Page 76 of Death of a Grill Master

Mona was mid-lecture to a red-faced teenager attempting to bag a lobster with salad tongs. “Angle them down or they’ll turn and nip your fingers clean off!”

Earl stood nearby in his day-off uniform: a slightly faded CRUSTACEAN NATION T-shirt, flip-flops, and cargo shorts that had definitely seen better summers. He was watching the chaos with an expression of serene panic and holding a roll of mesh bags like he didn’t know whether to offer help or hide behind them.

Hayley grinned and stepped behind the card table to man the old-school cash box. “Tell me again how this is my day off?”

“You’re the one who said you missed the smell of bait,” Mona shot back.

“Did not.”

“Well, you implied it with your eyes.”

Earl approached with a small mesh sack. “I bagged three without injury.”

“You want a trophy or a juice box?” Mona muttered, but Hayley caught the twitch of a smile on her face.

They got through a dozen sales before Hayley spotted something unusual across the market square. Liddy was weaving through a flower stand in a turquoise blouse, big sunglasses perched atop her head. Walking beside her, close but not quite touching, was Doug Marsh—tall, neatly dressed, looking like he was trying not to look like her date.

Hayley paused, a bag of mussels halfway to a customer, and watched. Liddy laughed at something he said and playfully nudged him with her shoulder. Doug flushed, clearly charmed, but didn’t reciprocate.

They didn’t hold hands.

They didn’t flirt.

It wasn’t romantic—at least not yet, given recent events—but Hayley saw something simmering under the surface.

A connection.

Or maybe tension.

She wasn’t sure which.

Perhaps Doug’s hesitation had something to do with all the attention on him from the Hank Desmond case.

That had to be taking a toll.

That’s when she noticed him.

Ten or so paces behind Liddy and Doug, a man in a forest-green baseball cap hovered awkwardly between booths. He kept glancing in their direction, then away.

Wraparound sunglasses. Windbreaker. Broad-shouldered, lanky, posture like he wanted to disappear into his own shoes.

Her skin prickled. He looked vaguely familiar. Could it be the man who’d entered the cave after her? The same build. The same head tilt.

She stepped back from the table, ignoring Mona yelling about a lobster trying to escape into an empty stroller, and began weaving through the booths to get a better look.

She passed a table of herbal tinctures, ducked behind a wood-fired pizza cart, and turned a corner—only to find the green-capped man was gone.

“Damn it,” she muttered.

“Well, that’s not how I imagined our reunion.”

Hayley turned and saw Sergio Alvarez dressed in linen and looking relaxed while holding a tiny compostable smoothie cup. Randy stood beside him with a bunch of rhubarb under one arm and an expression that screamed, Why am I awake so early?

“Sergio,” Hayley said. “Shouldn’t you be packing for your big tropical adventure?”

“I don’t pack until the night before,” he said. “Randy packs six weeks early and still forgets his socks.”

Randy raised an eyebrow. “Bold of you to assume I wear socks.” He paused. “Or underwear, depending on the pants.”