Page 17 of Death of a Grill Master

“They’re not arresting him—they’re just taking him in for questioning,” Hayley said.

Earl whistled. “Well, damn.”

He recovered quickly, his grin returning. “We just came from the Reading Room. Best dinner of my life. Candlelight. Soft-shell lobster. White wine. Mona wore earrings. It was like a Nicholas Sparks novel, but with real butter.”

Mona rolled her eyes. “Earl. Don’t embarrass me.”

“I’m just saying it was special.”

She poked him. “Focus.”

He hesitated.

“Earl. Tell them what you told me at dinner.”

He sighed. “Fine. Look, they’ve got both Chase and Doug on their radar. But they won’t be able to hold them for long. Chase’s DNA was on the bullets. But a different set of prints were found on the gun. Probably Doug’s. They’re going to need more to charge them, and Chase already has his lawyer on the case, working to get him released. I’m sure Doug’s won’t be far behind.”

Hayley blinked. “Wait—Chase’s DNA? On the bullets?”

Earl nodded. “From when he loaded the magazine, probably.”

“And the other prints?”

“On the grip,” Mona said, leaning in. “They’re pretty certain Doug’s prints will be a match. So … two men. One weapon.”

Hayley’s brain kicked into high gear.

“Which means either they were both involved—or someone’s being framed,” she murmured. “But who held it last? Who pulled the trigger? And why the hell would they both have contact with the same gun?”

Bruce leaned forward. “What if they didn’t know they both touched it?”

“Of course Doug’s prints are on it. It’s his gun, right? Chase could have somehow stolen it to set him up!” Liddy cried.

Hayley looked down into her drink. “But why? And why murder Hank?”

The case was getting murkier by the minute.

And she was starting to feel the pull—deeper into the mystery.

Whatever had gone down on that boat hadn’t been simple.

It had been layered.

And deadly.

Chapter 7

The waves lapped gently against the rocky shoreline as dusk settled over Bar Harbor, casting a lavender hue across the water and gilding the windows of the sprawling seaside home just off the Shore Path. Lanterns flickered along the wooden deck, their glow softening the crisp edges of the end-of-summer air. Jazz filtered out of hidden speakers, blending with the rhythmic hiss of the tide. Hayley held a glass of prosecco in one hand and tried not to think about goodbyes.

Sergio and Randy’s end-of-season bash was always one of the highlights of the year—casual, intimate, with enough food and booze to sink a whale-watching boat.

But this year, it was different.

Bittersweet.

Everyone felt it.

The party was still lively—Bruce and Earl were arguing about who made the best burger in town, Mona was perched near the drinks table chatting up an out-of-towner with too-perfect teeth, and Chelsea Mahoney was laughing a little too loudly at something no one else had heard.