Page 98 of Death of a Grill Master

“Except it did,” Hayley said. “He launched a whole line. It’s sold all over New England.”

Baird raised his eyebrows, feigning surprise. “Really? Huh. I guess I didn’t keep tabs.”

“So you did know him. Rather well, in fact.”

“That was years ago,” Baird said. “It wasn’t a partnership. I did a mock-up or two and moved on. He got what he needed and ran with it. I honestly forgot he even used the design.”

Hayley gave him a small nod, eyes never leaving his face.

There was a long pause.

Hayley tucked the flyer away and nodded. “Well, thanks for clearing that up.”

She turned, feeling his hot gaze on her back, and walked out of the building into the cooling air, her boots crunching over the gravel. Goose bumps crawled up the back of her neck.

She didn’t believe a word of it.

His story was too polished. His voice too even. And his eyes … they’d given it away.

Inside her bag, the flyer crackled as she walked.

In her mind, Baird’s voice echoed: “Predators don’t announce themselves. They blend in.”

And suddenly, Hayley wondered just how long this particular predator had been circling.

Chapter 32

Leroy was snoring on the couch, his back legs twitching like he was chasing something in his sleep—probably a rogue meatball—when Hayley’s phone buzzed against the kitchen counter.

She picked it up and saw Bruce’s name flashing.

She answered. “If this isn’t about dinner, it better be about murder.”

“It’s better,” Bruce said, breathless and triumphant. “It’s motive.”

She sat upright. “Go on.”

“I found a small-claims case filed by Peter Baird against Hank Desmond.”

Hayley’s heart skipped. “Where?”

“Rockport, Massachusetts. Just under ten years ago. Right before Hank’s sauce really blew up.”

“I’m coming. And I’m bringing Leroy. He’s been cooped up in the house all day. Besides, if this turns out to be about a parking ticket, he can sniff out the real story—or at least the nearest sandwich.”

The Island Times office hadn’t changed in years—still too many leaning stacks of old issues, still the faint hum of a printer that sounded like it was dying dramatically. The newsroom buzzed with quiet chaos, reporters hunched over keyboards and muttering into headsets, the air still faintly scented with burnt coffee and the musty paper smell of old editions that refused to be thrown out.

Hayley pushed through the front door, Leroy trotting dutifully at her side, sniffing every corner like he expected cheese to be hiding under the recycling bin. She made her way to the back bullpen and Bruce’s office.

Bruce waved her in as an excited Leroy skittered across the floor and stood on his hind legs, desperate for attention.

“Hey, buddy,” he said, giving Leroy a quick scratch. “Don’t let your mom distract me from serious journalism.”

Hayley dropped her purse beside a filing cabinet and leaned in. “Tell me everything.”

Bruce held up a highlighted printout. “Peter Baird filed a small-claims suit in Rockport. Claimed Hank owed him five thousand dollars for design services—branding, label work, product mock-ups. Said they had a verbal agreement for royalties if the sauce took off.”

“Did they?”