Page 23 of Death of a Grill Master

A line of cars began to build behind Hayley. The driver directly behind her honked once. Hayley held up a hand in apology but didn’t move. This was her space. Doris was finally almost clear—just a little more to go—and then, like a snake slithering through tall grass, a shiny black SUV slid in from the other direction and stole the spot.

“What the—?” Hayley slammed her hand against the steering wheel.

The SUV door opened, and out stepped a man in his thirties, tall, athletic, dark hair, designer sunglasses perched on his nose like he’d just stepped out of a GQ photo shoot. He straightened his tie, looked around with supreme confidence, and headed for the store.

“Oh, no, you don’t.”

Hayley threw her car into park and jumped out, slamming the door behind her.

“Excuse me!” she called. “That was my space!”

The man turned. His Boston accent hit like a slap. “Didn’t see your name on it.”

“I was waiting,” she snapped. “Doris Crimmons nearly died getting out of that spot. You just swooped in like—like—”

“A guy trying to buy groceries?”

“Like a Masshole,” Hayley muttered.

His eyebrow twitched. “Wow. Charming. You must be a riot at parties.”

Hayley crossed her arms. “This is Maine. We wait our turn here. We don’t just cut people off because we’re wearing expensive shoes and think the rules don’t apply.”

The man looked her up and down. “And you are?”

“Someone who doesn’t appreciate being disrespected.”

He exhaled slowly, then glanced at her car, then back at her. Finally—finally—he sighed and walked back to his vehicle. “You’re lucky I’m in a generous mood.”

“See how easy that was?” she said sweetly as he climbed back in. “Civility. It’s contagious.”

He reversed out and disappeared down the aisle. Hayley slid triumphantly into the space and muttered, “Massachusetts plates. Figures.”

She grabbed her bag and headed inside.

Back at Hayley’s Kitchen, Hayley had barely returned from the store, ingredients in hand, when the dinner crowd started arriving. Betty was adjusting silverware with military precision. Kelton was manning the kitchen like a caffeinated octopus. Hayley was about to unlock the front door for the rush when her phone buzzed.

It was a text from Earl.

The chief wants to see you. Now.

Hayley’s heart jumped.

Sergio.

Maybe they had a break in the Desmond case.

She turned to Betty. “Can you cover the front for a bit?”

“Absolutely not,” Betty said, then saw Hayley’s face. “Fine. Go. I’ll survive. Barely. But hurry back!”

Hayley gave her a grateful pat on the arm and hurried out.

The police station was unusually quiet when she stepped inside, the fluorescent lights buzzing above her head. She passed by the front desk just as she heard a sound—sniffling. Loud, wet sniffling. She turned.

Lieutenant Donnie was at his desk, phone cradled to his ear, tears streaming down his face as he blubbered into the receiver.

“I—I just—I gave this place over ten years, Tilly! What am I supposed to do now?”