Jupiter's Bones by Faye Kellerman

Decker blew out air. “Probably makes more sense to wait for the pathology reports to come in. Could be I’m obsessing.” He sipped tea and gave his words some consideration. “How busy is tomorrow, Margie? Could you give it a couple of hours?”
    Marge said, “Not a problem.”
    “Okay, do the basics. Bank accounts, brokerage accounts, insurance policies—” He stopped himself. “That’s going to take longer than a couple of hours. Margie, you do the bank and brokerage accounts. Scott, you call the assessor’s office and find out who holds the deedto the land, then poke around for insurance policies.”
    Marge said, “Pete, insurance isn’t applicable in cases of suicide.”
    “They’ll pay death benefits if it’s accidental death. And if he took out whole life insurance, there’d probably be a nice little nest egg cash policy as well as death benefits.”
    Oliver was dubious. “You want me to cold call insurance companies? That seems kinda…screwy.”
    He was right. Score another for his crew. Decker said, “How about this? Ganz was a full professor at Southwest University of Technology. Faculty usually gets all sorts of perks—health insurance, car insurance, life insurance. Start there with the insurance angle. If you reach a dead end, call it quits and we’ll reevaluate.”
    “Simple enough.” Oliver looked at Marge. “Are you gonna take that last egg roll?”
    “It’s all yours.” She turned to Decker. “If Ganz had secret money, don’t you think Venus would make a better suspect than Europa?”
    Decker said, “Venus wasn’t officially married to Ganz. Kids would be first in line to inherit.”
    “Unless he made other provisions in a will,” Marge said.
    Oliver said, “Jupiter didn’t seem like the ‘will’ type.”
    “I’m not so sure about that,” Decker said. “For a guy who was into spirituality, he had his feet firmly planted in earthly trappings—a pretty, younger girlfriend, attendants who waited on him, people who worshiped him. We found an empty fifth of vodka under his bed.” He shrugged. “Doesn’t sound like any capuchin I’ve ever known.”
    Marge smiled. “Exactly how many capuchins have you known, Pete?”
    Oliver said, “What does cappuccino have to do with this? Speaking of which. How about some dessert? Ever try litchi nuts, Loo?”
    “Have to pass.” Decker finished his tea. “I’ve alreadymissed breakfast and lunch with the family. Don’t want to press my luck by missing dinner.”
     
    Each time Decker pulled into the driveway, he grew wistful. Because each passing day brought him that much closer to the end; good-bye to the acreage, the horses, the ranch land, the orchards, the freedom of his carefree divorced days.
    Well, carefree wasn’t exactly the right word.
    Truth be told he was miserable in that interim period—lonely and disagreeable. Ah hell, who was he kidding? He hadn’t been the Marlboro Man in over seven years. Only thing he and Marlboro had in common was sucking nicotine.
    After killing the motor, he got out of the car. The front door opened and a little stick figure with orange ringlets and open arms came running to him.
    “Daaaaddeeee!”
    “Hannah Roseeee!” He bent down, scooped her up and threw her over his shoulder—a small, chortling sack. He opened the front door with his foot and threw his briefcase onto one of the buckskin living room chairs. He tossed Hannah onto the couch as she squealed with delight. Within moments, Rina materialized, drying a dish. She wore a maroon sweater over a denim skirt. Her thick, black hair was secured by a barrette. She had recently trimmed her long locks. Now they fell just past her shoulders. A becoming style for her beautiful face. Except that most of the time, as required by her religious beliefs, she kept her hair covered with a scarf or a hat, or, at the very least, tied up in a braid or a bun.
    “You’re home.” She glanced at the wall clock. “And at a reasonable