False Conception Read online

  “In what way?”

  “Rutherford was—is—hard as nails. He was the toughest negotiator in the rag trade on the West Coast, with suppliers, staff, ad media, everyone. The deals he cut with the New York manufacturers were legendary—his margins were bigger than anyone’s. But he needed someone to smooth the feathers he ruffled and Ethan Brennan was that guy. Ethan kept the staff happy with a bonus system, the models happy with a better rate, the suppliers happy with consistently high volumes, and the customers happy by living up to the motto he came up with—‘Colbert’s cares.’”

  “Sounds like quite a guy.”

  “He was. What he also did was keep the old man from making mistakes of hubris—not too large an inventory, or too rapid expansion, or too big a sales staff, that kind of thing. I think it’s fair to say that without Ethan Brennan, the Colbert stores wouldn’t exist today. One recession or another would have wiped them out.”

  From the look on his face, Russell was hoping his essay would slake my thirst. “I’m losing track of the names and numbers of the players,” I said after a moment. “You’ve got Rutherford and his kids—Stuart and Cynthia. And Stuart’s wife Millicent’s family—her father worked for Colbert’s too, right?”

  Russell nodded. “Millicent’s father, Leonard Stanley, was comptroller for the stores. He’s retired.”

  “And now we’ve got the Brennans.”

  “Ethan and Opal. And their daughter, Clara.”

  “Cozy situation.”

  He laughed. “Rutherford was rather like a potentate there for a while—Santa Ana Way in St. Francis Wood was virtually a company town. The old man’s big place came first, then the Stanleys moved in next door. When Ethan Brennan became Rutherford’s right-hand man, he and his family moved out there, too. It was a pretty closed society, apparently—wives played bridge, husbands played golf, kids smoked dope and went surfing and got in minor scrapes together—you know what I mean.”

  I compared life in St. Francis Wood with the life I’d led in Chaldea, back in the frigid Midwest. “Vaguely. And it sounds a little incestuous.”

  “After they were grown,” Russell continued, “Stuart and his sister each bought a house in the area, too, so they could stay close to the old man.”

  “Keeping their eye on the prize, as it were.”

  Russell grinned. “Something like that.”

  “Where does Clara come in?” I asked, as Russell paused to see if I was satisfied with the information I already had.

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “I’m not either,” I said. “So tell me what you know about her.”

  “Not that much, actually; mostly just hearsay.”

  “Hearsay’s fine.”

  “Clara was the Brennans’ only child. She grew up next door to the elder Colberts. I think she was between Millicent and Stuart in age—maybe two years younger than Stuart.”

  “So Stuart has known Clara Brennan since childhood?”

  “Sure.” Russell frowned. “But what does she have to do with anything? I haven’t heard her name in years.”

  “Tell me what happened to Ethan Brennan,” I said instead of answering his question.

  Russell blinked. “What makes you think something happened to him?”

  “The look on your face when I mentioned his name.”

  Russell did some more sailing, then raised his face to the sun, as though it would bleach out the smudges in his brain. “Rutherford Colbert is not a generous man,” he began.

  “Titans of commerce seldom are.”

  “True. Anyway, as the years went by and the empire expanded, Ethan Brennan wasn’t being compensated nearly as well as he should have been, given his contribution to the company. Everyone knew it, Ethan most of all. But by the time Rutherford took out his own salary and the dividends were paid on his stock and the children’s shares as well, there wasn’t much left for poor Ethan. It began to grate on him and he asked for a better salary, but Rutherford wouldn’t give in, except in the form of a 10 percent nonvoting interest in the business. Which was marginally better, but it still left Ethan on the short end, no better off than the kids. I’m pretty sure Ethan was ready to quit—Magnin’s wanted him awfully bad at one point. But for some reason, he took matters into his own hands.”

  “How?”

  Russell’s look turned grave. “Embezzlement. Big time. Hundreds of thousands of dollars.”

  “When?”

  “Early seventies.”

  “Was he prosecuted?”

  Russell shook his head. “Rutherford offered a deal. Ethan was fired, of course. And he agreed to turn over most of his liquid assets to Rutherford in partial restitution, and to leave the state, and to keep out of retailing forever. In return, Rutherford would keep the embezzlement under wraps and forgo any contact with the authorities. Since it was a private company, he could do that; if it were public, the stockholders would have had to be told.”

  “Ethan agreed to all this?”

  “Etthan killed himself.” Russell’s face turned ashen, even in the heat of the sun. “Which I suppose is a form of consent, given the situation.”

  “Or confession.”

  Russell nodded.

  “Where did this happen?”

  “The suicide? At the Colbert mansion in St. Francis Wood. Ethan shot himself on Rutherford’s front porch.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Indeed.”

  “What happened to the rest of the Brennan family?”

  “Rutherford bought the Brennan house out of probate and gave it to his wife, Delilah, after they separated. Opal Brennan stayed on in the house to care for Mrs. Colbert.”

  “Rutherford and his wife live in separate houses?”

  He nodded. “Delilah has a mental problem.”

  “What kind?”

  “She’s obsessive-compulsive, among other things, particularly about personal hygiene. It got so bad, she wouldn’t let Rutherford wear shoes in the house. When she insisted he wear rubber gloves to bed, he had to move her to separate quarters. She’s virtually a recluse.”

  “How about the daughter? What happened to her after her father died?”

  “Clara was seventeen when it happened, I think. She was an only child; she and her father were particularly close. She took his death hard—started running with a fast crowd, drinking and carrying on. Not long afterward she ran off with a young man who worked for Rutherford on the estate. A day laborer, basically, named Luke Drummond.”

  “Where did she end up?”

  “I don’t know. By then there was no reason to keep track of her—it was best for the Colberts that the Brennan chapter was forgotten as soon as possible.”

  “Because of the suicide, you mean.”

  “And the embezzlement.”

  “Were Clara and Stuart involved when they were young?”

  Russell’s grip on the wheel seemed to tighten. “You mean romantically?”

  I nodded.

  “Why? What makes you ask that? What makes any of this relevant to anything?”

  “I can’t tell you, Russell.”

  “Why not?”

  “For one thing, I don’t know yet. For another, you’ve got too many clients: Stuart, and Cynthia, and Rutherford, too. Am I right?”

  “But what does Cynthia have to do with Millicent and Stuart’s effort to have a baby? Or with Rutherford either, for that matter?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  “Then what’s with the history lesson? You sound as though what happened to Ethan Brennan had something to do with Greta Hammond’s disappearance.”

  “It did, I think. But I don’t know what yet. I just know that Stuart Colbert’s up to something besides making a high-tech child and until I know what it is you’re better off not knowing something that would create a conflict of interest.”

  “Why don’t you let me be the judge of whether there’s a conflict of interest?” he said huffily.

  “I would, except
I’ve got a personal and professional interest in Greta Hammond and I’m not willing to see those interests sacrificed so you can stay on the good side of the Colberts.”

  “I wouldn’t do anything like that, Marsh. You know that.”

  “I know you wouldn’t want to, Russell,” I said. “Can we go home now?”

  CHAPTER 19

  I appreciate your seeing me on Sunday. And on such short notice,” I added as she faced me in the doorway deciding what to do with me. After scratching her nose and redraping her bodice and twirling her hair on a finger, Millicent Colbert stepped back to let me into her home. She was puzzled and uneasy and more than a little apprehensive, so I tried to calm her down.

  “I’m not bringing bad news,” I said for the second time that day. “As I told you on the phone, this is routine.” I sought the aid of my most engaging grin.

  “It may be routine for you,” she said, “but I’m not used to being questioned. Except by my husband,” she added with a timorous smile.

  “I understand. I just need to ask you about someone you used to know. Then I’ll be on my way.”

  “But I don’t understand why Stuart can’t be here. And I certainly don’t understand why I have to keep this a secret from him.”

  I gestured beyond the narrow confines of the entry-way toward the accommodating expanse of the house. “May we?”

  She reddened. “Of course. Please come this way. Would you care for coffee?”

  “Only if it’s no trouble.”

  “Sylvia just made a fresh pot.”

  “Then coffee would be nice.”

  After a quick pirouette, she led me to the core of her colorful lair, which seemed to have been designed to augment the gush of her clothing. After making sure I was comfortably ensconced, she went off to see about coffee. I took advantage of her absence to take a tiny inventory.

  The decor was as busy as her blouse, highlighted by dozens of flowers, both fresh and dried, stuffed into a welter of wicker baskets and cutglass vessels that were sprinkled throughout the room. There were lots of pinks and yellows and blues in the fabrics on the furniture, and plenty of pillows and padding and poufs to make it all seem comfy. The carpet was stark white, with a blue and yellow bouquet woven into the center section, beneath a chandelier that served as its sun.

  As if that weren’t busy enough, on the arms and backs of the furnishings were a variety of doilies and what used to be called antimacassars but probably aren’t called that anymore, layer on top of layer of ever more intricate design. The shelves and occasional tables were dotted with glass and ceramic bowls containing individually wrapped pieces of peppermint candy; the walls were stamped with at least a dozen heavily framed land-and seascapes, one of which could pass for an original Monet. Except for the pseudo Monet, the room was not to my taste, but it was a definite, if somewhat labored, assertion of personality, which I suppose is what interior design is all about. Its most surprising aspect was that the personality on display was Millicent’s, not her husband’s.

  The Colberts’ house—Stuart and Millicent’s that is—was smack in the center of St. Francis Wood, on the end of the stretch of Santa Ana Way that served as the Colbert compound, just north of the fountain and gateposts that formed St. Francis Circle. We were two doors down from the patriarch’s ungainly mansion, a hulking stucco and tile monstrosity that simmered behind far too much wrought iron and was overrun with so much vegetation it looked like the long-lost villa of a forgotten Spanish king of the type that Velázquez used to paint, the ones whose minds and bodies were congealed by too much inbreeding.

  In between the mansion and the Stuart Colberts’ house was the Stanley place—Millicent lived next door to her parents, which probably accounted for her nervous nature. On the far side of Rutherford’s castle was the former Brennan place, where Rutherford’s wife now lived; beyond that were Cynthia Colbert’s digs. I hadn’t had time to inspect either of the latter homes as yet, but they were the next stops on my tour.

  When Millicent returned to the living room she was followed by a Latina retainer bearing coffee and pastry on a silver tray. The woman deposited the tray on a marble table, looked at her mistress for further instruction, then vanished when no mandate was forthcoming.

  Millicent poured. I sipped, then nibbled, then sipped a second time. Millicent abstained, although she seemed pleased to watch me fuel myself. I tried to think of a subject of mutual interest other than the business that had brought me to her but I couldn’t come up with anything that would override her concern for her missing child. From time to time her eyelids fluttered as rapidly as a hummingbird’s wings—she was desperate to know what I was up to but knew it was gauche to ask. She was probably afraid if she made a faux pas, I’d go next door and tattle.

  I put down my cup and crossed my legs and tried to make both of us comfortable. “As I told you on the phone, I’m not going to ask you to reveal any family secrets, or any trade secrets, either. But it’s essential that our talk remain confidential, even from your husband. Are you still agreeable to that arrangement, Mrs. Colbert?”

  She blinked half a dozen times. “I suppose so. But I still don’t understand why. Stuart’s so good in a crisis; he’s always so … controlled.”

  I smiled the way a dentist smiles when he tells you it’s not going to hurt. “There’s no question that your husband is a powerful man, Mrs. Colbert. Even a willful one. Which is why I’m concerned that if he gets a sense of how I’m proceeding in the search for your surrogate, he’ll be inclined to take matters into his own hands. I’m sure you can appreciate that such action on his part could cause complications, and if there’s one thing we don’t need in this case, it’s more complications.”

  “Yes, but Stuart will want to—”

  I held up a hand. “He’ll know everything in due course, you can count on it. But for now, there’s no need for him to know we’ve talked. Is there?”

  Her shoulders sagged. “I suppose not.”

  I took another sip of coffee, tiptoeing to the point. “Russell Jorgensen can hire any investigator in the city, Mrs. Colbert; he chose me because I’m good at what I do. I wouldn’t presume to tell your husband how to sell ball gowns and we need to make sure he doesn’t try to tell me how to look for a missing person. Or worse, start looking on his own.”

  “I understand, Mr. Tanner,” she said with surprising resolve. “What is it you need to know?”

  I put down my cup and uncrossed my legs. “I need to know about Clara Brennan.”

  She blinked her hummingbird blink, gave another twist to her hair, and finally shook her head. “I don’t understand. How could she be involved in this? I haven’t seen Clara in twenty years.”

  “I have reason to believe that if I can locate Clara Brennan, I’ll be closer to finding Greta Hammond. Which is to say, closer to finding your child.”

  “But why? What does Clara have to do with the Hammond woman?”

  My urge to accommodate her was so strong, I barely caught myself before blurting that they were one and the same person. “I’m not sure yet,” I said instead. “But my investigation indicates there’s a link between the two women. Since I haven’t come up with a firm lead to Greta, it seems sensible to spend some time looking for Clara.”

  “I see.” Millicent Colbert stood up and crossed the room and looked at a porcelain statue of what looked like albino lovers entwined on a tree stump. “Clara used to live down the street. Her mother still does.”

  “I know.”

  “Clara and I were quite good friends for a while. She used to help me make furniture for my dollhouse. I used to borrow her clothes.”

  “So you were always close?”

  She did a quick twirl. “Till she started going out with boys. Clara was popular with boys and I wasn’t, so I didn’t see her very often after we were, oh, thirteen or so.” Her smile was brief and rueful. “She had better things to do all of a sudden; she decided dolls were silly. I never did decide that,” she added
in response to a question I hadn’t asked. The ache in her tone was palpable. I wondered if it was the kind of ache that produced envy, or even hatred, of its stimulus.

  “Did Clara go out with any particular boys in those days?” I asked.

  “All of them, it seemed like.”

  “But no one special?”

  “They were all special. For about a month.” The spark in her eye was spiteful.

  “Did she ever go out with your husband?”

  Her lips pursed as though she’d just sucked something sour. “I don’t know. I don’t think so, but I was oblivious to those sorts of things back then.”

  “How about the man Clara married? Who was he?”

  “Luke? Luke Drummond wasn’t one of us, he was just … around, you know? He didn’t live on Santa Ana or anything. He was just a helper.”

  “Where did he live, do you know?”

  She shook her head. “He worked at the mansion on afternoons and weekends. He didn’t go to our school—I’m not sure he went to any school—so that’s the only time I saw him, mowing yards and pruning hedges and things. His mother may have worked in the big house, I’m not sure—I didn’t pay much attention to servants back then. I still don’t,” she added abjectly, as though it was another in a long list of failings.

  “Why was Clara Brennan attracted to this Luke?”

  A scrim was peeled from her eyes and they became momentarily glossy and lustful. “Luke Drummond was the best-looking boy I’d ever seen. When he took his shirt off and was digging a hole or sawing a board or something, the muscles in his back would ripple like butterscotch pudding when you pour it in a bowl.” She colored and looked away. “He was beautiful, and so was she. They were a perfect match, except of course everyone was scandalized because they came from such different backgrounds. Stuart couldn’t get over it; he took it as a personal affront. As though Luke didn’t have a right to talk to her, let alone marry her.”

  Which seemed to make Stuart more than a detached observer of the Santa Ana social scene. “What kind of person was Luke? Mean? Violent? A drinker or doper?”