Page 51 of Death of a Grill Master

“Have you told Maddox?”

Hayley nodded. “He says they’re on it. But I can’t help feeling there’s more to the story.”

He rested a hand on her shoulder. “Then you’ll find it.”

“I’m going to miss you guys.”

Sergio smiled. “We’ll visit. And you’ll visit us. It’ll be like Under the Tuscan Sun, but with better cocktails.”

She hugged him tight, then left and continued up the hill toward Main Street and eventually her home on Glenmary Road. When she arrived, Leroy barked from the porch and scrambled to greet her as she stepped inside. Bruce met her at the door, already in sweats and a ratty T-shirt, with a stack of junk mail in one hand.

“Any messages?”

“Just an invite to a lawn-mower raffle and another flyer for a psychic reading in Ellsworth,” he said. “Also, someone wants to buy our house for cash, sight unseen.”

He kissed her cheek as she scooped up Leroy and carried him inside.

“You smell like saffron.”

“Do you know a woman named Tina Whitmore?”

Bruce nodded. “She used to guest-lecture at the high school. Rolf Biggs, the science teacher, and my best golfing buddy, said she made plankton sound sexy.”

Hayley didn’t laugh. She dropped onto the couch beside him, her mind buzzing.

“What did she see that night?” she whispered.

Bruce wrapped his arm around her.

Leroy curled up at their feet.

Outside, the wind picked up. Somewhere in the trees, a bird cried out—shrill, sharp, and out of season.

Hayley stared out the half-open window, unable to shake the feeling that someone out there was still watching.

And waiting.

Chapter 19

The College of the Atlantic campus glistened under the soft haze of mid-morning sun, its oceanfront buildings modest yet elegant, tucked among pines and granite outcrops like an eco-conscious postcard. Hayley, dressed in her most “respectable investigator” outfit—clean jeans, a linen blouse, and her lucky clamshell necklace—walked past the seawall and main quad toward the marine sciences building with a determined stride. A student on a long board whizzed past her. Another lounged barefoot on the lawn with a biology textbook propped against their knees, earbuds in and mouthing the lyrics to something that clearly wasn’t a sea shanty. The campus had that mellow, post–Labor Day energy—school was back in session, but no one was ready to admit it yet.

Hayley hadn’t set foot on the College of the Atlantic campus in years, not since a disastrous cooking demo she’d given as part of a local food sustainability panel where she’d nearly set the lecture hall’s portable burner on fire. She could still remember the horrified face of the environmental sciences dean as her flambéed blueberry compote shot up toward the sprinkler system.

She found the marine sciences building nestled near the water’s edge, a sleek, glass-fronted structure designed to reflect the surrounding bay. Inside, a sandy-haired student in a faded “Save the Whales, Eat the Rich” sweatshirt pointed her to the second floor. Hayley waited in a sun-drenched corridor flanked by posters of marine biodiversity and grainy underwater photography. A janitor buffed the floors with a machine that sounded like a whale giving birth. At precisely 10:03 a.m., a woman emerged from an office labeled DEPARTMENT CHAIR—DR. ELLEN BLODGETT.

Tall, angular, and exuding New England authority, Dr. Blodgett wore a crisp navy blouse and a frown that suggested Hayley had already overstayed her welcome.

“Ms. Powell?” she asked, as though the syllables themselves tasted like vinegar.

“That’s me.” Hayley extended her hand.

Blodgett shook it briefly, then turned on her heel. “I’ve only got a few minutes. This isn’t a formal investigation, and I have actual responsibilities to attend to.”

“Well, I appreciate you taking the time.”

Hayley followed her down a hall lined with floor-to-ceiling aquariums, biting her tongue.

“I understand the police have already questioned staff and students,” Hayley said, trying to keep her tone conversational.