the southern sky. I would have bet all I had that the fireplace had never been warm.
A tall lean man with a good tan, wearing a fawn-colored double-breasted suit came into the living room with a blond-haired woman on his arm. She too had a good tan. The woman was wearing high-waisted black pants and a fawn-colored silk shirt with a stand-up collar and the top three buttons undone. There were necklaces and bracelets and rings and earrings all in gold, and some with diamonds in them.
'Mr. Spenser,' the man said. 'Don Stapleton. My wife Dina.'
We all shook hands. Dina had big blue eyes. Her hair was thoroughly blond and worn long and curly so that it cascaded down to her shoulders. She had a small waist, and a full figure above and below it. She was maybe forty- five and she looked as if life had been easy for her.
'Let's sit over here by the window,' Stapleton said. 'We can enjoy the view while we chat.'
He carefully hiked up his pants so as not to bag the knee and sat in a white wing chair with a heavy brocade upholstery. She sat on the edge of a white satin straight chair, folded her hands on her lap, and gazed at her husband. Her shoes were sling strap spike heels in the same fawn color as her blouse and her husband's suit.
'As I told you on the phone,' I said, 'I'm sort of reexamining the circumstances of Melissa Henderson's death.'
They both smiled politely.
'Did you know her?' I said.
'No,' Stapleton said. He had a firm voice.
'But your son did,' I said.
'I have no reason to doubt you if you say so,' Stapleton said, 'but we have no personal knowledge that he did.'
'He never mentioned her to you? Brought her home? Showed you a picture?'
Stapleton smiled patiently, I was just doing my job, it couldn't be helped that I was stupid.
'Clint is a very good looking and popular young man,' he said. 'He had a lot of girls. He didn't bother to introduce us to all of them.'
'He gave this one his letter sweater.'
'If so, it was merely one of many he's earned. Clint is a very good athlete.'
Dina Stapleton gazed at her husband. She nodded occasionally in support of what he said. She didn't speak.
'Clint appears to be of African descent,' I said. 'Neither of you appears to be.'
'Clint is a chosen child,' Stapleton said. 'We adopted him when he was an infant. Dina couldn't bear a child and we decided that if we were going to adopt, we should save a little black baby from a life of depravity.'
'Of course,' I said. 'Does either of you know Hunt McMartin or Glenda Baker?'
Dina's expression softened a little, the way it does when you recognize a familiar name.
'Who are they?' Stapleton said.
Dina's eyes flickered a moment and then her face resumed its look of blank admiration. Stapleton put a hand on her knee. I didn't blame him. If I were in a position to do so, I'd have put my hand on her knee, too.
'Hunt and Glenda were the witnesses against Ellis Alves,' I said. 'The man convicted of murdering Melissa Henderson?'
'Now really, Mr. Spenser, how would we know that?'
'Close-knit family,' I said.
Stapleton smiled sadly in recognition of the unbreachable gulf between them and me.
'We are not so close knit that we spend time talking about obscure sex crimes in another city.'
I nodded, silently, acknowledging my coarseness. I hadn't mentioned anything about a sex crime.
'What is your business, sir?' I said.
'CEO, the Stapleton companies. I have interests in oil, in banks, commercial real estate, agribusiness, that sort of thing.'
He leaned back a little and crossed one leg over the other and clasped his hands on the knee. His socks were cashmere, I noticed, and his mahogany-colored shoes were almost as stylish as mine.
'By training I am an attorney, a member of the New York State Bar, and I still maintain my law firm of course, Stapleton, Brann, and Roberts. Clint plans to attend law school after he graduates. Someday he'll run the whole thing.'
'And Mrs. Stapleton?' I said.
She smiled at me and looked back at her husband.
'Dina takes care of the home front,' Stapleton said.
'You don't know Hunt McMartin or Glenda Baker?' I said.
'No,' Dina said. 'I'm sorry, I don't.'
She had a deep voice like Lauren Bacall. Her makeup was artful. Her face was calm and loving. And I knew she was lying. After another hour of conversation that was all I knew.
