Jupiter’s Bones

“Have to pass.” Decker finished his tea. “I’ve already missed 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 hour.”

Hannah started jumping on the couch. Again, Decker picked her up, threw her up in the air and set her down.

“Something smells very good.”

“Chicken with garlic.”

“Do I have enough time for a quick shower?”

“It’s not a problem for me.” Rina looked at Hannah, who was tugging on Decker’s sleeve.

“Let’s play, Daddy,” the little girl shouted.

“In a minute, honey,” Decker answered.

“Hannah, let Daddy take off his jacket.”

“You can take off your jacket in my room!”

Hannah’s room was an outpouching off their master bedroom. Decker had built the house with only two bedrooms. In retrospect, poor planning. But after his divorce, he never assumed that he’d be hosting anyone other than Cindy.

Hannah pulled at her father’s hand. “Let’s go, Daddy!”

“Hannah, hold on!” Rina chided.

The little girl looked disappointed, but remained quiet. Rina immediately felt guilty. “Oh, go ahead! We’ll talk later.”

The five-year-old brightened. “Goody! Let’s go!”

“A minute, sweetie.” Decker held back impatience. “Boys okay?”

“They should be home any minute.”

“Do you need me for anything?”

“It’s all right. Go with your daughter. We’ll have the evening to catch up.” She looked at him with piercing eyes. “You are done with work, right?”

Decker winced. “Scott and Margie are coming over around eight. But just for an hour or so.”

Rina didn’t speak. She had heard that one before.

“No, really,” Decker reassured her. “We’ll wrap it up quickly. It’s the Ganz thing. Which seems pretty straightforward … at the moment.”

She had heard that one before as well. “It’s fine, Peter. I put Hannah to bed at that time anyway.”

Again, Decker grimaced. “Didn’t I say that I was going to put her to bed tonight?”

“You can do it tomorrow night.”

“I said that last night, didn’t I?”

“C’mon, Daddy! Let’s go do puppets!”

“Go, Peter,” Rina told him. “I’ll call you when dinner’s on the table.”

Hannah said, “You can sit on the floor while I get the show ready.”

“Can I change my clothes first, Hannah?”

“Sure you can change your clothes!” she shouted with generosity.

“Maybe I can look at the paper while you set up?”

Hannah’s face darkened.

Rina said, “Now you’re pushing it.”

“Silly me,” Decker said, “I meant after dinner.”

Hannah recovered her cheer. “Sure you can look at the paper after dinner, Daddy. After we play squiggles.”

“She’s made plans,” Decker said.

“Yes, she has.” Rina smiled sadly. “Lucky her. She has yet to learn how futile plans can be.”

Pluto led the detective duo into an alcove off the main sanctuary. It had enough room for a trestle table and four chairs. The walls were covered by bookshelves. As she sat, Marge caught some of the titles, all of them having to do with the metaphysical. No surprises there. Nova, the podiatrist, paused before choosing the seat opposite Marge. Immediately, Oliver took up the chair next to the Doc, closing in on the man’s personal space.

Chunky and balding, Nova appeared to be in his middle thirties. He wore the costume of a privileged attendant—the blue robe and purple vest—but the vest sported an embroidered caduceus. His round face held an almost hairless complexion as well as dark, saucer eyes. Probably his hair was once dark brown, but because of its thinness and streaks of gray, it had taken on the sandier tones. His fingers were stumpy, his nails cut short. His hands were shaking—nervous. Marge felt he should be. He had no business signing a death certificate.

Pluto remained at the entryway, his arms folded across his chest. His position made it clear to all that he had no intention of leaving. Marge looked up at him and said, “Thank you, sir, you can go now.”

“I’d prefer to stay,” he answered.

“I realize that,” Marge said. “I’m trying to be polite.”