“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 comb the house and everything looks in military order. There are clothes in the closet, food in the refrigerator, and three cars in the three-car garage. Everything’s perfect except where are the people? It’s as if the place had been nuked with a neutron bomb.” He paused. “Ready to talk to the sister?”
Marge nodded. They walked down the stairs into the marble entry. Suddenly Decker placed a hand on Marge’s shoulder, stopping her from opening the front door.
“Wait a second.” Decker crooked his finger, then pointed to the display cabinet. “What is wrong with this picture?”
Marge stared at the case. “What do you mean?”
“Something looks … out of place.”
Marge eyed the pieces up close, then took a step backward and studied the case. “The shelves are open. Aren’t most display cabinets enclosed?”
Decker said, “Now that you mention it, that’s a little weird, too. But that’s not what’s bothering me.”
Marge took another step forward and scanned the pieces one by one. The top glass shelf was host to two fighting dogs, the second one held a simple green bowl, the third had a set of metal parrots, and the bottom one gave support to two aquamarine vases with bas-relief dragons on them.
“Nothing looks broken.”
“Nope.”
“Strange dogs,” Marge commented. “All those colors dripping into one another. And the aggressive pose. Their backs are arched and they’re baring their teeth. They’re disconcerting.”
Decker nodded. It was the dog statues. Something about them was bugging him. He zeroed in on the teeth. Each statue had four pronounced canine teeth—two uppers and two lowers, all of them perfectly pointed. Not a chip or a crack to be seen.
Marge brushed hair out of her eyes. “You know, Pete, if I were displaying the dogs, I’d have them facing each other instead of lining them up tail to trunk, elephant style—”
“That’s it,” Decker interrupted.
“That’s what was bothering you?”
“On the nose,” Decker said.
“You’re more of an aesthete than I gave you credit for.”
Decker laughed. “You know why it looks off?”
Again, Marge looked at the pieces.
“It’s the parrots, Marge,” Decker said. “The parrots are facing each other. But the dogs aren’t.”
Marge said, “So what does that have to do with the price of eggs in Outer Mongolia?”
Decker shrugged. “Maybe nothing. But I’ll ask Sis about it anyway.”
“She’ll know why the dogs aren’t facing each other?”
“Maybe she helped Mom position the pieces,” Decker said. “Just maybe she knows how much eggs cost in Asia.”
4
As she tucked the phone receiver under her chin, Rina’s attention was diverted by Hannah’s babbling. She was sitting next to her baby, the two of them playing on a comforter spread out on the living-room floor. It was a busy blanket, toys sewn into the quilting—a mirror, a teething ring, several blocks that squeaked, and lots of fuzzy decals. But Hannah had grown tired of eliciting peeps from the bunny’s tummy. She started to complain.
Of course, the phone rang. Rina made the big mistake of picking up the call. Hannah’s vocalizing increased in volume and frequency every time Rina spoke into the mouthpiece. The baby soliloquy finally culminated in a loud, wet raspberry.
“Hold on, Honey.” Rina attempted to swipe Hannah’s mouth. The baby protested with a shake of the head and a loud abababababa.
Honey said, “Should I call back later, Rina?”
“No, we’re really fine. She’s just expressing her opinion.”
“She sounds adorable,” Honey said. “I love babies. I love children. I think it’s the innocence. I should have had a dozen more.”
Honey sounded riddled with regret. So much so, Rina wondered why she didn’t have a dozen more. Within their culture, it wasn’t the least bit unusual to find families with kids numbering in the double digits. It gave Rina pause for thought. Maybe something had prevented Honey from having more. Maybe they had a lot more in common than Rina had first thought.
“Just enjoy her,” Honey went on. “I don’t have to tell you this, but they do grow up so fast. One minute they’re snuggle bunnies, the next minute, they’re big boys who’ll maybe give you a peck on the cheek on your birthday.” She giggled. “At least I get a peck. I know quite a few women whose sons refuse to touch them.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Rina said. “Negiah—men and women touching—doesn’t apply to mothers and sons.”
“Of course it’s ridiculous,” Honey said. “So what else is new? The Rebbe is just floored by this extremism. Sure he doesn’t like phones. But machines are one thing, love is another. Love is what’s important. Love between Man and Hashem, between Man and Man, between Man and Woman—it’s what makes the world such a beautiful place. Love is what distinguishes us from the animals.”
Rina looked at Ginger, the family Irish setter. The big, rust-colored animal was seated on the blanket as well, her snout nuzzling Hannah’s leg. Rina didn’t know a lot about dogs—she’d married Peter, she’d married his animals—but it seemed to her that Ginger had an infinite capacity to love. Rina had always felt that it was conscience and repentance that made man different from animals. But Honey sounded so sincere, and her thought was a nice one.
“Love is