Page 73 of Death of a Grill Master

Chapter 25

Leroy had barricaded himself in the laundry room again, proudly chewing on one of Bruce’s socks like he’d just killed a wild animal and was celebrating with a victory feast. Hayley stood in the doorway, arms folded, watching him with the disapproving glare usually reserved for uncooperative teenagers and celebrities who put ketchup on lobster rolls.

“That’s not a chew toy,” she said.

Leroy looked up, tail wagging, eyes gleaming with pride, then clamped down harder on the sock like it might escape. Hayley was about to lunge for it when her phone rang on the kitchen counter. She backed out of the laundry room, snatched up the phone, and saw Chelsea’s name on the screen.

“Tell me you’re calling to invite me to breakfast,” Hayley said, answering with one eye still on Leroy.

“I found something outside behind the bar,” Chelsea replied. Her voice was tight. “Something big. You need to see it.”

Ten minutes later, Hayley pulled into the alley behind Drinks Like A Fish, wearing jeans, a hoodie, and mismatched socks—thanks to Leroy. The alley still smelled of last night’s fryer oil and the faint scent of beer, mingled with the morning fog rolling off the harbor. Chelsea stood by the back dumpsters, her arms crossed, lips pursed.

“Over here,” she said, nodding to the space between the recycling bins and a giant pile of cardboard.

Hayley stepped closer and saw them immediately—two silver scuba tanks, spotless and gleaming, stacked like an offering. Stenciled letters that spelled ZANE’S COASTAL DIVES were unmistakable, faded but readable on both.

“They weren’t here when I closed up last night,” Chelsea said. “I took the trash out myself. These showed up sometime after midnight.”

Hayley crouched beside the tanks. They were almost too clean. No scuff marks, no ocean residue, not even dust from the alley. They’d been rinsed and placed there deliberately, like a trap laid by someone who knew she’d be looking.

“Where’d they come from?” Hayley asked.

“Last order for the shop,” Chelsea said. “Zane was running his mouth about it one night in here, after a few beers. Said he hated dealing with bills and receipts. Tyler—the guy who helps him with his books—was the one who actually placed it.”

Hayley glanced up. “Tyler? You dated him, didn’t you?”

Chelsea rolled her eyes. “I’ve dated most of the eligible bachelors in Hancock County between the ages of twenty and thirty-five. Occupational hazard. Tyler’s harmless—crunches numbers, eats nothing but kale, and has the emotional range of a whiteboard. But he’s smart. And he logs everything.”

Hayley snapped a few photos of the tanks, then rose to her feet. “Where is he now?”

“Liddy scooped him up for her real estate office,” Chelsea said. “He’s doing her books now. Keeps a spreadsheet on commission splits and avocado toast consumption.”

Inside the bar, Hayley refilled her travel mug with fresh coffee—just coffee—and thanked Chelsea, promising to follow up soon. As she stepped out the front entrance, she saw the morning sun had finally broken through the clouds, burning off the fog and turning the harbor water to silver. She was halfway down the sidewalk when a familiar voice rang out.

“Well, if it isn’t Bar Harbor’s resident gumshoe.”

Nancy Larkin appeared, striding briskly toward her in a white visor and matching tennis skirt, a tiny dachshund trotting beside her at the end of a leash. The dog looked like he regretted every life choice that had led him there.

“Morning, Nancy,” Hayley said, forcing a smile. “You’re out early.”

“Roger likes his breakfast sandwich hot,” Nancy said, then lifted an oversized latte. “And I like a little cardio with my caffeine.” Her eyes flicked toward the alley beside the bar. “Busy morning?”

“Just coffee,” Hayley said, keeping her tone breezy.

Nancy’s gaze lingered on the alley, curious. “Hmm. Thought I saw something shiny back there.” She smiled, all innocence. “Bar Harbor’s getting messy these days. You never know what people will dump where.”

“Guess not,” Hayley said, watching her carefully.

Nancy took another sip and tugged on the leash. “Well, enjoy your coffee, dear.”

Hayley watched her walk off, the dachshund dragging its feet.

Something itched at the back of her mind. Roger was probably already at their diner, the Fryer Side Chat, across town getting ready to open up for the breakfast rush—he could make his own breakfast sandwich, for heaven’s sake. So, why was Nancy fetching one here, blocks away, right after the scuba tanks appeared?

Her eyes drifted back toward the alley.

Nancy hadn’t come to buy breakfast.