Page 131 of Death of a Grill Master

“Two people dead,” Maddox said quietly. “All because Peter Baird wanted revenge.”

Hayley rubbed her arms against the chill. “And because Kylie and Chase were too selfish and sloppy to pull off a murder of their own.”

Maddox gave a small shake of his head. “Lucky for them—and unlucky for Hank—Baird got there to finish the job for them.”

Maddox turned to her. “You done sleuthing?”

“After I finish this column. Barbecue season waits for no woman.”

Maddox shook his head and walked away.

Hayley stayed a moment longer, the sea breeze tugging at her hair.

Peter Baird was in jail. Kylie and Chase were headed there, too. And somewhere in the bottom of her purse, the mason jar of sauce was wedged sideways, the lid barely holding.

She’d deal with the mess later.

Right now, it was time to wrap things up.

For good.

Chapter 41

Drinks Like A Fish had never been louder, or lovelier. Paper lanterns floated from the rafters in red, gold, and green—a nod to Brazil’s vibrant palette—while someone had strung tiny flags from the dartboard to the mounted swordfish like festive bunting. The jukebox alternated between Sergio’s favorite bossa nova playlist and Randy’s country line-dancing favorites—heavy on Reba, with the occasional disco remix thrown in just to mess with the rhythm.

Hayley stood near the bar and sipped Sergio’s homemade caipirinha—a limey, boozy tribute to their new life in Brazil. She was barely five steps in the door and had been hugged six times. The whole town had turned out for her brother and his husband’s farewell bash, and the send-off was exactly what you’d expect for two of Bar Harbor’s biggest personalities: sentimental, loud, and soaked in liquor.

She’d baked two of her signature rum cakes—one for slicing, one for “emotional emergencies”—and both were disappearing quickly under the eager forks of regulars. Randy, his cheeks flushed with drink and love, held court near the pool table, squeezing shoulders and kissing cheeks like a benevolent, tipsy monarch.

“I’m gonna miss this guy,” murmured Chelsea Mahoney, now comfortably behind the bar and glowing with a mix of nerves and pride as she poured pints and accepted tips with her usual flair. She reached into her apron and pulled out a key ring. “They gave me the keys today. Officially mine.”

Hayley smiled. “You’re gonna crush it.”

Just then, Mona clanged a spoon against a beer glass with the subtlety of a cymbal crash. “Can I get everyone’s attention?” she called, standing on one of the sturdy bar stools and wobbling only slightly. “Don’t worry, I’m not here to sing, strip, or sell you lobster rolls. I’m here to roast the guests of honor.”

The crowd erupted with laughter as Earl grinned from his stool beside her and raised his beer in salute. “And that’s why I love her,” he said. “Never boring.”

Mona beamed. “We’re here to say goodbye to two of the finest men Bar Harbor ever had the luck to call their own. Randy, our snarky little firecracker, and Sergio, who somehow ran the police department for twelve years without ever figuring out the difference between ‘undercover’ and ‘off-duty’.”

The crowd laughed, and Sergio—dressed in his finest linen shirt and shell necklace—raised his beer.

“It wasn’t easy in the beginning,” Sergio said. “When I first started, someone told me to ‘take him downtown.’ So I drove him to the actual downtown. We had chowder.”

Everyone laughed again.

Mona went on. “Sergio once told me I was ‘as strong as an ox and just as contagious.’ I think he meant courageous. I hope.”

“I did!” Sergio called.

“And Randy?” Mona smirked. “Randy once talked me into riding on the Bar Harbor Pride float dressed as a giant glitter lobster. I got heat rash in places I won’t name. But he was right—it was fun.”

The room dissolved into cheers. Randy pretended to curtsy and then flung his arms around Mona in a dramatic hug.

Sergio stepped forward, glass in hand, and silence settled gently over the room. “When I came to this town,” he began, his accent thickening with feeling, “I was only planning to be here for one summer. A temporary job. But then I met the man who told me Bar Harbor could be home. And … it became one.”

A beat passed, and his voice trembled. “Thank you all for your kindness. Your weirdness. Your potlucks and patience and your habit of yelling, ‘Hey, Chief!’ even after I was off-duty.” He paused, then added, “I do not know if Brazil has Whoopie Pies, but I will write letters. Or emails. Emails are faster.” He raised his glass. “To family. Of the heart.”

Glasses clinked across the bar as Hayley wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. Sergio had always had a way of mangling the language and nailing the emotion.