“If it’s bad,” Mason told her, “you can believe it, if it’s good, it’s slander.”
She faced him with laughing, dark eyes, full red lips, parted to reveal teeth which glinted like whitecaps in the sun. The silk blouse, open at the neck, disclosed the sweep of her throat, the rounded curve of her firm breasts. “I saw you and Moms talking last night,” she said. “I’ll bet Moms told you all about the family mystery.”
“Mystery?” Mason asked.
“Uh huh,” she said. “Don’t stand there and act innocent.”
Della Street flashed Mason a quick glance. “What’s the family mystery, Belle?” she asked.
“The disappearing portrait,” she said. “Mother packed my autographed picture in Dad’s bag and locked the bag. When they unpacked, my picture was gone from the frame, and someone had inserted one of Winnie Joyce, my double. Now, what do you know about that?”
“I,” Della Street said, glancing reproachfully at Perry Mason, “know nothing about it. What does your mother think about it?”
“She’s making it darkly mysterious,” Belle said. “Don’t deprive her of her thrill. If she tells you about it, look frightened.”
“You don’t take it seriously, then?” Mason inquired.
“Me?” she told him, raising her chin and laughing up into his face. “I don’t take anything seriously — life, liberty, or the pursuit of love. I’m the flippant younger generation, Mr. Mason — born without reverence — yet reared without guile, thank Heaven.”