Page 53 of Death of a Grill Master

“Is it true you once found a body inside a fondue fountain?” the boy with the podcast mic asked.

“No, I did not,” Hayley said.

The group murmured with admiration anyway.

Blodgett stood stiffly near the door, her arms folded.

“You realize this is a distraction,” she said.

Hayley nodded, still scanning the room. “Probably. But sometimes distractions can lead somewhere productive.”

Blodgett stepped forward. “Tina was well-respected. She collaborated across departments, worked with harbor conservationists, even took students on overnight tide-pooling excursions. She wasn’t flaky.”

“No one’s suggesting she was,” Hayley said gently. “But she vanished.”

“She was also a little … solitary,” Blodgett admitted. “She had friends, but she wasn’t the faculty potluck type. Her absence is deeply troubling, and I wish I had answers. But letting civilians comb through her office won’t produce them.”

Outside the doorway, the podcast guy whispered to another student. “Oh, this is good. This is true-crime tension.”

Hayley, trying to mask her growing irritation, offered a tight smile. “I’ll wrap up.”

The five-minute visit had already ticked past ten. She hadn’t found a single useful clue. No notes, no letters, no hint of where Tina might’ve gone or what she might have seen that night after her swim.

One of the students held up a phone. “Hey, Hayley, quick question. Did you really find a killer by following a trail of spilled margarita salt across a dock in that oyster-shucking murder?”

Hayley blinked. “That … okay, that sounds faintly familiar, but I still think someone’s embellishing.”

“I knew it was real.” The girl beamed. “From what I remember, the killer poisoned a margarita by soaking the sea salt in antifreeze!”

The crowd began debating which case was her best, but when someone brought up the fictional “Maple Syrup Heist of ’09,” Ellen Blodgett finally snapped.

“Enough,” she said. “Library. Now.”

The students groaned but slowly dispersed under her glare. Before rounding the corner, the podcast boy called back, “You still owe us an interview, Hayley!”

“Sure,” she said with a wince. “Let me know if you ever solve the Mystery of the Missing Homework.”

As the last of the voices faded, a quiet cough drew their attention.

A man in his late forties stood just beyond the hallway—tall, narrow-shouldered, with silver at his temples and glasses perched precariously on his nose. He wore a soft gray pullover and khakis, giving off the air of a pleasant weather forecaster.

“Peter Baird,” he said with a gentle nod. “Oceanography. I just wanted to offer my help, if I can. Tina and I shared lab space last semester. She was … collaborative. Quiet, but thoughtful.”

Hayley studied him. His voice was calm, his eyes kind, his tone perfectly professional.

“No enemies?” she asked.

He shook his head. “None that I knew of. She kept to herself but never seemed upset. It’s all been very sudden. I hope she turns up.”

“Thank you,” Hayley said, her instincts pinging but not flaring. If he was involved, he hid it well. Just another mild-mannered academic in boat shoes.

Blodgett gave him a nod of acknowledgment and guided Hayley down the hallway and out through the double doors.

“You get what you came for?” she asked curtly.

“More or less,” Hayley said.

They parted without further pleasantries. Hayley took a long breath as the wind kicked up from the shore. Her gut told her the cases were connected. Hank’s murder and Tina’s disappearance weren’t random events. Something dark was churning beneath Bar Harbor’s calm surface, and it had nothing to do with algae blooms.