Small Vices

Chapter 26

Clint Stapleton’s home in New York City was on Fifth Avenue, near Sixty-eighth Street in one of those big gray buildings with a doorman, and a view of the park out the front windows. The doorman in a green uniform with gold piping held the door for me just as if I weren’t a shamus, and the uniformed concierge eyed me without disapproval as I walked across the black and white marble lobby.

“Donald Stapleton,” I said.

“Your name, sir?”

“Spenser.”

The concierge phoned up, told whoever answered that I was down here, waited maybe a minute and said, “Yes, sir,” and hung up the phone.

“Take the elevator to the penthouse,” he said.

“Is there anyone else up there?” I said.

“No, sir, the Stapletons occupy the entire floor.”

“How nice for them,” I said.

The elevator opened into a little black and white marble foyer with a skylight. There was a thick white rug on the floor with a peacock woven into it. The Stapletons’ door, directly in front of me, had a glossy black finish. In the center of the upper panel was an enormous brass knocker in the shape of a lion holding a ring in its mouth. Below and to the right was a polished brass door knob. There was a small black table next to the door, with curved legs and pawlike feet. A black lacquer vase with a golden dragon on it sat on a gold-colored doily on the table. A fan of peacock feathers plumed out of the vase, and concealed just behind them was a small functional white doorbell. The door knocker looked too heavy for me. I rang the bell.

A stunning black maid in full maid regalia opened the door. She took my leather trench coat. She would have taken my hat if I’d had one, but I didn’t. She ushered me into the living room and left with my coat. I checked myself in the mirror over the immaculate fireplace. In honor of the address I had worn a blue suit and black cordovan loafers with an elegant tassel. I had on a white oxford shirt too, with a nice roll in the button-down collar. I hadn’t actually buttoned the top button of the collar. My neck being what it was, I tended to choke. But I had concealed the fact by making a slightly wide knot in my maroon silk tie, and running the tie right up over the top button so you couldn’t tell it wasn’t buttoned. Susan says you can always tell, but what does she know about neckties?

The room was done entirely in tones of cream and ivory and white. There was a solid bank of picture windows overlooking the park. I was as impressed with the view as I was expected to be, but the rest of the room smacked of interior decorator. There was a child’s fire engine, painted with an ivory gloss, on the coffee table. There was a white piano with the black keys painted vanilla. Ordinary things used extraordinarily, the designer had probably said. Extraordinary things restated and personalized. On the side board a pair of pearl-handled Gene Autry autograph toy six shooters lay at careful right angles to each other. I was pretty sure no one had ever eaten a green pepper pizza in this room, or made love on one of the off-white damask couches in this room, or sat around in their shorts in this room and read the Sunday paper. Men in dark expensive suits, with red ties and white broadcloth shirts, might, on occasion, have clinked ice in short, thick highball glasses while they tried to think of conversation to make in this room. Women in tight, long, expensive dresses with pearls that matched the decor might have held crystal flutes of Krug champagne while they gazed blankly out the window at the panorama of the park in this room. Waiters dressed in black tie, bearing small silver trays of endive with salmon roe, might have circulated in this room. And a nanny might, possibly, have walked through this room holding the hand of a small child in a zipped-up snowsuit on his way to be walked in the park on a cold Sunday afternoon, when the light was gray and the sun was very low in 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 re-examining 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.