Page 122 of Death of a Grill Master

Across the lawn, Tina’s sister stood quietly near the now-empty arch, shoulders hunched, eyes red.

Hayley approached her slowly. “Lacy?”

The woman turned. “Oh—Hayley.”

“I just wanted to say how sorry I am. For everything. I wish I’d figured it out sooner.”

“You figured it out,” Lacy said, voice thick. “That’s what matters.”

“I just keep thinking … if I’d put the pieces together quicker, maybe Tina might not have—”

“You were brave,” Lacy said. “You brought my sister’s killer to justice. That’s more than a lot of people ever get.”

Hayley nodded. “She was brave, too.”

They embraced briefly. Then Lacy stepped away and joined a group of faculty near the chairs.

Hayley turned—and came face-to-face with a man she didn’t recognize. Late twenties, early thirties. Stocky, with thick arms that suggested manual labor—or a past life in it. He wore a black windbreaker zipped halfway up, jeans that had seen airports and dust, and hiking boots with bits of dried red clay stuck in the soles. His short, dark hair was wind-tossed, and a duffel bag sat at his feet.

“You’re Hayley Powell?” he asked.

“I am,” Hayley said cautiously.

He stuck out his hand. “Buddy Desmond. Hank’s son.”

She blinked, genuinely surprised. “Oh. Wow. I wasn’t sure if you were coming.”

“I wasn’t, either.” His handshake was firm, dry, businesslike. “Didn’t find out he was dead until a few days ago. I’ve been off the grid—literally. Backpacking in South America. No cell service, no news alerts. Had to get back into a town with a post office just to check my email.”

“Wow,” Hayley said again.

“Yeah. Been bouncing around. Kilimanjaro last winter. Parts of Patagonia this spring. I like to keep moving.”

She glanced at his mud-spattered boots. “I can tell.”

“My dad used to say I was a layabout,” Buddy said with a tight smile. “Thought I didn’t want responsibility. Said I’d rather climb rocks than corporate ladders. He wasn’t wrong—for a while. I had no interest in the business. Barbecue was his thing. Not mine.”

“But that’s changed?”

Buddy nodded. “It has. I got the news and came straight here. Took the first flight I could book. Turns out, the business is still in my name. Kylie never had a legal claim, and they never got around to actually marrying. They just told everybody they were. She’s been acting like she’s queen of the castle, but she’s not getting the throne.”

Hayley looked past him toward the edge of the bluff, where Kylie and Chase were practically glued to each other, charming their way through a group of local donors. Chase laughed and rubbed her back with an intimacy that looked routine.

“Kylie thought she could offer me a check and send me on my merry way,” Buddy added. “Like I was some low-rent obstacle to be cleared with a payoff and a pat on the head.”

Hayley raised an eyebrow. “That didn’t go well?”

“Oh, it was cute. She tried to wrap it in sympathy, but the math was clear. She doesn’t just want the restaurant,” Buddy said, his voice tightening. “She wants the whole package—Dad’s name, the sauces, the rubs, the branded merchandise, the wholesale contracts, the retail shelves. She and Chase have it all worked out. Keep the legacy alive, rebrand it just enough to make it theirs. She wants to slap a fresh label on everything my father built and call it love. But the paperwork doesn’t lie. I’ve got controlling interest in everything Dad built.”

There was a flash of something darker behind his eyes.

Frustration, maybe.

Or something sharper.

“When I first heard about the shooting,” Buddy said quietly, “I figured it had to be Kylie. I always thought she was playing at being my dad—saying the right things, playing the role he wanted. She wore the act like a designer label. Sweet little trophy wife of smoke and sauce.”

“But she wasn’t the one who killed him,” Hayley said.