Page 96 of Death of a Grill Master

Outside Tina’s cottage, it looked like a well-picked-over yard sale. The porch railing was draped in a beach towel that had probably been left out since July, and the front lawn was dotted with recycling bins, cardboard boxes, and two folding chairs that didn’t match.

Inside, the living room was a mix of sealed boxes and folders left open mid-sorting. Hayley stepped around a stack of books and an unplugged microscope to find Lacy seated cross-legged on the hardwood floor, binder rings open, papers fanned out like cards in a magician’s act.

“I told myself I’d be out by Monday,” Lacy said without looking up. “That was how many days ago?”

“I think you’ve earned a grace period,” Hayley said, dropping her purse on a chair. “Especially if you’ve got Terry Osgood under your spell.”

“I couldn’t get through her desk at COA. It was like a paper hoarder’s version of Narnia. I opened one drawer and found an unpaid parking ticket from 2014, two granola bars, and a field guide to mollusks. And then …”

Before she could finish, the front door creaked open.

Terry Osgood, the landlord, poked his head in. “Knock knock,” he said sheepishly. “Just checking in on the timing.”

Hayley turned, trying not to smile, muttering under her breath, “Speak of the devil.”

Terry had slicked his thinning hair back and was holding a brown bag with what looked suspiciously like takeout from the new Thai place on Cottage Street.

Lacy stood. “I’m sorry, I know I promised today—”

“No rush,” Terry said quickly, then looked bashful. “I, uh, brought you some pad thai. Thought you might not have had dinner yet. You’ve been working so hard.”

Lacy blinked, surprised. “Oh! That’s … very kind.”

“I can come back tomorrow. Or Thursday. Friday at the absolute latest.” He glanced at Hayley and cleared his throat. “You’ve got my number.”

When he left, Hayley raised an eyebrow. “Well, well. I didn’t realize we were in the presence of Bar Harbor’s Most Eligible Landlord.”

Lacy gave a mock-groan and dropped back onto the floor. “He offered to help me Bubble-Wrap Tina’s microscopes earlier. I thought it was just small-town kindness, but now I’m reasonably sure it was the yoga pants thing.”

“Or maybe he just thinks pad thai is the language of love,” Hayley quipped, crouching beside her. “Now—what did you find?”

Lacy reached into a manila folder labeled 2023 ALGAE COMPARISONS—MID-JUNE SAMPLE SET, and pulled out a neatly folded piece of paper. “This was tucked between two sheets of graph paper. At first I thought it was trash.”

She held up a folded glossy flyer—the kind you’d find at a local food expo. The paper was soft and worn at the edges, the ink slightly faded.

“It was shoved in the back of a drawer marked for algae comparison charts,” she explained. “But obviously … not that.”

Hayley unfolded it carefully.

Across the top was a bold, retro-style banner: “Smokin’ Hot Shellfish Cocktail Sauce!” Below it, a photo of two men standing shoulder to shoulder, arms slung around each other, grinning like old drinking buddies. Hank Desmond was unmistakable, a big man with a booming presence, beaming in his signature apron. The man beside him was none other than Dr. Peter Baird.

Hayley stared. She had only met Baird recently—after Tina’s drowning—but he had talked about Tina, not Hank.

Not once had he mentioned a friendship—or any connection—with Hank Desmond.

Lacy watched her carefully. “You recognize him.”

“I met him at COA after Tina died,” Hayley said slowly. “He talked about how much he liked Tina. I had no idea he even knew who Hank was.”

“Well, they clearly knew each other. Intimately enough to pitch shellfish sauce.”

Yet another person in Hank Desmond’s orbit hoping to replicate his enormous success in the barbecue industry. This wasn’t just a pattern; it was an epidemic.

Hayley traced a finger along the flyer’s edge. “Hank made a fortune with his sauces. People were furious about being cut out. Doug. Zane. Maybe even Kylie. Word is, she signed an iron-clad prenup. But Baird’s name never even came up.”

Lacy nodded, her voice low. “You remember that email Tina sent me—the one where she said she saw someone recently who unsettled her? She didn’t say who. Just that it was someone she knew … and it shook her. Do you think—?”

Hayley stared at the flyer in her hand.