Page 103 of Death of a Grill Master

Preheat the oven to 350°F. Remove the membrane from the back of the ribs (a paper towel helps with grip). Season generously on both sides and place, arch side up, in a large baking pan. Cover tightly with foil and bake 2½ to 3 hours, until fork-tender.

Remove the ribs from from the oven, uncover, and slather with BBQ sauce on both sides. Broil for a few minutes to caramelize. Slice and serve.

Perfect for rainy days, first impressions, and anyone who insists their ribs are “world famous.”

Chapter 33

Hayley spotted him the moment she stepped onto the Village Green—the most conspicuous inconspicuous man in Bar Harbor.

Earl was seated stiffly on a slatted bench beneath a fading maple tree like he was in a second-rate John le Carré spy thriller. He wore a battered windbreaker zipped all the way up despite the warm breeze, a pair of reflective aviator sunglasses that screamed off-duty mall cop, and a floppy beige fishing hat pulled low over his forehead. If his goal was to blend in with the few remaining tourists, he had failed spectacularly—he looked like someone trying to escape a federal indictment.

Hayley approached with two iced coffees in hand from ChocoLatte and deadpanned, “I see you’ve activated Operation Overkill?”

Earl tilted the Boating Monthly he was holding—upside down—and peered at her from over the top. “You’re late.”

“I had to wait for them to foam the cold brew,” she replied, plopping onto the bench beside him and handing him a cup. “What’s with the getup? Did you lose a bet with the Coast Guard?”

“Caution,” Earl said, accepting the drink with mock-gravitas, “is the better part of valor. Especially when your boss already has you on probation for consorting with civilians.”

“You consort with me every morning over breakfast sandwiches,” Hayley muttered.

From inside his windbreaker—after a series of overly dramatic glances left, right, and up into the branches as if expecting an NSA drone—Earl pulled out a slightly crumpled manila envelope, expertly swaddled in a page from the Island Times classifieds, like it contained nuclear codes, or worse, Caleb Maddox’s browser history. He leaned in, voice lowered to a conspiratorial stage whisper. “As requested,” he said, eyes darting again toward a passing golden retriever like it might be wearing a wire.

Hayley tore into the package with the urgency of someone opening their SAT scores. Inside was a thin forensic file, the one she’d been waiting on. Her eyes scanned the top page and narrowed.

“I thought Chief Maddox said the cave was empty. Nothing there.”

“He believed that at the time,” Earl said, casually sipping his coffee as two teens raced by on skateboards, one of them gripping a giant inflatable clam and yelling. Earl stared after them. “Shouldn’t they be in school?”

“Earl, focus,” Hayley pleaded.

Earl snapped to attention. “Right. The hair sample wasn’t found until later. One of the forensics guys did a second sweep. Found it tucked way in the back, near a coral shelf pocket.”

“So Maddox just didn’t bother to tell me?”

“He didn’t know,” Earl said. “The report just came in. And you know Maddox isn’t exactly in the habit of calling you with hourly updates on every twist and turn in the case. That’s why you’ve got me.”

Hayley shook her head, grumbling. “So basically, the cave wasn’t completely empty. It was just searched by people who needed stronger prescription lenses.”

She scanned the page more carefully now. A single coarse gray hair, embedded in the fibers of a wet suit fragment recovered from sediment near the back of the cave. The lab confirmed it had been exposed to seawater and heat. Microscopic remnants of neoprene were still clinging to the follicle. The texture was wiry, the color silvery-white. Recently dyed at some point, the report noted—perhaps to mask aging.

Hayley read the line twice, then muttered, “So, whoever it belonged to didn’t just have gray hair. They tried to cover it up.”

Earl leaned in, peering at the page. “Someone’s been using Just for Men. Probably whatever shade is one step up from midlife crisis.”

Hayley didn’t smile. “This came from the wet suit. Which means it had to be from the man I saw in that cave. The one who killed Hank. And most likely drowned Tina, too.”

“So, who do you think it is at this point?”

“Zane’s got a head full of golden surfer curls,” she muttered. “And Roger Larkin’s been bald since Bush was in office. The first one.”

Earl nodded. “So I guess, unless your killer stole someone’s toupee—”

“This isn’t Zane,” she said. “And it’s definitely not Roger.”

Earl scratched his stubbly chin. “Doug Marsh? Possible. His hair was a similar salt-and-pepper mix.”

Hayley shook her head. “No. A man who gets dizzy during swim lessons could never pull off a cold-blooded dive-and-shoot mission.”