gloved finger over the surfaces. They seemed clean, at least devoid of blood.
Women are murdered in the bedroom, men in the kitchen.
Decker opened the cutlery and utensil drawers. Nothing seemed to be missing, the carving knives seemed to be complete.
Decker continued to open the kitchen cabinets. The couple was obviously Jewish, but they didn’t appear to keep kosher. Decker found only one set of everyday dishes and one set of fancy china. He turned the plate over. Limoges—tref Limoges. For some stupid reason, he was bothered by Israelis not keeping the dietary laws, especially since they had a grandiose mezuzah in the entry hall.
He thought a moment, then looked at the kitchen doorframe. No mezuzah. That wasn’t unusual. Only Orthodox homes seem to have mezuzahs on every doorframe.
Onward—through the kitchen into a utility bathroom and a service porch. The door leading out to the backyard was locked. He flipped the bolt and scanned the rear portion of the property. Most of it was taken up by pool and patio. A long strip of flowers against a stucco wall marked the end of the property. It didn’t look large enough to bury bodies, but he’d check it out later.
Back inside into the family room. Like the library, it was wood-paneled. But the room was lighter, the walls’ picture frames fashioned from blond, burled maple. The furniture was casual, but expensive. There was a large leather sectional littered with patterned pillows and woolen throws; off to the side were suede game chairs around a green felt-top table. One wall was taken up by a floor-to-ceiling fireplace; opposite the hearth was a mirrored wet bar. The mirrored shelves held cut-glass crystal and a modern glass-sculptured menorah. Decker had to look twice but that’s what it was. The two remaining walls were hung with family photos. Decker took a closer look at the snapshots.
The Yalom boys as babies, as toddlers, then as bar mitzvahs holding the Torah, with their prayer shawls draped over their shoulders. They were still prepubescent in the religious photos. A year later—in graduation pictures from junior high—the boys showed progression toward adolescence. The most recent pictures captured the boys doing sports—basketball and soccer for one, swimming for the other.
From Orit, Decker knew the boys were a year apart. But it was damn near impossible to tell which one was the elder from the photos. After studying the pictures for the longest time, he came to the conclusion that Gil was the swimmer—he had a small mole under his eye. Dov, according to Orit, was a year younger.
Handsome kids—muscular, with curly black hair and dark eyes. They looked like their dad. There were several family photos—a few formal eight by tens and one casual eleven by seventeen group picture. Dad and the boys were standing, dressed in T-shirts and denim. Seated in front of them was Mom, wearing a flowing, flowered dress and laced-up boots.
Mom.
She looked out of place—a different genetic strain, with light eyes, poker-straight auburn hair, and a peaches-and-cream complexion. Her expression was soft, the eyes seemed gentle. The body language of the photo showed the boys leaning toward her, not the father … whatever that meant. Kids usually felt closer to their mother.
He walked over to the wet bar and looked in the drawers. Inside were bottle openers, ice tongs and pick, glass stirrers, plastic toothpicks, and an ice pick. Lo and behold, it wasn’t covered in blood.
Decker tapped his pencil against his notebook. On a superficial level, everything seemed fine. He closed his notebook and went upstairs.
“Four bedrooms,” Marge said. “Parents’ room, guest room, and each of the boys had his own room.” She brushed her toe against the soft maroon carpeting of an upstairs circular landing. “The boys shared a bathroom; the master bath is a marble palace.” She threw up her hands. “I didn’t grid-search the place, but I looked carefully. Nothing jumped out at me. How about you?”
“Nothing slapped me across the face, either,” Decker said. “What about the attic?”
“Unfinished. Nothing up there except for furnace equipment. Did you take a peek under the house?”
“Just crawl space except for a small wine cellar which looked untouched.”
“No secret torture chamber?”
“Not that I could find.” Decker perused his notes. “The garage had all three cars in it. I also looked around the yard, in the pool house, in the flower bed. Nothing.”
“I did find a few pieces of luggage,” Marge said. “They don’t have a perfectly matched set. There could be a piece missing and I wouldn’t know. Clothes seem complete, but again—take a pair of pants out, who’d know the difference?”
“They’re going to make this hard on us,” Decker said. “I’ve got a couple of questions. This guy’s supposed to be a big diamond dealer, right?”
“Right,” Marge said. “You’re wondering if there is a safe. None that I could find. I looked in closets, behind pictures, underneath area rugs. I take it you came up dry as well. Otherwise you wouldn’t be asking the question.”
“What a pro,” Decker said. “No, I came up empty.”
“Nothing in the cellar?”
“Unless it’s behind all those collectible bottles. I didn’t pull them all out.”
“And I didn’t look behind the furnace in the attic,” Marge reported. “But I did check out the toilet tank—where druggies hide their stash. Nothing. Did you check the freezer?”
“Yep. There was food and ice—the H2O kind.”
“Why don’t we ask Sis about the safe? See what she has to say. What’s the next question, Rabbi?”
“The guest bedroom upstairs. I did a quick search inside. There were no clothes in the closet or in the dresser. The bathroom was spotless—no toothpaste mucking up the counter or sink. It was also decorated with guest towels, not regular towels.”
Marge was puzzled. “Guest towels generally go in the guest room.”
“That’s the point,” Decker said. “It is definitely a guest room.” He rolled his stiff, beefy shoulders. “There was no maid’s room downstairs, Margie. A house this big … think Mom cleans it by herself?”
Marge said, “So the maid isn’t a live-in. You want to know who she is.”
“It’s always good to take a look at the staff.”
Marge’s eyes lit up. “You’re thinking an inside job?”
“I’m just thinking out loud.”
Marge laughed. “So I’m leaping to conclusions. It relieves the boredom. I’ll go ask Sis to step inside now. You want to do the primary questioning?”
“You do it,” Decker said. “It’s officially your assignment.”
Marge paused, then shook her head.
“What?” Decker asked.
“There’s something spooky about this case.”
“Agreed,” Decker said. “We
