Page 57 of Death of a Grill Master

From behind the tape, she caught glimpses of the body.

She knew in her gut it was Tina.

Her wet suit was torn across the chest and side, her mask askew, the plastic visor cracked in two. Her pale arm lay twisted unnaturally beside her. A female forensic tech knelt beside her, snapping photos, while another carefully bagged seaweed-slick evidence.

Bruce conferred with someone near the body, nodding solemnly.

Hayley strained to hear.

“She was a strong swimmer,” a ranger said.

“Too strong to drown here,” Bruce replied. “This isn’t just a slip on the rocks.”

Hayley turned to Earl. “You heard that, right?”

He groaned. “Don’t quote me. Don’t even look at me.”

The medical examiner stepped back from the body and addressed Chief Maddox. “Clean tear along the side of the wet suit. Not from a rock. Possibly a knife or other tool. Arm bruising—narrow, elongated. Like grip marks.”

Hayley’s heart thudded. “She was attacked.”

Maddox’s expression didn’t change. “Or she got tangled on something. Rope. Driftwood. It’s not conclusive.”

“She didn’t deserve this,” Hayley whispered.

Earl stared out at the crashing surf. “Nobody does.”

Bruce returned, face pale. “It’s her. It’s Tina.”

Hayley nodded, arms wrapped tightly around her middle. “She knew something. Saw something. And now she’s gone.”

They stood in silence for a long moment, watching the forensics team slowly zip the body into a bag. The hiss of the tide, the click of cameras, and the rustle of nylon punctuated the night.

As they walked back to the car, the cold wind off the Atlantic pushed hard at their backs, as if hurrying them along.

“She didn’t drown,” Hayley said quietly. “Someone made sure she’d never tell what she saw.”

Bruce opened the passenger door for her. “Then we’ll find out who.”

Island Food & Spirits

By

Hayley Powell

There is nothing quite like summer in Bar Harbor, Maine. After months of shoveling snow, layering sweaters, and wondering if my car will ever start again, the first warm day of June feels like a national holiday. Sweaters come off, flip-flops come out, and grills emerge from garages and sheds, ready to be fired up.

Now, when I was married to my first husband, Danny, he was always in charge of the grill. Which was fine with me. Charcoal and propane? Not my thing. I was happy to leave that particular fire hazard in his hands.

But then we divorced, and I suddenly realized that if I ever wanted to enjoy a grilled burger or chicken again, I was going to have to conquer my fear and learn to do it myself.

So I did what any sensible woman would do: I invited Mona and Liddy over for moral support, stocked up on vodka, and announced I would be hosting my first-ever solo BBQ. Armed with chicken marinating in the fridge and pitchers of Adult Iced Tea cocktails, I tied on my brand-new apron that read QUEEN OF THE GRILL. Spoiler alert: The apron lied.

Mona offered to help get the fire started, but I waved her off with the false confidence of someone about to make a very big mistake. “If Danny can light a grill,” I said, “then so can I.”

Step one: charcoal. My logic was simple—more charcoal equals more heat. So I dumped the entire bag into the grill. Step two: lighter fluid. Since I had a mountain of charcoal, I figured the whole bottle of lighter fluid would be appropriate.

Reader, it was not.