Page 59 of Death of a Grill Master

“You’re taking the car, aren’t you?” Bruce asked, glancing up from his laptop at the kitchen table, looking every bit the weekend adventurer in board shorts, hiking sandals, and a BAR HARBOR OR BUST T-shirt he swore was ironic.

“I just need to run a quick errand,” she said, trying to sound breezy. “I’ll have it back in time for your paddle.”

He gave her a look. “Does this errand involve tailing suspects?”

“Not necessarily.”

“Hayley.”

She stopped, turned. “It’s just … Zane’s acting strange. Jumpy. Cagey. He practically runs in the other direction when I say hi.”

Bruce sighed. “You’re not even sure he’s guilty.”

“I know. That’s what’s driving me crazy. He could be innocent. Just scared because he looks suspicious. But if he’s guilty … then I need to find out before someone else ends up like Hank. Or Tina.”

Bruce closed his laptop. “You could be writing about cocktails, you know. Seasonal garnishes. Clam dip tips.”

“You love that I’m like this,” she said, smiling.

“You’re obsessed.”

“Pot, meet kettle,” Hayley said. “You’ve been ‘working on your column’ for days, which is clearly code for ‘writing a thinly veiled crime novel starring a version of me who wears less makeup and makes better choices.’”

“It’s not a novel,” Bruce muttered, looping the straps together. “It’s a long-form opinion piece with scenes.”

Hayley kissed his cheek. “Mmm-hmm. And I’m not investigating anything. I just happen to be driving in the same direction as a very suspicious man with access to underwater gear.”

She winked, grabbed her bag, and headed out.

As expected, Zane’s Jeep was parked out front when she arrived at the dive shop. She pulled into a spot across the street, pretending to scroll through her phone while watching through her sunglasses. A few minutes later, he emerged, carrying a duffel bag and a clipboard. He locked the door behind him, threw the bag into his Jeep, and peeled out of the lot.

Hayley followed at a discreet distance.

She wasn’t sure Zane was guilty—he might just be terrified. If people believed he was a suspect, he could act guilty even if he wasn’t. But that didn’t mean she was going to stop following him.

Zane drove through town and took a left down Bay View Street, pulling up outside the Desmond home. The house looked shuttered from the road, its glossy front door closed tight and the porch empty.

He knocked anyway.

When no one answered, he knocked again—harder this time. He pressed his forehead against the door for a moment, then turned and kicked at a flowerpot.

She recognized the tension in his shoulders. This wasn’t about logistics or business. It was personal. Zane stood on the porch for a long moment, then turned and stalked off, muttering to himself.

Still holding on, Hayley thought.

He wasn’t over Kylie.

Despite everything.

Maybe losing her on top of being accused of murder was pushing him over the edge.

He got back into his Jeep and peeled off toward Main Street.

Hayley followed at a safe distance. Zane spotted Kylie’s blue hybrid parked in front of Drinks Like A Fish and double-parked behind her.

Hayley parked across the street in front of the Criterion Theatre, unbuckled her seat belt. She paused for a second, catching sight of Zane outside the bar first—fidgeting, gathering his courage, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Then he pulled the handle of the door with dramatic force and went inside.

Hayley hopped out of her car and had barely stepped into the crosswalk when she nearly got flattened by a cherry-red Buick with a bobbing Virgin Mary on the dash.