Page 111 of Death of a Grill Master

He held the strands up to the light, squinting. “I’ll hold on to it, Hayley. But Maddox isn’t gonna authorize a DNA test without a court order, a witness statement, or divine intervention from Saint Forensics. He’s still ticked we used departmental resources to search that cave and turned up nothing but one random hair sample—not even found at the crime scene, mind you.”

Hayley bristled. “It was near the crime scene.”

“It was in a cave. Caves are not jurisdictionally promising.”

“Jurisdictionally. That’s a big word. Someone’s been studying.”

“What can I say? I have ambition. I want to be the best I can be for Mona.”

“Then help me crack this case. That will surely impress your woman.” She yanked out her phone and pulled up the photos she’d taken in Baird’s office. “Look. It’s Baird’s calendar. The week before the shooting? A note that says ‘Doug M’s cocktail party. Bring wine and charm.’ That was the night when Doug’s gun went missing.”

Earl’s expression shifted. He leaned in. “Wait, really?”

She angled the screen toward him. “Right there. You can see it under his scribbled note about dive profiles and that doodle that looks suspiciously like a harpoon.”

Earl rubbed his jaw. “So, Kylie, Chase, and Baird were all at that party.”

“Exactly. But only one of them is bitter enough, trained enough, and creepy enough to swim up to a boat in the dead of night, shoot a man through the ribs, and then try to frame someone else for it.”

“Okay, I’ll talk to the chief. But I’m not making any promises.”

Hayley stopped by the Desmond house just before dinner. A silver Mercedes was parked in the driveway—Chase Wingate’s, she was sure. The plate read WNG8—because of course it did.

Kylie answered the door barefoot, wearing a silky wrap dress in lemon yellow that clung like it had been steamed onto her. Her toenails matched the coral cocktail she carried in one hand. Behind her, smooth jazz drifted from a Bluetooth speaker. Her days of playing the grieving widow were officially over.

“Oh. You again.” Kylie’s eyes narrowed, irritation winning out over surprise. “Haven’t we covered this enough? Because I’m really not in the mood for another exhausting interrogation.”

Hayley caught the edge of the door before it shut. “I’m not here to build a case against Chase,” she said quickly. “I’m here to do the opposite. But I need you to hear me out.”

Kylie hesitated, lips pressed thin, then finally pivoted on her heel and stalked toward the back patio. Kylie dropped into a cushioned lounger, stretched her legs, and went to work on the hem of her dress, tugging it smooth and then rough again, like she was trying to pull herself together by force of will.

She let Hayley stand there in silence for a beat. Then another. The gulls overhead filled the gap with their shrill complaints. Finally, with a dramatic sigh, Kylie lifted her chin.

“Fine, go ahead,” she said at last, the words reluctant, as though dragged out of her. “Ask. But if this is just another excuse to paint Chase as the homicidal villain, I’m done.”

Hayley sat down across from her, perching on the edge of a wicker ottoman. “I wanted to ask about Doug Marsh’s cocktail party.”

“Oh.” Kylie brightened slightly, as if the memory of wineglasses and gourmet canapés was a pleasant escape from her current reality. “That was fun. Well, until Hank made a scene.”

“He did?”

Kylie sipped her drink. “He wasn’t thrilled I’d gone without telling him. He showed up at the end, saw me sitting on some guy’s lap, and stormed out again.”

“Was it Chase’s lap?”

“I don’t think so. There were lots of handsome men at the party, as I recall.”

Interesting, Hayley thought.

“I was having a good time. Sue me.”

“So, who else was there?”

“Doug, obviously. Peter Baird. That grad student with the unibrow. Chase and me. Some others I didn’t know.”

Hayley leaned in. “So, Peter Baird was definitely there?”

Kylie nodded, twirling her straw. “He was weird. Kind of jittery.”