Page 52 of Death of a Grill Master

“They did,” Blodgett said without looking back. “And we answered them. Exhaustively.”

“Then I’ll try not to be too exhaustive myself.”

Before Blodgett could respond, they were intercepted by a sudden crowd of five or six students, among them the same fleecy, rumpled crew Hayley had overheard at Drinks Like A Fish. The girl with the septum ring gave Hayley a quick wave. The boy in the baseball cap held up his phone.

“Is it true you once solved a case involving a poisoned cinnamon bun?” he asked breathlessly.

Blodgett blinked. “Excuse me?”

“It’s online,” the girl said. “We were googling Hayley Powell after she left the bar last night. She’s got a whole Wikipedia page. And an old podcast episode from, like, 2018—‘Death of a Blueberry Tart.’ She literally solved the cold-blooded murder of the town floozy, who was killed while she was picking blueberries! She was allergic to bees, and the killer injected honey into her skin cream, which attracted a whole hive, and they stung her to death! Isn’t that what happened, Hayley?”

“Uh, kind of, but there was more to it than that,” Hayley muttered, but the students ignored her.

The students nodded fervently, a few already starting to live stream the hallway drama on their phones for TikTok.

Ellen looked pained. “You do understand this is an academic institution, not an episode of Only Murders in the Building.”

“She’s trending,” the boy in the baseball cap said in awe, showing his phone.

Hayley bit her lip, catching Ellen’s glower.

Another student jumped in excitedly. “Didn’t you also crack that thing with the karaoke competition and the shrimp scampi?” they asked.

Hayley frowned. “That definitely didn’t happen.”

“But it says—”

“I think people are just making stuff up now.”

A tall boy with film school energy and a lapel mic clipped to his hoodie leaned in closer. “Ms. Powell, would you be willing to come on my podcast? It’s called Murder Maine-ia. I’ve been looking for a guest to talk about how small-town corruption intersects with shellfish crimes.”

Blodgett massaged her temple like a woman fighting off an aneurysm.

Hayley raised her palms. “Let’s all take a breath. I’m just here to look around Professor Whitmore’s office.”

“And she’s got permission,” the septum girl added. “My mom donated, like, a whole lab to this place. So …”

Blodgett’s smile thinned. “Fine. Five minutes.”

She unlocked Tina’s door, and Hayley stepped into a room that felt more like a well-used cabin than a professor’s workspace. Books and charts cluttered every surface. A framed map of the Gulf of Maine was thumbtacked to the wall beside a faded Polaroid of what looked like a lobster boat mid-haul. On the windowsill, dried sea glass sparkled like forgotten candy. A pressed maple leaf, faded but vibrant, was pinned above Tina’s desk.

Hayley walked slowly around the room, absorbing the silence. There were no signs of struggle. No overturned coffee mugs. No scattered papers or broken lamps. Just absence. A life suddenly frozen in place.

Hayley moved to the bookshelves. Texts on marine chemistry, whale migration patterns, even a dog-eared copy of Jaws by Peter Benchley. Tucked between several volumes was a small, black velvet box. Hayley lifted it—and opened the lid to find a single shark tooth on a chain.

“A gift?” she murmured.

“We don’t know,” Ellen replied. “But it’s not evidence of anything criminal.”

Still, Hayley noted the dusty impression where it had sat—untouched for weeks, maybe longer.

Outside the office, the podcaster pressed his nose to the glass. “She’s analyzing the tooth necklace!” he hissed to the others. “Classic Powell.”

Hayley’s cheeks flushed. “I didn’t ‘analyze’ anything,” she said firmly, closing the box.

“You’re not helping,” Ellen muttered through clenched teeth.

The students peered in from the hallway like spectators outside a candy store.