Antonio hung up the phone. “That’s odd,” he said.

“What is?” asked Keri.

“That was Innocencia’s cousin. She says Innocencia never made it to Miami.”

Gretel’s taupe slingback heels made a clip-clopping sound on the pavement in the deserted Angel Square as she scurried towards Carlotta’s Diner. It was well past midnight, but she had awakened from her slumber with the biggest craving she ever had in her life. Flan! Every fiber of her being told her she needed to have a taste of the sweet, gooey stuff. And no one prepared a better flan than Carlotta.

Gretel peered in the door. The diner was dark. All was quiet. She reached down for the knob and found, to her surprise, that she was able to turn it. As she pushed open the door, the cowbell overhead tinkled. Gretel reached into her purse for a mini flashlight and turned it on. “Carlotta?” she called out. “Carlotta, are you in here? It’s Dr. Rae. I’ve come for some flan.” Gretel shined the flashlight around the diner. She noticed a low light coming from the kitchen and she headed to check it out. As Gretel passed the threshold, she could make out a dark-haired figure hunched over a big black, bubbling cauldron. It was Carlotta. She was stirring the cauldron with a long wooden oar.

Gretel spoke to her. “Hi, Carlotta. What’s cooking?”

Carlotta turned around. “Rae Buchanan! How did you get in here?”

“The door was open,” said Gretel. “Say, that’s not flan by any chance, is it? There, in the bubbling vat?”

“Yes,” Carlotta answered, an odd smile forming on her lips. “Yes. This is my special flan.”

“Well, great!” said Gretel. “I came all the way from Asa’s mansion for a taste. Serve me a dish. Your flan is to die for, Carlotta.”

“That’s right,” smiled Carlotta. She passed Gretel a plate and a utensil and Gretel dug into the dessert.

At noon the next day, the postman came into the diner to deliver Carlotta’s mail. He plopped some bills and letters on the counter and waved to her as he exited. Before the cowbell stopped its ringing, Carlotta had scooped up the mail. She began to sort it but froze in her tracks when she came across a certain manilla envelope. It was addressed to Eli Trager. Carlotta quickly tore the envelope into pieces and threw it in the trash can under the lunch counter. Young Eli had been the first victim. No, he didn’t die of AIDS. He had an industrial accident five years ago. He tripped over a mop handle and fell into a vat of flan, narrowly avoiding the arroz con pollo on the burner. Carlotta didn’t have the heart to throw out that particular batch of flan, so she served it to her customers. Within days, business at the diner had doubled. Everyone was ordering her “delicious flan.” From that point on, there was no looking back.

Gretel entered the diner and cozied up to Carlotta at the lunch counter. “Hi. I don’t need a menu. I know what I want. I think I’ll skip the chili and just have some dessert. Some of your flan, please?”

Carlotta smiled a wicked smile. “Dr. Rae, can I speak to you in private?”

Gretel grinned. Finally someone wanted her advice. “Of course, Carlotta. Anything,” she cooed.

“Let’s go in the kitchen to talk. Come with me.”

The ladies went around the corner and inside the spacious kitchen. Carlotta led Gretel over to one of her vats. “Why don’t you get a fork and taste some of this flan while we talk?”

Gretel did as instructed. She bent over the vat, reaching in to scoop up a taste. Suddenly, Gretel felt Carlotta’s hands on her rump, pushing her inside the vat. “Ahhhhh!” Gretel screamed as she fell headfirst into the scalding-hot sugar.

Carlotta smoothed the wrinkles out of her apron, tucked her hair behind her ears, and went back to the counter to make a telephone call. She dialed numbers quite familiar to her. The dinner crowd would be here before she knew it and one vat would hardly be enough to feed everyone. Carlotta heard someone pick up the line. “Hello, Jen…” she said. “. . .Could you come over to the diner?”