False Conception Page 23

  Luke was still wearing cowboy regalia, though a different hat and boots. The inside of the converted garage was a match to his theme—western art, western furnishings, western music. He was sitting in a club chair covered in cowhide, boots on an ottoman, hat shoved to the back of his head, still as handsome as he had been when he was the favorite plaything of the young and restless on Santa Ana Way.

  He was reading with such intensity that he was still unaware of my presence. I looked for a weapon but didn’t see one. What I did see was a baseball bat in a corner by the door. I picked it up, then moved to where I could see what Luke was reading. It wasn’t Louis L’Amour or Arizona Highways; it was Women’s Wear Daily.

  There were stacks of fashion magazines all over the place, in fact: Vogue, GQ, Harper’s Bazaar, Mirabella, and others I’d never heard of, a horde of back issues piled to the level of the windows. I considered what it meant, then debated whether to break Luke’s heart.

  When I said his name he jerked with surprise. “Jesus,” he said when he saw who I was and what I was holding. “How’d you find me?”

  “I didn’t find you, I found your mother.”

  He looked worried. “You tell her what I done?”

  I nodded.

  “What’d you do that for?”

  “I hurt like hell, for one reason.”

  He grinned. “Look like hell, too.”

  “You’re through playing cowboy with me, Luke.”

  He looked down at his boots and Levi’s and the duds seemed to give him strength. “How you going to stop me; with that little bitty ball bat?”

  “I’m going to tell you that I’ve told Stuart Colbert that if anything happens to me, he’s to cut off your mother’s funds. Permanently.”

  Luke shook his head. “The old man won’t let him.”

  “The old man’s half dead and Stuart’s not feeling kindly toward him anyway. So keep your rope in the truck, and the rest of your tricks, too.”

  “Maybe I will; maybe I won’t.”

  “And one more thing.”

  “What?”

  “Stop looking for Clara Brennan.”

  “Why should I?”

  My only leverage was his lifelong awe of the Colberts, so that was the tool I used. “Because she’s doing a job for the Colberts and they want you to leave her alone.”

  “What kind of job?”

  “That’s none your business. But if you keep looking for Clara Brennan, I’m going to tell the Colberts about Nathaniel. I’m going to suggest they go to court and get an order that takes him out of here on the ground that you’re not a fit parent. I’m going to suggest they terminate your rights and put him in a home, where his needs will be more fully met.”

  Luke was shaking his head with vigor. “You can’t do that. I married her. That makes him mine.”

  “You think that will make a difference if the Colberts say they want him back? You think that will make a difference if their doctors prove he’s not your son but Stuart’s? They can prove paternity to a 99 percent certainty, Luke. You won’t have a chance.”

  After he rubbed his face and thought about it, his resistance all but vanished. “Why don’t you go on about your business and leave us alone?” he pleaded with an odd naiveté.

  “Quit messing in Colbert affairs,” I told him again, knowing that the Colbert business was his whole life, knowing that he had dreamed of running a store for years, knowing that he had a better chance of winning the lottery than proving the claim he had nourished since the day Nathaniel was born. “Quit or I go to court.”

  “I promise,” was all he said when he said something. I decided it was enough.

  CHAPTER 30

  By the time I was back in the city it was dusk. I was tired and pained and sick of the Colberts and their messy secrets. But I thought I could wrap it up by the end of the evening, so I pulled into the lot at Stones-town and called Cynthia Colbert at the store for men. A tired voice told me she’d already left for the day, so I pulled back onto Nineteenth Avenue and pointed my car in the direction of Santa Ana Way and the core of the Colbert empire.

  There was music coming from the house, a Latin salsa that belied the grim expression on Cynthia Colbert’s face when she saw it was me on her door-step. That she answered the door herself, wearing an off-the-shoulder something that made her neck and clavicles seem sculpted from French vanilla, indicated I wasn’t the person she was expecting. The music and the hour and the light that drifted our way from the gardens and rendered everything soft and voluptuous made a part of me wish I was.

  “What do you want?” she demanded nastily, ending my swoon in a hurry. “I’m expecting guests any minute.”

  “I need some more information.”

  “What kind of information?”

  “About the old days.”

  She tapped her foot and crossed her arms and made her lightly tanned breasts bulge like twin souffles above the rein of her sequined bodice. “At least you didn’t call them the ‘good old days,’” she observed sarcastically. “What do you want to know?”

  “I’m interested in the period when your brother started seeing Clara Brennan.”

  “The summer he was home from Princeton. Junior year, I think. What of it?”

  “You said before that your father knew what Stuart was doing.”

  She blinked and looked beyond me, at a long black car coming down the street, scouting for the party. “What difference does it make whether he knew or not?”

  “I’m not sure. Did he?”

  The car stopped next to the curb out front. Doors opened at my back, disgorging designer distractions most of whom sounded intoxicated. As I hurried to finish my business, I guessed that Cynthia Colbert’s soirees were regarded as chores by the people who were summoned to them.

  She didn’t speak till I touched her on the arm. “You’re asking if Rutherford knew Stuart was seeing Clara.”

  “Right.”

  She nodded wearily. “Of course he did. They tried to keep it secret, but Daddy knew; he knew everything that happened out here. He knew I’d slept with Luke Drummond three hours after it happened. For all I know he bugged all the rooms on the block.”

  “What did he do when he found out about it?”

  “Me and Luke?”

  “Stuart and Clara.”

  “He didn’t do anything.” Someone behind me emitted a squeal, as though she’d been pinched or slapped, and Cynthia yelled for her to behave herself till she got inside. “Now that I think about it,” she said to me with a sliver of her attention, “he seemed upset at first, but later he seemed to enjoy it. Actually, he seemed to think it was funny.”

  “Funny?”

  She nodded. “I remember one night Daddy and I were talking on the porch and Stuart and Clara drove by in his convertible and Daddy started to laugh. I mean, he didn’t laugh that often, and this one was real. Then he said something about measure for measure. And then he got pissed because they had the top of the car down. It was kind of creepy; I remember that much.”

  “What do you think he was talking about?”

  “I have no idea. I only realized recently that Daddy never liked Stuart much. I’d never admit it to his face, but baby brother always got the short end of the stick, at least until Daddy divided up the stores. Then he gave Stuart the best deal by far. I didn’t understand it at the time but now I think he wanted to humiliate Stuart even further.”

  “How so?”

  She adjusted her bodice and preened. “By showing the world that Stuart couldn’t beat me at merchandising even with a head start. Anyway, I just assumed Daddy was happy about Stuart and Clara because Stuart was screwing up again.”

  “Screwing up how?”

  “By falling for someone beneath him; by consorting with the hired help.”

  I smiled at her aristocratic sally. “You were doing the same thing, weren’t you?”

  “You mean Luke? I was only fucking him; I wasn’t going to marry him.”


  “So Stuart was ready to take Clara to the altar.”

  “That’s certainly what it looked like.”

  “Was she ready to go?”

  “I don’t know. Clara was playing it close to the vest by that time. I never knew what she was thinking, except it was usually something ambitious.”

  “I don’t understand why your father thought what Stuart was doing was stupid. Clara was Ethan Brennan’s daughter; her house was right next door. That’s hardly the Tenderloin.”

  As the covey of celebrants staggered up the flag-stone walkway, Cynthia’s eyes darkened to match the hovering canopy of night. “Mr. Brennan had taste, I give him that. But to Daddy he was always a hanger-on. Just another Sammy Glick, clawing his way out of the gutter by trying to mimic his betters.”

  “Some people think Ethan Brennan was crucial to the business. That without him the whole enterprise would have gone under.”

  Her lip stiffened. “Those people are wrong. The only people crucial to Colberts are Colberts. Now, you’ll have to excuse me. Marnie! That dress is to die for. If you tell me you bought it from Stuart I won’t let you in. Nordstrom? Thank God.”

  Half a dozen revelers pushed past me without a greeting and exchanged kisses and hugs and smart chatter with Cynthia as she ushered them inside her home. The women were big-haired and bejeweled and stuffed like twice-cooked potatoes into shimmering skintight gowns; the men sauntered past in patent leather pumps that were topped with the accoutrements of black tie—ruby studs and red plaid cummerbunds were apparently the rage this season. I’d never been to a party like that in my life; I wonder if it had made any difference.

  When Cynthia started to follow her guests, I grasped her arm to stop her.

  “This is outrageous,” she squealed. “You’re hurting me. If you don’t leave this instant, I’ll yell for help. I warn you, Lance Millington is certified in martial arts.”

  “Third-degree plaid belt—impressive. I just talked to Russell,” I continued into the fog of her ersatz bravado. “I know you and he are getting it on, as they say.”

  She sniffed. “Don’t tell me; let me guess. You fantasize about us.”

  “I’m here to tell you that for both your sakes you’d better stay out of the surrogate arrangement.”

  Her laugh was as cool as the breeze off the sea a thousand yards below us. “Milly’s bundle of joy? Don’t you know us spinsters are tickled pink when one of our own bears fruit? It’s so biologically reassuring.”

  “You weren’t doing Millicent any favors when you told Clara that your brother was the intended father of the child.”

  This time she didn’t bother to deny it. “That was then; this is now. I can’t wait to see the new branch on the family tree.”

  “Why? Because you think it’s going to look like Nathaniel?”

  She canted a hip. “Who’s he?”

  Her nonchalance was so thick it washed me off the porch and back down the walk toward the street.

  “I’d ask you to join us,” she laughed at my back as I retreated, “but these are fashion people. Unfortunately, Kmart didn’t make an important statement this season.”

  I stood by my car until Cynthia went inside and closed the door, then walked down the block and knocked on the door to Delilah Colbert’s Gothic hermitage. Although it was late and there wasn’t a light in the place that was visible, Opal Brennan was still on duty.

  “We asked you not to come back here,” she said in response to my greeting.

  “I know you did. And I know it’s late. But we need to have a conversation.”

  “About what?”

  “The man you were in love with.”

  “The man both of you were in love with,” I amended.

  She looked at me with sorrowful eyes and a mouth that could no longer dispute me. “I suppose this can’t be stopped,” she said wearily. “I suppose you’re determined to destroy even the little bit of dignity we have left.”

  “That’s not what I want, Mrs. Brennan. All I want is a child to have a chance at a healthy and happy life.”

  “Whose child are you talking about?”

  “Your daughter’s.”

  “You’re speaking of Nathaniel, I take it.”

  I shook my head. “I’m talking about the child Clara’s carrying now.”

  I didn’t expect it would be news to her and it wasn’t. “I see,” she said simply. “What is it you want?”

  “Clara told you about it back when she agreed to become a surrogate, didn’t she?”

  Opal Brennan nodded.

  “When did you learn Stuart Colbert was the surrogate father?”

  “Last month. Millicent thought Delilah would be pleased.”

  “Since Millicent didn’t know Clara was the surrogate, I assume you and Delilah put two and two together.”

  The hand on my arm was as light as a breeze. “Do you know where she is?” she asked, a worried mother for the first time since I’d known her.

  I shook my head. “I’m sorry. But I’ve talked to her. She’s well and she’s not in danger.”

  Tears wet her eyes and lingered like contact lenses, gleaming in the light, distorting her view of past and present simultaneously. “Did she know Stuart was involved in this … whatever you call it?”

  “Not at first.”

  “Thank God.” She closed her eyes. “I suppose it’s too late to stop it.”

  “Why would you want to?”

  She reacted as though I’d cursed her. “I believe you know. I believe that’s why you’re here.”

  “I’m not sure if I do or not. But to make sure the child survives, I need to know who might want to hurt it.”

  Her face was gray with anguish. “Did you ever consider that it might be better if it didn’t survive? To spare the world another tragedy?”

  “You mean like Nathaniel?”

  She closed her eyes and covered them with her hand.

  “That’s not my decision to make, Mrs. Brennan. Nor yours either, I don’t think. Besides, I don’t think that’s going to happen this time. But to be sure, I need to know why Rutherford Colbert killed your husband.”

  She shook her head before I finished speaking. “It will serve no purpose.”

  “That’s not necessarily true; for one thing, it might help your daughter stay out of trouble. I can keep a secret,” I added when she didn’t say anything.

  I waited for her to decide. When she had, she stepped back and let me join her in the halls of the silent mansion that was home to a convent of two. As I waited for her to close the door, I glanced into the parlor and made a silent apology to the portrait that hung above the mantel like an icon.

  I went through the washing and gowning ritual, then followed Mrs. Brennan to the antiseptic chamber where her companion held forth against the world and its many viruses. Delilah Colbert was exactly as I’d seen her last, for all I knew exactly as she had been for twenty years. Without being asked, I pulled up a chair and sat next to the bed. The women exchanged quick glances of censure, but neither of them did anything to stop me.

  “How are you, Mrs. Colbert?”

  Her eyelids were as thin and fluttery as tissue. Behind them, something dark and ominous seemed to seethe and threaten eruption. In furtherance of the threat, her voice was firm and didactic. “I’m alive. I’m content. I’m prepared.”

  “Prepared for what?”

  “Death, of course. It’s the only task that’s left to me—preparing myself for judgment.”

  “How are you doing that, Mrs. Colbert?”

  “Confessing my sins and asking for mercy.”

  “From whom?”

  “The Lord our God, of course. Who else is there?”

  “Your husband, for one.”

  “I ask nothing of him because I have gotten nothing from him.”

  “You betrayed him, didn’t you?”

  Her answer was firm and self-righteous. “Anything I did paled before his degeneracy and was justified by his fai
thlessness.”

  “I don’t doubt it. But he’s not racked with guilt about it; you are.”

  She seemed to look straight through her eyelids. “The state of my soul is my own business, Mr. Tanner. Not yours.”

  “If your salvation entails taking the life of another, I’m going to make it my business.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Are you employing Luke Drummond to put a stop to the consequences of your adultery, Mrs. Colbert?”

  “Luke? Why on earth would I have any use for a common laborer like Luke Drummond?”

  “To keep Clara Brennan from bearing another child.”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “So this child won’t end up like the last one.”

  She shuddered in spite of herself and the satin gown fell off a shoulder that was as sharp as an awl at its tip. Opal Brennan hurried to replace its drape; in the process, our eyes met and she transmitted an urgent appeal, begging me to stop, to leave them to their lonely penance, to let the past stay shunned and silent. I wanted to do what those benighted women wanted, but it was too late for camouflage, or even kindness.

  I smiled at Delilah Colbert, then took her hand in my rubber glove. “Who is Stuart’s father, Mrs. Colbert?”

  She turned toward the wall like a pouty child. “Please don’t question me. I have atoned as best I could; I can do no more. Surely you understand that I am helpless.”

  “You may be helpless but I’m not. I understand most of it, I think. But it would help for you to tell me I’m right.”

  Delilah rolled back to face me. “Why do you need to know these things?”

  “So I can save Clara’s baby. So I can keep you people from making another mistake like the one that killed Ethan Brennan.” I looked at the women in turn. “Stuart and Clara have the same father, don’t they?”

  Neither of them moved or spoke, each ceding to the other the province to voice their secret.

  “The only possibilities are Rutherford Colbert and Ethan Brennan. My guess it was Brennan. Am I right, Mrs. Colbert? You and Ethan Brennan had an affair and Stuart was the child that resulted?”

  She didn’t acknowledge the questions.

  “It was an affair, wasn’t it? He didn’t force himself on you, did he?”