“It’s a California wine, perhaps made by Italians; it’s called Far Niente.”
“Dolce far niente,” she said. “Sweet nothings.” She sipped it. “It’s delicious, and it’s not even Italian.”
“Does everything have to be Italian?”
“Not everything, but Papa believes that Italy is the most important country in the world, even though we have been here for four generations. He tends to think of anything not Italian as slight, of little weight.”
“Do you feel the same way?”
“I am more American, but I understand his feelings.”
“There is nothing Italian about me; what does your father think about that?”
“You are not wine or food or art or architecture.”
“I’m not Catholic, either.”
“He is not so concerned about that. In a strange way, he feels the family is protected by my divorce.”
“Widowhood would free you, would it not?”
She smiled a little. “You are clever. The only reason my former husband is still alive is that my father does not want me to be free to marry again.”
“I see.”
“Why did you telephone today?”
“Your father gave me the number, in case I needed his help.”
“And now you do?”
“Yes.”
“Does Dino know?”
“Dino doesn’t want to know.”
“Your call was precipitated by the incident of last evening?”
“Yes.”
“And where is the beautiful painter?”
“She has returned to her native England. She will not be back.”
“Are you sad?”
“Less so than I was this morning.”
“What help do you want from my father?”
“You know that this Mitteldorfer has disappeared?”
She nodded. “Papa has told me what he knows.”
“Dino had a little flap with the captain of the guard at Sing Sing; because of that, I am unable to get any information from the prison that might help me find him. That, and the fact that Mitteldorfer managed the financial assets of the captain and the warden, and they are, shall we say, kindly disposed toward him.”
“You want information from the prison?”