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“Luna Flores. How’s it going?”
“Good. What’s up?”
“I’m about to pull the pin on this baby and head home.”
“When?”
“Today.” I heard traffic sounds in the background. A turn signal blinking. Figured Flores was also on the road.
“Lucky you,” I said.
“God loves me. If you’re interested, I’ve printed an extra copy of my report.”
“I’m interested. Grab a bite?”
“A sound plan. Where?”
I had to think about that. “Do you know the Shay Café?”
“In La Vele Plaza, off Grace Bay Road?”
“That’s the one.”
“It may be theonlyjoint in Provo I know.”
“See you there in ten?”
“Roger that. Ciao.”
The Shay Café and Lounge was a schizoid combo of restaurant by day, raucous saloon and dance hall by night. In its sunup manifestation, the place had a reputation for serving primo breakfasts.
When I arrived, Flores was already at the counter placing an order. While waiting my turn, I looked around.
Just inside the entrance, a refrigerated case offered gelato in a dozen rainbow flavors. Rows of burlap coffee bags undulated across the ceiling, with large paper snowflakes hanging between.
A blackboard high on one wall forecast island conditions.Hot! Chance of beautiful people and stunning beaches. Rum punch and bikinis expected all day! Chance of fun 99%.
Given my mood, I seemed destined to be part of the outlier one percent.
Circling a barrier composed of a bicycle welded to a metal base, Flores moved to the register to pay. I stepped up to order.
No need to check the menu. On my sole visit to the Shay, Musgrove had ordered eggs Benedict. Watching her eat the yolk and butter-rich concoction, I’d regretted my healthier choice of avocado toast.
Without hesitation, I went with Benedict and his muffins and artery-clogging hollandaise sauce. How could a zillion extra carbs hurt? Besides, I needed a lift.
Flores and I took our food to an outdoor table shaded by a big square umbrella. Not that protection was necessary. The late-morning sun wasn’t making the slightest effort.
Flores’s plate held two rolled pancakes drizzled with chocolate, sprinkled with powdered sugar, and topped with a mountain of whipped cream.
“What is that?” I asked.
“Nutella and banana crepes.”
Her choice left mine in the food-guilt dust.
While eating, we rewound our movements since parting on Saturday. At first, Flores seemed to shy away from the topic of the boaters. We discussed nothing of import. A pod of dolphins she’d sighted at sunrise. Her upcoming flight. A potcake pup she was taking home to her nephew.
Then the discussion grew more serious. The hand-hacking serial killer. Musgrove’s murder. I shared Monck’s theory that the doer was Musgrove’s ex.
