Page 124 of Death of a Grill Master

Never a good sign.

As she waited outside his office, she could already imagine the lecture brewing behind that closed door. She considered turning around, faking a sudden need to bake muffins or write a column about clam juice cocktails. But no, she owed him this.

She knocked once, pushed open the door, and stepped in before he could call out. Maddox sat behind his desk, arms crossed, his eyes sharp and unreadable beneath furrowed brows.

“Before you say anything,” Hayley blurted, raising both hands like a burglar caught with the missing jewelry, “let me just start with an apology.”

His lips tightened, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I know what I did was reckless. I shouldn’t have confronted Peter Baird alone. Well—I wasn’t alone. I brought Mona. But she’s tougher than most people, and I figured if things went sideways, she could hold her own. And Earl had nothing to do with it. He didn’t even know what I was planning. I tricked him. I said we were going for donuts.”

Maddox blinked. Slowly.

“I know, I know,” she said quickly. “It was a stupid move. I just—when I realized Baird was behind it all, that he killed Hank and Tina—I had to act fast. I didn’t want him to slip away. And it worked, didn’t it? He’s in custody. That’s a good thing, right?”

Still, no reaction.

Hayley’s mouth twitched. “Okay. You’re doing the silent scolding. Got it.”

She paced a few steps, then turned back to him, arms crossed now herself. “Do you know why I do this? Why I get involved in these things?” She gave a weak chuckle. “It goes back to 2012. I’d just become the food and cocktails columnist for the Island Times—after years of being the paper’s office manager, mind you. Single mom, trying to keep things together. I was thrilled. It felt like a fresh start.”

Maddox’s gaze didn’t waver.

“But then this rival cooking columnist from the Bar Harbor Herald—Karen Applebaum, not the nicest person FYI—she accused me of stealing her clam chowder recipe. Total nonsense. But a week later, she was found dead. Right there in her kitchen, face-down in a bowl of her own chowder. Poisoned.”

Hayley paused, waiting for a flicker of interest.

Nothing.

“That kind of thing gets under your skin. I couldn’t let it go. I had to figure it out. And when I did—I realized I was good at it. Or at least stubborn enough to keep digging.” She smiled faintly. “I assume you don’t want to hear the rest. There were a lot of murders after that. Like, a lot.”

Maddox finally leaned forward, elbows on his desk, voice cold and clipped. “You’re reckless. Invasive. And lucky. Try this again, and I’ll make sure your luck finally runs out.”

Hayley gave a weak smile. “So … I guess I’ll see you at the next murder?”

He didn’t smile.

Not even a twitch.

She stood there a beat longer, the air thick with disapproval, then gave a small nod and turned to leave. Her hand touched the door, but she paused.

There was something she couldn’t shake.

The gun.

Doug Marsh’s gun.

Everyone seemed satisfied with the theory that Peter Baird had climbed aboard the Slaughterhouse after shooting Hank from the water and tucked the revolver neatly in the ice chest to frame Chase Wingate.

Case closed.

Except Baird had told her something else.

He claimed he didn’t steal the gun.

The cops dismissed that as self-serving nonsense, of course. The bullet in Hank matched Doug’s revolver. One round was missing. But that didn’t mean Baird used that gun.

The bullet could’ve been fired at any time.