Page 94 of Death of a Grill Master

Instead of getting angry, Liddy barked out a laugh and reached into her desk. “Honey, if Doug tried to dive, you’d hear him screaming from here to Castine.” She pulled out a folded sheet of paper and handed it over. “Medical exemption. He gets barotrauma from shallow swimming pools.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“Oh, I just found out! Doug’s been planning a surprise trip to Belize—some sort of diving excursion he wanted us to do together. Very Eat Pray Love. Anyway, he had to get a medical screening for the scuba package, and boom—inner-ear drama. Barotrauma? Something like that. The poor man can’t go deeper than a swimming pool without feeling like his head’s going to explode. Total romance buzzkill.”

Then she handed Hayley the paperwork. “He was embarrassed. I think he thought I’d find him less sexy if I knew he couldn’t dive. As if I care about that macho nonsense. I like a man who stays on dry land and mixes a good cocktail.”

Hayley read the document. It was official. Doug Marsh couldn’t dive more than six feet without risking a burst eardrum. He was medically disqualified from every dive-training program on the coast.

One more door closed.

One more theory shot to hell.

Hayley drained the rest of her drink in a single gulp.

Dusk was settling by the time Hayley left Liddy’s office and started back toward home. The sidewalk gleamed with the sheen of recent rain, and the sky was slashed with orange and pink streaks. As she rounded the corner near the Desmond house, she stopped short.

Chase Wingate stood leaning against the split-rail fence.

Waiting.

His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, and his expression was unreadable.

“I saw you watching the other day,” he said.

Hayley kept her tone light. “I like to people-watch. Occupational hazard.”

“You were spying.”

“You were making out with Hank’s heartbroken widow on the front porch. Pretty sure even the squirrels stopped to stare.”

Chase stepped forward. “Kylie doesn’t need this crap. Especially from you. She’s grieving.”

“And you?”

“I grieve differently,” he responded.

Hayley folded her arms. “Chase, your fingerprints were found on the bullets.”

Chase let out a sharp breath, almost a laugh, but there was no humor in it. “Yeah, I’ve heard. Over and over. Every cop in town’s shoved that in my face. And I still don’t know how the hell it happened.”

“Think harder,” Hayley pressed. “Prints don’t just appear. You handled those rounds somewhere.”

He shook his head, pacing a little. “No. I never loaded that gun. Never fired it. It was Doug’s, not mine. Why would my prints be all over his ammo?” His voice cracked with frustration. “None of this makes sense.”

“Unless it does,” Hayley said quietly. “Unless you’re remembering wrong—or leaving something out.”

That landed. He stopped mid-stride, frowning. His eyes narrowed as though a door was creaking open in the back of his mind.

“Wait,” he said slowly. “Doug’s cocktail party. The week before Labor Day.”

Hayley stayed silent, letting him fill in the gap.

“He brought the gun out of the safe—was showing it off. There were bullets on the table, I remember that. People were passing them around, making jokes. I picked up a couple. Just goofing.” His voice quickened, eager now. “That’s it. That has to be it. That’s how my prints got on them.”

“Convenient memory,” Hayley said.

“It’s the truth,” he snapped. His exhaustion bled through. “I didn’t shoot Hank. Somebody used that party to set me up.”