I found the house on Madison Street easily enough, by stopping at the library and asking. Tiepolo was one of Naperville’s illustrious fathers; his home was a local landmark. It was a pale dove-blue, with a small plaque in front explaining its historical interest. Other than that it had no remarkable features. The small front porch held a bench swing, but the house lacked the leaded windows or stained glass that make some Victorian homes interesting. The front door itself was a slab of unadorned wood, painted white to match the rest of the trim.

The house stood on a minute lot typical of the inner town. I could see why Peter had moved to Oak Brook: It gave far more scope for opulence. Would Dick ever have fallen in love with Teri if her father had stayed in this unpretentious place?

“But if it hadn’t been Teri there would have been someone much like her,” I muttered aloud, moving to the doorbell.

“Did you say something?”

I jumped slightly at the voice. I hadn’t heard the man come up the walk behind me. His well-fed, close-shaved face seemed the embodiment of the Chicago politician. I’d somehow always thought of it as a Democratic look, but realized that was because I lacked suburban experience.

“Mr. Felitti?” I smiled in what I hoped was a pleasant way.

“In the flesh. And you’re a welcome surprise to find on my doorstep after a long, hard day.” He looked at his watch. “Been waiting long?”

“Nope. I was hoping to talk to you.”

“Well, come in, come in and tell me what you’re drinking. I’ll fix you up while I check on Mother.”

I hadn’t expected such exuberance. It made my job both harder and easier.

He held the door for me. Naperville apparently hadn’t yet grown to the point that he had to lock it. I felt a twinge of envy, mixed with anger that someone could live the happy, blissful life of not needing two or three dead bolts between himself and the rest of the world.

Jason led me down a long, unfurnished hall. The walls were papered in a faded gold print, apparently unchanged since the house was built. The room he brought me to showed the first signs of the family’s money. It was a study overlooking the small back garden, with a Persian rug in bold reds on the polished wood floor, another in pale gold silk hanging on the wall, and what looked like a museum trove of small statues strewn among the books.

“Now, you’re not one of those modern girls who only drinks white wine, are you?”

My smile became a little fixed. “No. I’m a modern woman, and I drink neat whisky. Black Label, if you have it.”