Page 88 of Death of a Grill Master

Nancy took a seat beside her. “It’s exhausting, frankly. The whispering. The sideways glances. It’s starting to feel like we’re in one of those true-crime documentaries where the locals decide the couple with a nice boat must have done it.”

“Yeah,” Roger added. “We were planning a quiet life. Instead, we’ve been drafted into your little murder mystery as red herrings.”

Hayley looked out to sea. The coast was getting smaller behind them. The air cooler. The bubbles in her stomach weren’t just from the champagne anymore.

“Guys,” she said slowly. “if this is your way of telling me to back off—”

Roger held up a hand. “Relax. I told you. I’m not the man in the wet suit. I’ve got nothing to hide.”

Hayley exhaled shakily.

“Roger’s right,” Nancy added, her tone softening. “We’re not murderers. Just overworked people who barely have time for a night out, let alone participating in a conspiracy.”

Hayley clinked her glass. “Fair enough.”

Still, she made a mental note to check how fast she could swim in jeans.

Dinner at The Fig & Fern was exactly the kind of romantic, softly lit, overpriced fantasy Bar Harbor couples indulged in when they wanted to pretend the world wasn’t full of secrets and lies. Which is why Hayley felt like an absolute jerk when she spotted Liddy and Doug Marsh at a window table, framed by candles and lilac centerpieces, and knew she had to interrupt.

She hesitated outside for several seconds. Liddy was laughing—really laughing—and Doug was holding her hand across the table like they were in a Nora Ephron movie. Hayley hated herself, but she couldn’t walk away.

She entered, smiled at the hostess, and made a beeline over to their table.

Liddy’s smile faltered. “Hayley?”

Doug didn’t even try to look pleasant. “Of course.”

“I know, I know,” Hayley said quickly. “Worst timing ever. But I need to talk to you both. Just two minutes.”

Liddy, ever gracious, gestured to an empty chair. “What’s going on?”

Hayley sat. “There’s been new evidence. Surveillance footage. A man in a wet suit—seen in a sea cave and again breaking into Zane’s storage unit. He avoids cameras, knows the layout. Someone is trying to frame Zane.”

Liddy frowned. “A wet suit?”

Doug’s posture tensed. “And you think it was me?”

“I’m saying it could’ve been anyone—someone tall, broad. Like Roger Larkin. Like Chase Wingate. Like you.”

Liddy blinked. “Wait. Are we suspects again?”

Hayley pressed. “Doug, the gun used to kill Hank—it came from your home. You said it was stolen. Do you have any idea when that could have happened?”

Doug’s jaw tightened. “Like I said before, I didn’t even realize it was gone until the police told me where they’d found it. I kept it locked in a safe.” He paused, shifting in his seat. “The only time I took it out was during a cocktail party I hosted the week before Labor Day. I showed it off—stupid, I know. A few people saw me open the safe.”

Hayley frowned. “Who was there?”

“A dozen people or so. Friends, acquaintances. Some I don’t know well. They came and went.”

Liddy arched a brow. “I wasn’t invited.”

Doug turned to her, startled. “Because I hadn’t met you yet. You had yet to steal my heart.”

The line was sweet, but the moment was brittle. Liddy looked down, her fingers still on the wineglass stem.

“You didn’t tell me about the party,” she said.

“I didn’t think it mattered.”