Page 6 of Death of a Grill Master

“You okay?” she asked, sitting beside him.

He nodded. “Just taking a moment before we have to scrape grease off everything we own.”

They sat in silence awhile before Bruce added, “You notice anything strange with Randy and Sergio today?”

Hayley stiffened slightly. “Why?”

Bruce shrugged. “Randy seemed … distant tonight. And I saw Sergio leave the station early this afternoon, looking stressed. I don’t know. Could be nothing.”

Hayley felt a sudden, unwelcome chill.

“No,” she said softly. “I don’t think it’s nothing.”

Chapter 3

Labor Day dawned hot and clear in Bar Harbor, the sky bright and the ocean sparkling.

By 9 a.m., Hayley could already hear the hum of anticipation buzzing through the residential streets—neighbors hauling beach bags and lawn chairs out to the curb, tourists lingering over breakfast sandwiches from Morning Glory Bakery, shopkeepers stringing red, white, and blue pennants along awnings. Someone down the block was already blasting Bruce Springsteen at a volume that suggested patriotic zeal or unresolved personal drama. Possibly both.

It was the day of the “Big Bang on Frenchman’s Bay,” Bar Harbor’s most elaborate fireworks display to date, funded by an unexpected surplus from one of the town’s most successful tourism seasons in years. The town council, often gridlocked on decisions involving zoning permits and sidewalk repairs, had unanimously voted to blow the whole thing on fireworks.

Bruce stood by the front door loading their collapsible beach chairs into the trunk while Hayley finished assembling their picnic cooler in the kitchen. She tossed in a container of potato salad, two bags of kettle chips, her roast beef sandwiches with horseradish mayo and extra pickles (Bruce’s request), and—wrapped in a dish towel to discourage questions—their metal thermoses filled with “lemonade.” Spiked, naturally.

It wasn’t that she hated crowds. Okay, she did. But the real reason Hayley had no intention of jockeying for a spot along the jam-packed pier was because she and Bruce had a secret.

About a quarter mile past Agamont Park, beyond the bend where the Shore Path narrowed into a thin dirt trail clinging to the edge of a rocky bluff, there was a flat shelf of granite halfway down the cliff. Big enough for two chairs and a cooler. Surrounded by stunted pines. Invisible unless you knew where to look. It was their spot.

Bruce called it their “cove of solitude.”

By dusk, they’d made the short hike out and were settled into their favorite chairs. The cooler sat between them, squat and sun-bleached, its sticker-covered lid keeping everything inside perfectly chilled.

The breeze coming off the water ruffled Bruce’s hair as he flipped open his spiral notebook and began scribbling, tongue pressed lightly to the corner of his mouth in concentration.

Hayley sipped her lemonade and smirked. “You’re working on your book again.”

“I’m outlining,” he replied without looking up.

“You better not be killing me off in chapter one.”

“I’m not saying anything.”

“Oh my God, I am the body in the library, aren’t I?”

Still no answer.

Which was as good as a guilty plea.

Hayley leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes, and let the sunlight soak into her skin. In the distance, music from the town pier carried faintly on the breeze—a cover band murdering “Sweet Caroline” with gusto. Boats bobbed along the bay, angling for the best view of the sky come nightfall.

She reached for her thermos again, took a long sip, and exhaled slowly. The lemonade was kicking in. A rare moment of stillness surrounded them.

“I invited Randy and Sergio,” she said, opening her eyes.

Bruce looked up. “I figured.”

“He said they had other plans. But he was vague. Like … evasive.”

Bruce nodded, his expression unreadable.