Page 36 of Death of a Grill Master

“Especially if it wasn’t me.”

They turned their kayaks back toward shore, the light fading into gold and then the first blush of pink across the lake. As Hayley struggled with her oar again, Hannah reached out to steady her boat.

“You’re better at sleuthing than paddling,” she said.

Hayley smiled. “And you’re blunter than a butter knife.”

They reached the truck, loaded the kayaks in silence. As Hannah tied down the last strap, she looked at Hayley squarely.

“I didn’t kill Hank Desmond,” she said. “But I’m not gonna pretend I’m sorry someone did.”

Hayley nodded slowly, climbing into the passenger seat.

She wanted to believe her. Part of her even did. But she wasn’t crossing Hannah Holloway off the suspect list just yet.

Chapter 13

Hayley’s house on Glenmary Road looked deceptively calm from the outside. The white clapboard siding gleamed in the slanted late-morning light, the hydrangeas along the front walk had begun to fade to a dusty green, and a blue jay squawked from somewhere deep in the birch trees. But inside, it looked more like a conspiracy theorist’s lair.

The dining room table had vanished under an avalanche of papers. Nautical charts, police reports (the public kind Bruce had passed to her), menus from Hank’s restaurant, a printout of the tide schedule, a dogeared copy of the Maine boating safety manual, and a bag of Goldfish crackers she was absent-mindedly crunching through while muttering to herself. She had a highlighter in one hand, a pen in the other, and a pink Post-it stuck to her cheek.

She hadn’t slept much. She didn’t even remember going to bed. Her last memory was tracing a red line from the cove near Agamont Park all the way to where the Slaughterhouse had been anchored the night Hank Desmond was murdered, a theoretical kayak route someone could have used to slip in and out unnoticed during the fireworks show.

The doorbell rang.

Hayley startled, knocking over a pile of maps. Leroy barked from the living room. She stumbled to the front door, barefoot, wearing an old fleece over her pajamas.

Mona stood on the porch, holding a manila folder and a smug expression.

“Why do I have the feeling you haven’t showered?”

Hayley stepped aside. “Because I haven’t. Get in here. I need caffeine.”

Mona followed her into the kitchen, flinching at the state of the place. A crusted-over coffee mug in the sink, two empty Diet Coke cans on the counter, and the faint hum of Hayley’s overworked laptop still running on the dining room table.

“What is all this?” Mona asked, placing the folder carefully on the only clear corner of the table.

“I’m mapping water routes,” Hayley said, pointing to a chart with several red and blue lines. “There are at least four possible approaches by kayak that most likely wouldn’t have been noticed with all the chaos during the fireworks. If someone timed it right …”

“Jesus, Hayley.”

“You think I’m kidding? I even factored in currents.”

“Do you have a corkboard somewhere with string and thumbtacks?”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Well, don’t keep me in suspense. What do you got?”

Hayley circled a cove in thick red marker.

“If you launch from the cove at the base of Schooner Head, and the tide’s pulling west—which it was that night—someone could’ve let the current carry them most of the way to the Slaughterhouse without even paddling. With the fireworks going off overhead and all eyes on the sky, no one would’ve noticed a kayak slipping silently through the shadows.”

She paused, tapping her marker against the map.

“Of course, the best-laid plans … someone did notice. Zane. He said he spotted a kayak that night—thought it was Hannah’s. That’s how I even got on her trail. So maybe whoever paddled out didn’t count on being seen. Or maybe they just didn’t care.”

Mona nodded. “Sounds plausible … or insane. I can’t decide which.”