Page 54 of Death of a Grill Master

When Hayley arrived home, Leroy ran to greet her at the door, barking like she’d been lost at sea for a week. His little Shih Tzu paws tapped on the tile, his tail wagging so hard it threatened to lift him off the ground.

Bruce stood in the kitchen, nursing a coffee and flipping through a catalog offering everything from lobster traps to rustic mailboxes shaped like moose.

“You’re back,” he said, setting the mug down.

“I’m back,” Hayley said. “With absolutely no leads and a mild case of imposter syndrome.”

Leroy circled her ankles until she scooped him up and carried him toward the living room, where Bruce followed and gently kissed her hello.

“Tell me what you found,” he said, sitting beside her on the couch.

Hayley filled him in—Blodgett’s resistance, the students’ fervor, the cluttered but undisturbed office. And Peter Baird, the soft-spoken oceanography professor who seemed a little too nondescript for comfort.

“What’s his deal?” Bruce asked.

“Too quiet,” Hayley said. “He says he barely knew her, but he conveniently shows up just as I’m leaving Tina’s office. And not in a ‘just happened to be walking by’ kind of way.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “You think he’s involved?”

“I think he’s wallpaper. But sometimes the wallpaper’s hiding a crack.”

Bruce whistled. “That’s good. I might steal that for the murder mystery I’m working on.”

Hayley groaned. “Please don’t. You’ve already got a main character based on me named Kaley.”

Bruce grinned. “It’s a placeholder.”

Hayley didn’t even smile. “So many suspects. Blodgett. Baird. Maybe even one of the students. And yet … no evidence. No motive. No Tina.”

“But no body, either,” Bruce said gently. “She could still be out there alive somewhere.”

Hayley leaned her head against his shoulder. “I hope so,” she said. “I really do.”

Outside, the wind picked up, rustling the leaves that hadn’t yet turned. Fall was coming—quietly, but with purpose.

And somewhere in Bar Harbor, a killer was still out there.

Chapter 20

The scent of garlic and lemon butter wafted through the Linney-Powell kitchen, a surprising turn of events considering Hayley hadn’t lifted a single spatula all evening. Bruce stood at the stove, brow furrowed, wooden spoon in hand, stirring what appeared to be shrimp scampi over linguine. He looked like a man defusing a bomb.

“Okay,” he muttered to himself. “Simmer, not boil. Simmer.”

Hayley leaned against the doorway, arms folded, watching him with a grin that was equal parts amusement and admiration. “You know, my ex-husband thought saffron was a Fleetwood Mac song.”

Bruce didn’t look up. “And look how well that worked out.”

“Right. He once tried to make chicken Kiev. I spent the next day clinging to a toilet and reevaluating my life choices.”

He chuckled but kept his focus on the bubbling pan. “Well, I googled ‘Impressive Meals That Won’t Kill a Food Columnist.’ This was option three.”

“I’m flattered.” She stepped closer and inhaled deeply. “Is that … white wine? Garlic? Shallots? Bruce Linney, are you seducing me through gastronomy?”

He turned and gave her a wink. “You’ll have to wait until dessert to find out.”

They sat at the table Bruce had carefully set—real napkins, mismatched but charming dishware, votive candles in jelly jars. A small bouquet of daisies from the yard sat between them in an old maple syrup bottle. Leroy curled at Hayley’s feet like a fuzzy footstool.

Hayley twirled a bite of linguine and took her first taste. Her eyes widened. “Okay. That’s it. You’re officially in charge of dinner every night for the next week.”