Page 75 of Death of a Grill Master

“You think someone could’ve gotten into his house or the shop?”

“Totally. He keeps meaning to install better locks, but his budget goes toward dive gear and fish-themed T-shirts.”

Hayley nodded. “Anyone suspicious hanging around lately?”

“There was one guy. Ball cap, sunglasses, trying way too hard to look casual. Just loitered outside the shop when I was there helping with the books. Never came in. Couldn’t get a good look at him.”

“Could you describe him at all?”

“Not really. That’s the thing—he looked average. Almost … intentionally forgettable.”

Hayley made a note. “Could’ve been casing the place.”

Tyler shrugged. “I thought he was a tourist. But now?”

Liddy popped her head in. “Lunch? Last call. I’m heading to the Wharf for a basket of fried clams and a side of slaw.”

Tyler recoiled like she’d threatened to eat roadkill. “Fried clams? Liddy, that’s a week’s worth of sodium and saturated fat in one sitting.”

She waved a dismissive hand. “Relax, Mr. Muscles. Not all of us survive on green powder and chia seeds. Some of us enjoy life—and food that’s actually fried.”

“It’s not food—it’s a cry for help,” Tyler muttered, shaking his head.

“You know what’s a cry for help?” Liddy shot back. “Your lunch. It smells like a compost bin at a yoga retreat.”

Hayley laughed. “Rain check,” she said, waving them both off.

She stepped outside. Her thoughts churned.

Two tanks, most likely planted.

A dead marine biologist who’d sent a frightened email.

A nosy local who might’ve staged a casual run-in.

And someone out there who was suddenly moving fast.

Zane was being framed.

And whoever was behind it?

They were getting sloppy.

Which made them dangerous.

And desperate.

Hayley tucked her notepad away and crossed the street. She had a sinking feeling that the next clue wouldn’t be so clean.

Or so easy to find.

She just hoped she’d find it before someone else disappeared.

Chapter 26

The Bar Harbor Farmers Market was already buzzing by the time Hayley arrived. Vendors snapped open pop-up tents while customers jostled through the aisles, baskets swinging. Overhead, seagulls circled like thieves, screeching for free samples.

Hayley navigated the crowd with a coffee in hand and her hair shoved under a Red Sox cap, doing her best impression of someone who hadn’t agreed—again—to help Mona sling lobsters on a weekend. She spotted the red BARNES LOBSTER CO. canopy near the harbor-facing edge of the market. A giant white cooler sat front and center, propped open to display live culls snapping lazily in their crate, beside a chalkboard that read FRESH LOBSTERS $5/LB. LIMIT 10. DON’T BE GREEDY.