Page 104 of Death of a Grill Master

She held the report between them like it might whisper the answer. “Someone older. Someone smart. Someone who blends in.”

“It sounds like you already know who that hair belongs to.”

“I do. Peter Baird.”

And she had now found even more incriminating evidence.

Before Earl could respond, a familiar voice screeched across the Green.

“Aha!”

They both turned.

Mrs. Dunphey was bearing down on them at full throttle, her garden cart rattling behind her like a one-woman parade. She wore a wide straw hat with a fake sunflower the size of a salad plate stuck to the brim, and her wraparound sunglasses gave her the look of a paranoid beekeeper.

“I knew it!” she shrieked, jabbing a gloved finger in Earl’s direction. “I knew something was going on!”

“Mrs. Dunphey,” Hayley said, standing halfway. “Nice to see you.”

“You thought you could fool me, Hayley Powell!” she accused. “But I knew that wasn’t your husband. I know my eyesight isn’t perfect, but that’s definitely not Bruce Linney. I saw you two canoodling from across the street and thought maybe Bruce got a new haircut and took up fly-fishing, but I was wrong. This one’s new. Who is he?”

Earl turned awkwardly away, pretending to examine his Boating Monthly. “I’m not new.”

“You most certainly are,” she said. “Unless you’re hiding from someone. Are you in witness protection? On the lam? Canadian? Oh dear lord, is Hayley having an affair with a Mountie?!”

“Ma’am—” Earl started.

She peered at him closer, leaning in until her nose almost touched his cheek. “Wait a second … you look vaguely familiar. Do you work as a bag boy at the Shop ’n Save?”

“No, Mrs. Dunphey, I’m—”

She pointed an accusing finger in his face. “You’re the one who always packs my eggs in the bottom of the bag, which is why they always get crushed!”

With an exasperated sigh, Earl yanked off the sunglasses and tugged the floppy hat off his head, revealing his unmistakable face.

“Earl!” she gasped. “You scoundrel!”

Earl gave a tiny, embarrassed wave.

Mrs. Dunphey gasped again, more theatrically this time. “You’re stepping out on Mona Barnes? With her best friend?”

“Oh, for the love of—” Earl tried to protest.

Hayley choked on her iced coffee. “He’s not stepping out on anyone!”

Mrs. Dunphey raised her chin. “Well, I don’t know what sort of arrangements you people have, but I think it’s shameful. Poor Mona. She’s out there hauling lobster traps with her bare hands while you two sneak around the Village Green playing dress-up like it’s some kinky Mission: Impossible.”

And with that, she spun her garden cart around and stomped off, her pug—decked out in a Red Sox jersey—snorting behind her.

“Should I call Mona and explain?” Hayley asked.

Earl looked mortified. “Let me disappear first.”

And just then, as if summoned by fate, a Bar Harbor police cruiser rolled past on Main Street. Chief Maddox was behind the wheel. His eyes scanned the Green. For a split second, he locked eyes with Earl—disguise-less and thoroughly exposed.

“Do you think he saw you?” Hayley asked.

“Oh, he saw me.” Earl groaned, sinking low into the bench. “Cover officially blown.” Earl drained the last of his iced coffee. “So, what now?”