Page 10 of Death of a Grill Master

“What?” he asked, confused.

But she was already stepping out of her sandals, scaling down the bluff, and walking across the rocky beach into the freezing surf. The tide surged around her ankles as she waded closer. The object bobbed in the water, tangled in seaweed and foam.

She reached out—her fingers touched damp cloth.

Grease-streaked.

She gasped and reached again—then screamed.

The man floated face-up, a dark wound in his chest, soaked apron clinging to him like seaweed. His white hair floated around his head like a ghostly halo.

Bruce sprinted to the edge of the rocks as Hayley stumbled back.

“Hayley?! What is it?”

“It’s Hank,” she cried. “It’s Hank Desmond. He’s been shot!”

A scream pierced the night from above.

They looked up to the bluff—and saw Kylie, Hank’s young wife, clutching the railing. Her mouth open in a silent shriek, her eyes locked on the body below.

Bruce waded in and grabbed Hayley’s arm, helping her back to shore as the waves rocked the large body gently behind them.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, teeth chattering. “He’s really dead.”

Bruce pulled out his phone. “I’m calling Sergio.”

Hayley nodded, barely hearing him. She looked out at the water, at the man who had once ruled every Labor Day cookout in town, now floating in the bay and sporting the apron he wore every year like a badge of honor.

Labor Day was supposed to mark the end of summer.

Instead, it marked the beginning of a murder investigation.

Chapter 5

The sirens cut through the late-summer air, their approach slicing through the stunned silence that had settled over the shore. Hayley sat on a rock, wrapped in her hoodie, still damp from the knees down and shivering despite the warm night. Her sandals lay forgotten at her feet. The sounds of laughter and fireworks had long since vanished, replaced by murmurs, radio crackle, and the crunch of boots on gravel.

The flashing lights of the new Bar Harbor Police SUV painted the rocks in blue and red. Police Chief Sergio Alvarez was first on the scene. He jogged down from the bluff, his square jaw tight with purpose, dark eyes scanning the crowd that had started to form at the top of the hill, kept at bay by a single strip of yellow tape.

“Don’t let anyone cross this line,” he ordered a uniformed officer who had just arrived. “No pictures, no live streaming. Let’s do this right.”

Sergio’s gaze dropped to the body lying in the surf, the blood from the gunshot wound leaching into the seawater, creating a faint halo around Hank Desmond’s broad torso. The grease-streaked apron clung to him like a final insult, soaked and stiff with brine.

Hayley watched as Sergio crouched beside the body, brow furrowed, hands on his hips.

He didn’t touch anything yet.

Just looked.

Bruce moved closer to her, his voice low. “You okay?”

“I’m not the one floating in the water,” Hayley said, her throat tight.

“Fair,” Bruce said. “Still. You found him.”

Hayley didn’t answer. She couldn’t stop thinking about the moment her fingers touched Hank’s apron—familiar, heavy, grotesque in its lifelessness. Her stomach lurched.

Footsteps pounded behind them.