Page 110 of Death of a Grill Master

Hayley snapped photos with her phone—of his desk calendar, of a corkboard covered in notes about Tina’s research, and a scribbled diagram of dive sites near Thunder Hole. Nothing jumped out at first glance, but she knew how often little things became big ones later.

She tugged open a few drawers—paper clips, brochures, an old flip phone, a small bottle of beard oil. Then, tucked in the back of a lower drawer, a black-handled hairbrush.

She reached in carefully. Gray hairs were snarled in the bristles—coarse and thick. She pulled two loose ones out with tweezers from her purse, dropped them into a Ziploc baggie, and started to close the drawer—

When the door handle turned.

Hayley froze.

There was nowhere obvious to hide, so she dropped behind a tall, metal bookshelf next to the window, curling herself into a crouch.

Peter Baird entered, sighing as he muttered to himself. “If I wanted to grade TikTok monologues, I would’ve gone into performance studies.”

He crossed the room and sat at his desk. Hayley remained perfectly still, biting her lip. Her phone vibrated in her back pocket. She didn’t dare check.

Any sudden move and he would sense her presence.

She had to remain absolutely still.

How was she going to get out of here undetected?

Then, mercifully, came a knock.

“Professor?” Sage’s voice rang out, perfectly indignant. “I need to discuss my grade. I worked so hard on that paper. You only gave me an A?”

Baird sighed. “That’s a very high mark, Sage.”

“Not when you factor in how brilliant I am. I made a predator–behavior-to-Drag Race comparison that slayed. And you said although impressive, it still lacked depth?”

“Which explains the A and not an A plus.”

As Sage stormed into the office, waving papers, throwing Baird off-guard, Hayley seized the opportunity to slink along the wall and slip out the side door, barely breathing while Sage had him distracted. She bolted down the hallway and back into the kitchen, where someone had added bacon to the mac. The pot was threatening to boil over.

She stirred quickly and lifted the lid off the Dutch oven.

“Did you get it?” Sage asked, returning with a triumphant grin and a water bottle labeled UNFILTERED STUDENT RAGE.

“Oh, I got it,” Hayley whispered. “Thanks to you.”

“I feel like Holmes to your Watson. That’s so lit!”

That afternoon, Hayley met Earl behind the Bar Harbor Post Office, where the only thing more sacred than federal mail was plausible deniability. And if anyone asked, they were just two concerned citizens discussing stamp prices—nothing more.

Earl arrived in his off-duty windbreaker, sunglasses on, head ducked like he was part of a B-movie spy ring. At least he’d upgraded from his last attempt at undercover—a neon boat hat that could’ve guided planes to safety. He handed her a coffee from ChocoLatte as she held up the plastic bag with Baird’s hair sample.

Earl, glancing around to make sure no one was watching, carefully took the Ziploc bag with a sigh. “You got this from his office?”

“While you were probably out doing actual police work.”

“I was, in fact, investigating a suspicious seagull-related trash bin fire this morning, thank you very much,” he muttered. “Had to chase a gull off a flaming pizza box behind Finback’s. This is what my career has come to. It’s only going to get worse the more I hang around you.”

“I’m sorry, Earl,” Hayley said, genuinely remorseful.

“It’s okay. It makes Mona happy, and I’ll do anything to keep my baby girl happy.”

Baby girl?

Hayley decided not to mention that Mona was nearly twenty years older than Earl.