I Dreamed I Married Perry Mason (6 page)

I
t was the Spanish colonizers of Alta California who, early in the eighteenth century, gave Ventura its name, which derives from the Spanish word
buenaventura,
meaning “good fortune” or “good luck.” So how come it always took me forever to find a parking space? Good luck was definitely on the wane these days. In fact, as I ambled down Main Street I encountered a world of pain, with every possible disease or misfortune represented by a thrift shop of its own: Child Abuse and Neglect, Pet Abandonment, Battered Women, Disabled Veterans, etc. Not to mention it was freezing, which isn't exactly a plus in late summer in a beach town. I hadn't come equipped for the elements, so I slipped into a shop and bought a sweatshirt with a duck in sunglasses on the front. You should've seen the ones I didn't choose.

Aside from the thrift shops, Main Street boasted your usual assortment of souvenir shops, stocked with suntan lotion and other good-weather paraphernalia; a few high-end garden shops selling marble sundials, hand-painted
trellises, and cutesy signs that said things like,
I'M THE KING OF THE CASTLE UNTIL THE QUEEN COMES HOME
; and some genuine oddities, like the American flag and cutlery shop. I spent a while in the angel store, mesmerized by the wall full of angel-embossed Post-it note prayers. It was amazing how many people had sons in jail.

Erle Stanley Gardner, however, was the growth industry around here. If I had deeper pockets, I could have stocked a library full of first edition Perry Masons in five minutes flat. Storefronts were plastered with posters advertising Erle Stanley Gardner walking tours and Erle Stanley Gardner guidebooks, and if you were so inclined you could even buy something called “Podunk” candy at the local chocolatier, made from Erle Stanley Gardner's very own recipe. It stuck to your teeth, just like honeycomb.

As important as ESG was to Ventura, Ventura had been to ESG. Though he'd lived there for only fifteen years (from 1915 to 1917, and again from 1921 to 1933), it was in Ventura that he'd established his law practice and encountered many of the offbeat characters and bizarre situations that had worked their way into his mysteries. It was in Ventura that he'd developed the talent for cross-examination for which Perry Mason would become famous. And it was in Ventura that he'd written his first stories for the pulps, pounding them out with two fingers in a back room at his house on Buena Vista Street.

In Ventura, too, Gardner had met Jean Bethell, his second wife, the original Della Street. According to the story, he used to like to go to the Pierpont Inn, on Sanjon, to celebrate his courtroom victories. Jean had been working as the dining room hostess when he'd come in with a crook he was
defending. Immediately smitten, he'd asked her if she'd like to be his secretary. She'd said she already had a job, but that her sister, Peggy, needed one. Peggy wound up going to work for Gardner, and so did another sister, Ruth. Jean eventually followed family tradition. Later, she broke it by marrying her boss.

I pulled out my steno pad. I'd arrived at my destination, the gray Renaissance Revival building located at the corner of Main and California. According to the brass plaque affixed to its exterior, this was
HISTORICAL POINT OF INTEREST
#86. Constructed in 1926 at the height of the Ventura oil boom, it was the tallest building in town and had the first elevator in the entire county. It was also the birthplace of Perry Mason. Well, just about. The first draft of the first Perry Mason book,
The Case of the Velvet Claws,
was narrated into a dictaphone at Gardner's house, but it was here, in the third-floor law offices of Orr, Gardner, Drapeau, and Sheridan, that it was actually typed up. It was important I get things like that right. One slip could mean dozens of letters. Hundreds, if I was lucky enough.

I decided to go in and snoop around. My trusty editor, Sally, kept insisting the book needed more “picturesque details.” Fine.

The foyer was short on charm. There was dust everywhere and piped-in Muzak, but the walls boasted some choice memorabilia: a Xerox of a 1961 issue of
Look
magazine, promising to “spill all” about TV's Perry Mason, and a framed photograph of ESG himself, looking remarkably like a bespectacled Raymond Burr.

Burr had originally been asked to read for the part of the district attorney. But Gardner, who happened to be on the
set the day of Burr's audition, had taken one look at him and gasped, “That's Perry Mason!” Gardner later complained that Burr was “cow-eyed” instead of “granite-hard,” which I thought was tremendously unfair. Cows have nice eyes. And there was no getting around the fact that it was Raymond Burr who made the show a megahit. Like no one before or since, he embodied the notion that there were jobs worth doing and doing well. Plus, he drove the newest, shiniest cars, thanks to the succession of Detroit automakers who sponsored the series during the course of its nine-season run.

I scanned the building directory. These days, the offices in question were occupied by a La-Z-Boy rep and a multimedia company. Sounded like picturesque detail to me. I made my way up the narrow, twisting wooden staircase, admiring the pebbled-glass doors framed in wood, with their old-time transoms above. The third floor appeared deserted. And dustier than the foyer.

I started scribbling. This was unmistakably the template for Perry Mason's legendary setup: the corner of a suite of rooms that included two reception areas, a law library, a stenographic area, and a pair of private offices. The only difference was that first thing in the morning Perry would toss his fedora onto a bust of Blackstone, while ESG was said to have settled for an ordinary hatrack.

“Hello,” I called out. “Anybody here?” No answer.

There wasn't much in the main reception area except a scratched wooden desk and a swivel chair with a stack of Ventura phonebooks piled on its torn leather seat. I put them on the floor and sat down.

“Oh, Perry,” I said, channeling Della. “Another courtroom
triumph! Let's go out for dinner and drinks, shall we? I'll just straighten the seams on my stockings, and we'll be off. Oh, Paul Drake? Your unrivaled man on the ground? I'm afraid he won't be able to join us. He's got a headache.”

I was blushing, in character, when all of a sudden I heard a crash. I leapt up, sending my steno pad flying. Then I heard a scream. I ran for the stairs like the coward I was.

“Dear me, I didn't mean to scare you,” said a voice from out of nowhere.

I turned around. An older gentleman had poked his nose out of one of the back rooms.

“Those La-Z-Boy catalogs get heavier every year. Dropped one on my toe just now. Didn't mean to be yelping like a pup.”

That was my cue to go. It was seven
P.M.
, getting dark, and I was exhausted. Nobody was expecting me back home, so I decided to find a cute little inn, the kind you read about in the Sunday travel section. I'd have a glass of white wine, snuggle under the down comforter, and watch a cable movie. And no one would be around to chasten me about raiding the minibar. To hear my ex tell it, my minibar proclivities were more deleterious to our marriage than his sexual infidelity and emotional abuse combined. Go figure.

As luck would have it, there was a room with a courtyard view at the Beau Rivage, a small, European-style hotel tucked around the corner from ESG's office building. The clerk was a sweet kid who couldn't wrap his head around the fact that I didn't have a suitcase. Spontaneity was apparently dead in Ventura.

As soon as I got up to the room, I threw my clothes on the floor and flopped onto the bed naked, but only after having
stripped off the attractive floral coverlet. My mother had once told me that hotel cleaning people took special glee in wiping their dirty shoes on the bedspreads, which they never washed. My mother was full of urban legends that, sadly, I seemed unable to expunge from my consciousness.

Buster and Mimi. I almost forgot about those guys. A quick call to the ladies would take care of that. They knew I hid a key in a flowerpot in my front garden. “They” being the ladies, not the pets.

“Where exactly are you, dear?” asked Marlene, who had been known professionally as Hibiscus. Her voice sounded shaky. I suspected that cocktail hour had begun.

“In Ventura, doing some research on the book.”

“Oh, Ventura. How I adore the sea air. Now, don't you worry a thing about your babies. Lois and I will take care of them.”

“Thanks so much, Marlene. See you tomorrow.” Hibiscus and her sister, Lois, a.k.a. Jasmine, were on the job. Now for the minibar.

With visions of Toblerone dancing in my head, I got up, idly took a look out the window, locked eyes with a little boy in a dark suit, and dropped to the floor. A mere twenty feet below, in the bougainvillea-draped courtyard, a wedding party was under way—ring bearer, bride, groom, string quartet, the whole shebang. Why hadn't that front-desk kid warned me?

Slowly, I rose to my knees and peeked out the window. I was clobbered by pink. Pink roses, pink tablecloths, a towering pink cake. The ring bearer was whispering something to a mother-of-the-bride type clad in pink brocade. She looked up to my second-floor window and saw me. I gave her a sheepish little wave, but she was not amused. The wedding
planner had not prepared her for the naked woman. That was supposed to happen at the bachelor party.

Time to learn that things don't always work out.

At my wedding I was supposed to wear a sarong and carry fuschia orchids tied with raffia. There was going to be tiki music and torches and a suckling pig with an apple in his mouth. It may have been a bit fey for Asbury Park, I can see that now. In any case, I was vetoed. I carried a tight ball of white roses and wore a white gown that poufed in every conceivable direction. White represents purity, and the mothers had a point to make.

I sank back down to the floor, crawled the rest of the way to the minibar, and opened it. God help me, it was filled with healthy snacks: protein bars, electrolyte-enhanced H
₂
O, gorp sorts of things, the stuff you put in backpacks when you're hiking and swear never to touch once you're back within spitting range of a 7-Eleven. Catching sight of my thirty-nine-year-old body in the mirror, I decided I needed nourishment of any kind like I needed a hole in the head. I crawled back to the bed, slid between the sheets, and fell fast asleep. I dreamed I married Perry Mason.

T
he morning sun hit me square in the face. Bad Cece wanted to hit it back. But good Cece got up, made a pot of scary hotel-room coffee, and scrounged around under the night table for the yellow pages. Gilbert, Finster, and Johnson, Licensed Insurance Brokers, lower State Street. There it was. Unbelievable. The company where Jean Albacco and Maddy Seaton had worked was still open for business. And times must've been good—they'd taken out a full-page ad, which included a picture of their award-winning sales team, smiling their guts out.

I checked out and headed over to State Street. The roads were full of potholes. I sloshed coffee from my travel mug down the front of my wilted blue halter dress, but given that every day was now casual Friday, I figured I wouldn't look any worse than anybody else.

There were
WET PAINT
signs all over the front of the building. With my track record, I made sure to be extra careful when I swung open the mint-green double doors. I walked across a plush but ugly rug to a long, low desk. Sitting behind
it was a large middle-aged woman, flanked on the right by a younger version of herself and on the left by an older version of the same. All three wore stonewashed jeans, pink Lacoste shirts, and glasses with shiny gold frames. They were deep in conversation. The young one was furiously taking notes. She seemed to be serving her apprenticeship.

The trio looked up and flashed those award-winning smiles. “May we help you?” asked the middle one, clearly their leader.

“Yes,” I said. “I'm trying to find someone who worked here some time ago, a Madeleine Seaton. I'm wondering if she's still here, by any chance, or if you could tell me how I might locate her.”

A conference ensued. The old one spoke up.

“I knew Maddy Seaton quite well. She worked here forever, nice lady and all, but”—she blushed furiously—“well, I'm afraid she died last year.”

Shoot.

“Are you a friend? Or is it business? Might I answer a question for you?” The middle one reestablished control.

“Well,” I said, thinking fast, “I'm investigating a crime involving another person who worked here in the fifties, a Jean Albacco, and I thought Miss Seaton could help me out. Nothing to do with company business, of course,” I said quickly, sensing their alarm. “Is there possibly someone else who might've worked with them back then whom you could help me contact?”

“Is it an official investigation?” the young one piped up. The older women stared at her, nonplussed.

“Well, yes,” I blustered. It was official, sort of. Biographies are official. I had a publisher. I had gotten an advance.

Thinking it over, the old one said, “I was going to suggest
Mr. Gilbert, but he's so busy with his retirement party. Maybe the Johnsons? No, not the Johnsons. Try Jean's sister, Theresa Flynn. She lives on Chase and Centennial, over by the high school.”

“Yoo-hoo, over here!” said the middle one, peeved at having lost the spotlight. “I'll jot down her number and address for you.” She presided over the biggest card file I had ever seen. Must have been a custom job.

“And please remind her we've still got Jean's lockbox in our safe,” she added. “We must insist she come pick it up. She's responsible for it, and we've sent her so many letters on the matter. For years now.”

The old one giggled nervously at this. Then they all did.

Did Perry Mason ever have it this easy?

 

The eye that studied me through the peephole was green and very large. Jean Albacco's sister. I guess I passed muster because she opened the door—halfway. She had lots of fair hair and just enough of a smile. I liked her on sight.

“Yes?” she queried, patting her Gibson girl puff into place for the visitor.

Unfortunately, I didn't have any subterfuges planned, so I proceeded with the truth.

“Mrs. Flynn,” I said, “we haven't met, but I'm Cece Caruso and—”

“Cece who?” she asked.

“Caruso!” I bellowed. “Like the opera singer!” Too bad I was tone-deaf.

As Mrs. Flynn took that in, I continued, more soberly, “I'm doing some research on a book of local interest, and I'd
be really interested in chatting with you for a few minutes, if you have the time.” I handed her my robin's-egg blue card, which I had designed myself to resemble a Tiffany's box. I found it sort of embarrassing now, but I'd made the horrible mistake of ordering a thousand.

“Oh, please come in, Miss Caruso,” she said, smiling broadly. “I'm a widow. I've got lots of time. I'm an author, too,” she said. “A short book on Wordsworth, long ago. I used to teach English literature. I don't miss grading papers, not one whit, but I do miss the conversations. Sit down, dear,” she said, gesturing toward the sofa. “I've just made a pot of tea.”

The living room was small but graciously appointed—an upright piano with yellowed keys, a well-worn Victorian settee covered in burgundy sateen, a needlepoint pillow, an etched-glass vase, a framed print of some boaters, one good side chair. There seemed to be just one of everything, in fact, as if anything more would be somehow profligate.

I admired the roll-top desk in the corner.

“It was my sister Jean's desk,” Mrs. Flynn explained, emerging from the kitchen with our tea and a plate of butter cookies. “Actually, she inherited it from our grandmother, and I inherited it from her. It was a wedding gift from my grandfather's employer. Extravagant, don't you think? But my grandfather was an excellent worker. Forty-five years at the same job.”

I took a sip of tea. Then a bite of cookie. Then I cleared my throat. “Actually, Mrs. Flynn, it's your sister I'd like to talk about.”

Her puff drooped. She batted at it nervously. She was wearing a pretty ruby ring.

“Let me explain,” I persisted—cruelly, I suppose. “I'm writing a book about the crime writer Erle Stanley Gardner. You know, the one who wrote all the Perry Mason books?”

“Yes, I know. He's our local celebrity.”

“Anyway, my research put me in touch with your sister's husband, Joe, who once knew him. I'm trying to find out more about their relationship—Gardner and your brother-in-law's—and why Gardner would have tried to help him.”

“Help him? Why on earth would Joe have needed help? He killed a young woman with her whole life ahead of her! My sister was the one who needed help.”

“But that's just it. Can we be sure Joe was responsible for her death? I don't think Erle Stanley Gardner was convinced.”

“Miss Caruso, let me tell you something before you get in over your head. You've been fooled by that man. Don't feel too bad about it. It's not entirely your fault. He took us all in. He could charm a snake, my dear, always could. Tell me, does he still have that smile?”

I could feel my cheeks redden. But this wasn't about me. I couldn't let it be.

“Did he charm your sister, Mrs. Flynn?”

“Oh, that smile, those beautiful eyes, those beautiful words. He swept her right off her feet. She wasn't easy, my sister. She had a difficult childhood. Our father drank too much. And our mother looked the other way. Lace-curtain Irish. We had to be perfect little ladies. Jean couldn't stand that. She went through some rough patches.”

I sipped tea, and she talked about her dead sister.

“Jean was a good girl. She really was. But she always felt she was a disappointment to everyone, making one mistake after another, never living up to her potential.”

“That must have been difficult.”

“It was. For me, too. She used to see everything I accomplished as an attack on her, as part of some grand plan to humiliate her. But it wasn't like that. Not at all. I loved my sister dearly.”

“I can see that.”

“Joe changed everything. He worked some kind of magic on her. He made her feel special. And she
became
special. She truly did. She turned herself around. We didn't understand at first, how it all happened. It was right after his mother died that they got serious. Maybe he was vulnerable, maybe he saw something in her the rest of us didn't. Oh, she was pretty, Jean was, and smart as can be. But unpolished, not the kind everybody thought he'd wind up with.”

“From what I understand, Joe wasn't exactly born with a silver spoon in his mouth.”

“True. But he was on his way up, and everyone knew it. Jean knew it, too. She was sure they could make something of their lives, if only they stuck together. She wanted to be someone, you see. To show everyone. But it was all for nothing,” Mrs. Flynn said, her smile dissolving.

“Didn't you ever question his guilt?” I asked, hoping she'd throw me a crumb.

She looked away, as if to even acknowledge the question would be a betrayal.

Finally, she said in a low voice, “I did, at first. I didn't want to believe it. It hardly seemed possible that such a thing could happen, that this boy we all admired so much could be responsible for something so awful.” She grabbed hold of the arm of the sofa, as if she needed to steady herself.
I should have stopped her from going on, but I had to know.

“I went to see him in jail that first night, Miss Caruso,” she said, her eyes looking into mine now. “He was devastated. It was as if his soul had up and left his body. I was frightened—he wasn't moving, wasn't speaking. I worried about him, I did, but the evidence just seemed to mount.” Her voice rose. “And who else could have done it? Tell me. Who could have wanted to harm her? It was the only explanation. The police insisted. It's always the husband.”

I wasn't about to convince her that there were dozens of other scenarios that could have played out that night. This was the story she'd chosen to believe. I was ready to give up when she caught me off guard.

“Then I found the scrap of paper. It changed everything. Any doubts I may have harbored about Joe's guilt were gone forever.”

Mrs. Flynn was a refined woman, but not one to equivocate. She walked over to the roll-top desk, opened the bottom drawer, and took out a very small, very yellowed piece of paper. It was crumbling at the edges.

“Read what it says.”

“‘Meredith Allan. MI6-7979.'” I looked up. “I'm afraid I don't understand.”

She sighed. “Maddy Seaton, Jean's best friend, told me Jean suspected Joe of having an affair. The police as much as guessed that anyway. That's usually how it goes. But they couldn't find any proof. That was only because they didn't look hard enough. I found that scrap of paper stuck to the bottom drawer of Jean's desk a few years ago, when I was cleaning it out. The police must've missed it all those years
ago when they searched the house after she'd been killed. I had to peel it off the wood. It's Joe's handwriting, you see. And Meredith Allan was the richest, most beautiful girl in town. Joe fell in love with her—how could he help it?—and murdered my sister to be with her.”