He laughed as though I’d said something really delightful and pulled a bottle from a cabinet underneath the silk hanging. “Black Label it is. Now, you fix yourself what you’d like and I’ll go check on Mother.”

“Is she ill, Mr. Felitti?”

“Oh, she had a stroke a few years ago and can’t walk anymore. But her mind is still working, oh yes, still sharp as a tack. Still can tell Peter and me a thing or two, yes indeed. And the ladies from the church are good about coming by, so don’t imagine she’s lonely.”

He laughed again and went back down the hall. I amused myself by idly inspecting the statuary. Some of the pieces, miniature bronzes with perfectly sculpted muscles, looked as though they might date to the Renaissance. Others were contemporary, but very fine modern work. I wondered what I would invest in if I had millions of dollars to strew around.

After Jason had been gone five minutes it dawned on me that I might find Chamfers’s home number in the room. A large leather desk had a tempting array of drawers. I was just opening the middle one when Jason returned. I pretended to be studying a miniature globe, an intricate model with the stars carved out above and fanciful sea-monsters peeping from the oceans.

“Pietro D’Alessandro,” Jason said cheerfully, going to the bar. “The old man was mad for anything from the Italian Renaissance—proved he’d made it in the New World and was a worthy successor to the Old. I think that sounds nice, don’t you?”

I nodded dumbly.

“Then why not write it down?” He poured himself a martini, drank it rather fast, and poured a second.

“It’s a catchy line—I think I’ve memorized it.” I wondered if his exuberant good cheer to strangers was a sign of mental illness or alcoholism.

“I bet a good memory comes in real handy in your line of work. If I don’t write everything down in triplicate I forget it five minutes later. Now, take a pew and tell me what you want to know.”

Bemused, I sat in the green leather armchair he gestured to. “It’s about Diamond Head Motors, Mr. Felitti. Or specifically, Milton Chamfers. I’ve been trying to see him for two weeks and he won’t talk to me.”

“Chamfers?” His pale-blue eyes seemed to pop slightly. “You want to talk about Chamfers? I thought the story was supposed to focus on me. Or did you want me to talk about the acquisition of the company? Can’t really do that, because it’s family, and we don’t discuss our business with the public. Of course, we had a public bond issue, but you’d have to talk to the bankers about that. Not that I want to disappoint a pretty girl like yourself.”