Paul turns to us. "So, girls, how was your time in jail?"

"Oh, wonderful," I reply.

"Yeah," Dora pitches in. "All that time to ourselves. . .It was like being on vacation."

I elbow her in the ribs, hard. She elbows me back, and we go back and forth. . .

Suddenly the door swings open, and Sam Drake heads over to our table. Dora starts to slide underneath

the table so he doesn't know she's there, but I yank her back up roughly. As he sits on the other side of her—right across from his father—she groans. "Samuel Oliver Drake. . .the reason we even got into this mess!"

"That's not fair," he argues. "It was her fault too, you know. . ."

"All right, that's enough," Paul breaks in harshly. Then he narrows his eyes at his son. "And how the hell did you get here, anyway—"

"Oh, I didn't drive, if that's what you're getting at."

"Then how. . .?"

A young woman who looks quite a lot like me takes a seat beside Sam—Paul's oldest daughter, Lisa. "I drove him, Dad."

Paul's eyes widen slightly at seeing her, but he says nothing.

The door bangs open again, and someone else makes their way towards our table.

"Why can't people just leave us alone!" Dora protests. Della shakes her head at her.

The man bows to us in greeting and removes his hat. It's Lieutenant Tragg.

"Tragg!" we all groan in unison, or at least something along those lines.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Sam mutters. Dora kicks his foot, hard. Showing admirable

self-control, he doesn't even acknowledge her.

If Tragg is offended by Sam's remark, he doesn't show it. He's all business. He turns to us apologetically and says, "Miss Mason, Miss Coelius, I believe I owe the two of you an apology on behalf of the Los Angeles Police Department. Please accept this apology and. . ."

"Oh, it's all right," Dora replies graciously—far too graciously, in my opinion. "It was a pretty circumstantial case, of course, but it looked like we were the ones who had done it. I might have even thought the same thing—at first."

Tragg just shakes his head. "Well, anyway. . ." Trailing off, he turns to Perry, not bothering to conceal his admiration. "Well, Perry, I must say you managed this affair quite splendidly and impartially—despite the fact that one of the defendants was your own daughter."

Perry Mason bowed at the praise. "Well, at the end of the day, Lieutenant, even my daughter is just another client."

Tragg nods. "Very well. Good-bye, all of you."

"Would you like to stay?" I offer. Dora looks to me, shocked. I can hardly believe I just uttered the words myself.

Tragg hesitates. "Well, I shouldn't. . ."

"No, really," Paul insists. "The young lady is right. I have to get back to work now, anyway." He rises from his seat and slips on his coat.

"Good-bye, Paul," Della replies.

"Bye, Paul," Perry echoes.

The goodbyes travel round the table until Paul wishes a final good-bye to us all and then pulls Dora and me into a hug. "Bye, girls," he whispers.

"Bye, Paul," we whisper back.

"You still owe me $100, by the way," I slip in.

"What the—No, Lil, you owe me $100. I've kept a record, you know."

I laugh. "Stay out of trouble," I warn.

He winks.

Tragg turns to Perry, a question clearly written on his face. "Perry, there is one point I was hoping you could enlighten me on."

Perry shoots us an amused glance. "Shoot."

"How the hell did you know that kid was the real murderer?"

Perry smiles. "My dear Lieutenant, it was mere child's play. You see here. . ."

THE END