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Caught off guard, I answered with a total lack of grace.
“No way. I’ve seen too many dead bikers arrive at the morgue.”
I followed through on the Graceway Gourmet and Turkberry idea. Deviated from the plan by eating the frozen yogurt on the spot. Then, I headed back to the condo, determined to continue with my report on the DOA boaters and to write ones on Bonner and Palke.
To fulfill my commitments to Musgrove.
I didn’t phone Monck. What could I tell him? The inscription on the metal fragment had to do with bread.
It wasn’t exactly intel to blow back your hair.
The visit with Benjamin was troublesome. Had the guy made a pass at me? If so, had I handled it badly?
No. It felt like the uneasiness resulted from more than an awkward social interaction. But what? What was bothering my hindbrain? Why couldn’t I pull it to my higher centers? Something I’d seen? A comment Benjamin had made?
I wondered what Monck was learning about the mysterious JR. Was he or she a serious suspect?
And what about Cloke’s frequent trips to Provo? Why did he come? Did the dates of his visits coincide in some way with those of the murders?
Was Milo Willis indeed innocent of his wife’s murder? Would his golfing story pan out? If so, who killed Musgrove?
And what about this violent bartender, Glen Wall? Was he really off the island with his cousins and brother when Palke disappeared?
At five I gave up and went for a short run on the beach. Afterward, I showered, then called Katy. Ryan. Left messages for both.
At six, I fixed a salad and cooked the fish. Dined on the terrace watching a clementine sun sink through a musk melon sky.
Again and again, I checked my mobile. Pointless. Of course, the phone had signal. Of course, it was working.
Before returning to my laptop, I riffled through a mound of CDs I’d noticed in a kitchen cabinet. Though some dated to the eighties and nineties, the majority featured artists big in the sixties.
Perfect for mindless background accompaniment.
Choosing those showing the least number of scratches or nicks, I inserted the discs into a Bose Music Machine that looked older than they did. Hit play.
Billy Joel opened with “Piano Man.” The sound quality was surprisingly good.
Two hours later, OD’d on Pink Floyd, Billy Joel, Bob Dylan, and Queen, I reread my report for the third time, made two final edits, and closed the computer.
Feeling smugly self-righteous, I checked every door, window, and lock in the condo, brushed my teeth, changed into a nightshirt, and crawled into bed, at long last free of Provo’s serial killer.
Or so I thought.
After what seemed an eternity, I drifted off.
In my dream, I did the Palke and Bonner analyses again.
I was working outdoors under an ebony sky slashed by savage lightning. The bones sparked neon in the intermittent streaks.
I was arranging the second skeleton when Ti Musgrove joined me at the gurney.
Flash!
Musgrove’s face went luminous in the electric sizzle. Her eyes and lips remained an eerie violet blue.
“You’re getting it wrong.” Musgrove’s voice was high and warbly like a flute.
Getting what wrong?
