Page 14 of Death of a Grill Master

Hayley had liked him.

Still did.

But tonight was about gathering a little more data.

The bar was buzzing for a Monday night. String lights twinkled above mismatched tables, and the usual décor—a rusty ship bell, a mounted swordfish in Mardi Gras beads—gave the place its signature blend of cozy and kitschy. A salty breeze drifted in through the open windows.

Behind the bar, Randy moved with his usual efficiency, cracking jokes, pouring pints, but Hayley could tell something was off. He looked preoccupied, distracted. Each time Chelsea approached him, his smile faded a fraction too quickly. He kept glancing toward the office, then back to the taps like something heavy was pressing on him.

She made a mental note to check in.

Liddy arrived with her usual fanfare, her cherry-red wrap dress fluttering dramatically as she burst through the door. Doug followed close behind, tanned and sharply dressed in a white linen shirt. He smiled when he spotted Hayley and Bruce.

“Hey, you two,” Liddy said brightly, guiding Doug to the table.

“Hey, Doug,” Hayley said with a nod, remembering how he’d danced with every woman over forty at the wedding and still found time to charm the bride’s grandmother. “Nice to see you again.”

“Pleasure’s mine,” he said with an easy grin.

Bruce raised his glass. “You’ve got one shot tonight. Don’t blow it.”

They all laughed as Doug and Liddy sat down. Chelsea stopped by to take their drink orders, and Hayley noticed again how Randy and Chelsea seemed to be having a lot of hushed sidebar conversations.

It didn’t look casual.

It looked … loaded.

“I’ve been trying to talk him into staying a little longer,” Liddy said once Chelsea left. “But he’s stubborn.”

Doug shook his head with a smile. “I have to get back. I’ve been off the grid too long. Clients are starting to think I’m dodging them.”

“But you promised you’d come back,” Liddy said, mock-wounded.

“I will. I meant that. And you know, if by January you get tired of scraping ice off your windshield …”

“You want me to visit you in Florida,” Liddy said, lips quirking.

He shrugged. “Not the worst idea.”

Their moment was interrupted by a loud exchange at the bar.

“I’m telling you, it was Chase Wingate,” one man said.

“Drunk off his ass,” the other added. “They fought, he pulled the trigger, dumped the body, passed out. Case closed.”

Hayley’s ears perked up. The two men were locals she vaguely recognized—one worked for public works, the other used to ref basketball games at the Y. Both nursed schooners and didn’t seem to care who overheard them.

“Chase is a hothead,” one said. “And rich enough to think he can get away with anything. Investor money. Real estate. He’s got properties up and down the coast.”

“And Hank? Who knows what kind of deal they had going?”

Hayley turned back to the table, eyebrows raised. “I don’t buy it.”

Liddy blinked. “You don’t think Chase did it?”

“It’s too neat,” Hayley said. “If it was a drunken fight, why hide the gun in a cooler full of ribs? Why not just toss it overboard?”

“Or wipe it down,” Bruce added. “He had the whole ocean to work with.”