Sanctuary. Faye Kellerman
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the upper story … stories. I thought I saw some dormer windows. Could be just a storage attic.”
“Or a place to stuff bodies,” Marge said. “I’ll holler if I notice something.”
“Ditto.”
Marge disappeared. Sketching the floor plan, Decker took in the entry area. It was big enough to be furnished—a large center table holding abstract scuplture, flanked by a couple of brocade wing chairs. Two open-shelf display cases sat against opposite walls. The one on the left, announcing the dining room, contained china plates on stands. The right sidewall held figurines and a bowl.
Decker studied the pieces in the case on the right wall. There were two multicolored porcelain fighting dogs, a set of cloisonné parrots, a set of aqua vases decorated with fire-breathing dragons, and a simple green bowl with a cracked glaze that probably cost a month’s salary.
He stared at the pieces, eyeing them longer than he should have. The dogs were standing in a perfect line, the bright-colored glazes running into one another. The bowl was obviously the centerpiece of the cabinet. It took up a shelf by itself. The parrots looked very old; the blue enamel was dulled and drab. The vases were shaped like a thermometer bulb, dragons snarling as they encircled the bases and curled up the stems.
Interesting pieces, yet, again, something about them was off kilter. The house was taking on the appearance of an Escher drawing—lots of steps leading nowhere. He exhaled forcibly, then shrugged it off and moved on. He walked through an arched doorway and stepped into the living room.
It was more a museum than a room in a house—cavernous, with a vaulted ceiling and a white marble floor covered at strategic spots with lush, floral area rugs. Artwork adorned apricot-colored walls that were topped with carved crown molding. The furniture was grand—giant sectional sofas holding tapestry pillows and throw covers. Lots of tables but no lamps on them. Decker looked up. Small, recessed lights were set into ceiling molding.
He began to jot down some notes.
Lots and lots of porcelain—vases and figurines sitting on tables, resting on the mantel and in a six-foot-long mirrored display cabinet. An expensive collection, yet the pieces didn’t appear to be affixed to the surfaces. He wondered if the Yaloms had earthquake insurance.
He went on.
There was a semicircular outpouching off the living room. Decker stepped inside, turning on the light switch with a latex glove. A high-gloss wood-paneled space filled with books. The library. Neat … clean … nothing seemed out of order.
He reversed directions to examine the other side of the first floor. The dining room was designed on the same large scale as the living room. One entire wall was taken up by a breakfront that sparkled with china and crystal. Another wall was the backdrop for an antique clock.
Yalom seemed well-heeled. Once, Decker would have assumed the man rich. But the last decade’s pernicious policy of spend-now, pay-later made it hard to tell. Decker wondered how many of the items had been bought and paid for. He walked through the butler’s pantry and into the kitchen.
It was bigger than Marge’s apartment—a sterile expanse with white lacquer cabinets and dark granite counters. A booth was tucked into the corner. He ran a 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