Page 100 of Death of a Grill Master

She reached into her bag and pulled out the old flyer, smoothing it across the desk. Hank and Peter Baird grinned up at her, their arms slung around each other like two guys about to take over the condiment world. She scanned the image, eyes narrowing at the bottom corner.

J.C. Media. Light. Tilted. Faint, but unmistakable.

A slow smile crept across her face. “Well, look who left his signature.”

Bruce leaned in. “That our local auteur? The Spielberg of Bar Harbor?”

“Jeff Campbell,” she said. “Who else would watermark a seafood label like it was a Criterion Collection DVD?”

Bruce groaned. “Please tell me you’re not going over there. The last time I saw Jeff, he tried to get drone footage of the Chamber of Commerce picnic. He almost decapitated a selectman.”

“I am going,” she said, already folding the flyer and stuffing it back in her bag.

“Alone?”

Hayley looked at him. “If you come with me, he’ll try to cast us as a married couple in one of his tourism videos. Next thing you know we’re slow-dancing in soft focus to a L.L. Bean jingle.”

“Fair,” Bruce muttered.

She turned to Leroy, who was now curled up under the desk, lazily gnawing on the pen like a chewed straw.

“You stay here with your dad. Try not to rewrite his column.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “If he starts talking about capturing your ‘essence against the golden light,’ run.”

Hayley grabbed her bag. “Not until I see how flattering the golden light actually is.”

The Campbell Studio was nestled behind an art gallery that had been “closed for renovation” for five years. Jeff’s garage door was open, revealing a space filled with tripods, umbrellas, light reflectors, drones, and two mannequins dressed like “romantic lobstermen.” On the wall were framed photos of Jeff himself with various celebrities who had visited the island. The one with local Maine author Stephen King looked suspiciously photoshopped.

Jeff himself was perched on a stool, wearing a billowy scarf over a T-shirt that read AUTEURS DO IT IN ONE TAKE.

He probably wears that on dates, Hayley thought to herself.

“Hayley Powell!” he shouted as if she were royalty arriving at Cannes. “You’re just in time. I’m storyboarding my next tourism short—Bar Harbor: Tides of Wonder. It needs more emotion. More woman with a past.”

“I brought one,” Hayley said, stepping in. “But she also brought questions.”

“Ooh. Intrigue.” He adjusted his scarf. “Go on.”

She handed him the flyer.

Jeff gasped. “Ohhh, vintage Jeff! That font! That framing! That’s mine. I shot this on a dock in Southwest Harbor at sunset. Hank wanted ‘dockside authenticity.’ I gave him art. This was part of my ‘Rustic Flavor Profiles’ series. God, Hank was a nightmare about lighting—insisted on ‘golden hour’ but didn’t understand cloud cover. And Baird? Baird was wearing boat shoes with no socks. A crime.”

Hayley fought a grin. “Did they seem to get along?”

“At the time? Sure. Baird was thrilled. He said Hank was considering his design. I remember him pacing, saying, ‘This could change everything.’ Kept smoothing his shirt between takes. Told me Hank was ‘on the verge of a massive rollout’ and his label design was going to be ‘the look that launched a thousand oysters.’”

Hayley blinked. “That’s … vivid. And did Hank use it?”

Jeff shrugged. “Not the exact file, but close. Practically identical. Baird never got credit. Hank told people he designed the final version himself—said it better reflected ‘his brand.’ Classic Hank. Loud. Confident. Totally shameless.”

Hayley leaned in. “And Baird?”

“He was furious. Next time I ran into him—months later, after the launch—he said Hank had ghosted him. Acted like they’d never spoken. Pretended the whole thing was Hank’s idea from the start. Then one day he just … disappeared. Moved to Massachusetts, I think, to teach environmental sciences, or something boring like that.”

“Only to reappear here at COA.”

Jeff waggled his eyebrows. “You think he came back for revenge?”