Death of a Grill Master

Book 19: Hayley Powell Food and Cocktails Mystery

by Lee Hollis

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Culinary Cozy Mysteries; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

After a record-breaking tourist season, Bar Harbor is ready for the less eventful off-season. But the murder of a barbecue baron will keep restaurateur Hayley Powell busy well after Labor Day . . .

Hayley and her husband are snuggled into a secluded spot on Maine’s rocky shoreline to take in the big fireworks display on Frenchman’s Bay. But when they find Hank Desmond’s body floating in the darkness, it looks like summer is ending with a bang—from a gun registered to a rival BBQ chef.

Despite the evidence, Hayley thinks there’s more to the story than a gunshot from a disgruntled pit master. Unfortunately, the new police chief, just arrived from Boston, is more interested in layoffs than in listening to Hayley’s theories. So she starts grilling anyone she can to find out what happened on the party boat that Hank was aboard earlier in the evening—accompanied by his much-younger wife and a sleazy seasonal resident. There are also some competitors who’ve been skewering Hank, owner of the BBQ joint The Smokehouse, for his business practices, including the owners of a diner and a food cart.

Hayley just hopes that when the smoke clears, she’ll be able to serve up the real culprit to the cops—and bring the temperature down in this picturesque town . . .

Includes delectable recipes from Hayley’s kitchen!

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 400

Sample

Hayley Powell was in her element—or at least doing a very convincing impression of someone who had things under control.

From the makeshift cocktail station beside the lilac bushes to the trellises draped in dollar-store fairy lights, her backyard had been transformed into a proper wedding reception venue for the afternoon.

Sort of.

It wasn’t Martha Stewart perfection, but it had charm—Maine charm. There were mason jars of wildflowers on every table, the scent of grilled seafood hung thick in the salty air, and a boom box was playing a Bluetooth playlist titled “Betty + Kelton 4EVER” that alternated between sappy love songs and upbeat classics. Currently: “You Make My Dreams,” by Hall & Oates.

Somewhere between the champagne toast and the spontaneous limbo contest with a garden rake, Hayley had lost track of how many guests were technically invited versus how many just wandered in from the neighborhood. But she wasn’t about to kick anyone out, not today.

Bruce, ever the faithful husband and occasional fire hazard, was manning the grill near the back fence. Hayley watched with a mix of amusement and mild panic as he tried to flip shrimp skewers with the confidence of a man who had never once read the words flammable and cotton blend on a clothing label.

“Bruce,” she called over the hum of conversation and a rogue kazoo, “your shirt!”

Bruce looked down, eyes widening as he spotted a small but determined flame licking at the hem of his vintage Red Sox T-shirt.

“Dammit!” he yelped, batting at the fire with his tongs. Hayley’s brother, Randy, raced over with a bucket of cold water left over from chilling white wine and doused him without hesitation.

Steam erupted.

Guests cheered.

“Hey, who ordered the shrimp flambé?” someone yelled.

Hayley sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Only in Bar Harbor.”

But despite the literal sparks flying, the afternoon had turned out beautifully. Betty, her beloved hostess at her restaurant, Hayley’s Kitchen, looked radiant in her retro lace dress, now speckled with a bit of strawberry glaze from the slightly leaning, lovingly homemade wedding cake. Kelton, Hayley’s chef and Betty’s new husband, was beaming beside her, sleeves rolled up, eyes misty, as they mingled with friends and family.

Hayley found herself oddly emotional watching them. They were young—well, younger—and in love, and starting out. And despite the chaos, this was their day. It was imperfect, heartfelt, and brimming with joy.

She was reaching for a mini crab roll when she felt a gentle tug on her elbow.

It was Betty.

“Hayley, can I steal you for a second?”

Hayley turned, taking in Betty’s flushed cheeks, her eyes wide and brimming with happiness.

“Of course, sweetie. Everything okay?”

Betty nodded, then pulled her aside, down the short flagstone path that led to the herb garden.

“I just wanted to say thank you,” Betty said earnestly. “For letting us do this here. For everything. It means so much.”

Hayley smiled. “Of course. I love you two. I’d host your vow renewal, too, but I draw the line at theme weddings unless it involves lobsters.”

Betty laughed, then her face turned a little more serious. “Actually … Kelton and I have been talking about something. A dream, really.”

Hayley tilted her head. “Okay …”

“We want to open our own place someday,” Betty confessed. “A little spot in town. Something casual and fun, maybe a brunch bistro or small plates. You know, still cozy. Still us.”

Hayley blinked. “Wow.”

“I mean, not tomorrow,” Betty said quickly. “We love it at Hayley’s Kitchen. We owe you everything. We’re just … thinking about the future.”

Hayley laughed, a little too forcefully. “Don’t worry, I’m not about to throw you out of the restaurant in a jealous rage. That’s not my style.”

Betty looked relieved.

“But if you do steal my chocolate bourbon pecan pie recipe,” Hayley added, “I’ll burn you in effigy on top of Cadillac Mountain.”

“Fair enough,” Betty said with a wink, then hugged her. “I knew you’d understand.”

As she hurried off to rejoin Kelton for more cake-cutting mayhem from the now-lopsided cake melting under the hot sun, Hayley lingered, staring at her herb garden without really seeing it. The truth was, she did understand. Too well.

She loved her restaurant.

She loved her life.

But lately, she couldn’t help feeling like other people’s dreams were blossoming all around her while hers were … well, wilting slightly around the edges.

A loud cheer erupted from the patio, and Hayley turned to see Liddy Crawford making her entrance.

And what an entrance it was.

She wore a navy-blue polka-dot sundress with a red belt cinched tightly at the waist and oversized sunglasses perched atop her caramel-blond curls (recently dyed—she had been yearning for a change). She looked like a pinup poster from the forties had walked off the wall and ordered a martini.

“I’m here!” Liddy declared, hands in the air. “Fashionably late and criminally overdressed.”

“Both true,” Hayley muttered under her breath, watching as Liddy zeroed in on the bar.

There, standing tall and unmistakably out-of-town in a linen sports coat and suede loafers, was Doug Marsh. Southern accent, devastating smile, and eyes that practically winked on their own. He and Randy had become drinking buddies at Drinks Like A Fish over bingo night and bourbon. Now here he was, sipping a cucumber gin fizz and looking very much like a man who knew he’d be flirted with before dessert.

Liddy glided over, her red lips curving into a grin. “And who do we have here?”

Doug tipped his glass. “Doug Marsh, ma’am. Friend of Randy’s.”

“Ooh,” Liddy purred. “I do love Southern manners. So rare in these parts.”

Hayley left them to their banter—there was only so much charm she could witness before needing carbs—and wandered over to the cocktail station, where Chelsea Mahoney was holding court like she’d been tending bar in Bar Harbor for years instead of weeks.

Chelsea’s strawberry-blond hair was pulled up into a messy bun, and her I MAKE POUR DECISIONS T-shirt was already stained with lime juice and margarita salt.

“Hey, boss,” Chelsea called. “We’ve got a passed-out man inside. I poked him with a stirrer. No reaction.”

Hayley peeked through the window. “That’s Reverend Ted. He performed the ceremony and then discovered the mojitos. He’ll be fine.”

Chelsea arched a brow. “Your town is weird.”

“You’ll fit right in.”

Hayley was about to say more when Randy appeared beside her, looking uncharacteristically nervous.

“Hey,” he said, eyes darting toward the crowd.

“Hey yourself. Enjoying the party?”

“Yeah. It’s great. You pulled it off.”

Hayley eyed him. “You okay?”

He hesitated, then rubbed the back of his neck. “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

Her ears perked up. “What kind of something?”

He opened his mouth—then clamped it shut.

“I don’t know. Forget it. It’s not important.”

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Hayley said, crossing her arms. “You don’t get to start a conversation like that and then back out. Spill.”

“I’m serious, Hayley. It’s nothing. We’ll talk about it another time.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Is it Sergio? Are you two okay?”

Randy looked surprised for a moment—then something flickered in his eyes.

Guilt?

Worry?

“We’re fine,” he said too quickly. “Don’t start sleuthing on me. I just … had a thought, and it doesn’t matter. I’ll catch you later, okay?”

He kissed her cheek and vanished into the crowd before she could press him further.

Hayley stood there for a moment, watching him go.

Something was up.

She hated not knowing what.

By the time she made it back to the grill, Bruce had managed to blacken only half the shrimp. He handed her a skewer and leaned in.

“You talk to Randy?”

“Briefly. He was acting squirrelly.”

Bruce nodded, flipping a scallop with the ease of a man who’d learned not to let Hayley near fire.

“I think something might be up between him and Sergio,” he said softly. “I overheard a tense phone call earlier. Thought maybe I was imagining it, but …”

Hayley’s stomach turned slightly. Sergio was not only Bar Harbor’s police chief—he was one of her dearest friends. And he and Randy had always seemed solid. The kind of couple who bickered like sitcom characters but always came back stronger.

“You think there’s trouble in paradise?” she asked.

Bruce didn’t answer.

Hayley looked out over the backyard. Liddy was laughing with Doug; her other BFF, Mona, was holding court near the clam dip; and Betty and Kelton were dancing barefoot under the twinkle lights.

She should have felt content. But something—something she couldn’t quite name—was shifting.

And deep down, she knew.

This fall, paradise might not be as perfect as it looked.

By the time the sun began to sink behind the tree line on their quiet residential street, Hayley Powell’s backyard had transformed from festive to borderline unhinged.

The Bluetooth speaker Bruce had dug out of the garage—“state-of-the-art in 2015,” he proudly claimed—was blaring dance hits from every decade from the newlywed playlist, culminating in an inexplicably passionate guest rendition of “Uptown Funk” that nearly took out the lemonade cooler.

Hayley, barefoot now and nursing a plastic cup of her signature Jack & Coke, was trying to decide if she had the energy to fish a crab roll out of the cooler or if she should just commit to chips and salsa for the rest of the night.

That’s when she heard it—a braying voice loud enough to send three blue jays flapping from a neighbor’s maple tree.

“Well, well, well! Looks like the party don’t start till I walk in!”

Hayley winced even before she turned.

Strutting up the gravel path from the driveway, cigar clenched in his teeth, gut preceding him like a parade float, was Hank Desmond. His thick white hair was slicked back to an oily shine and he wore a black shirt with red flames curling up from the hem—the closest thing a grill master gets to island wear. Clinging to his arm was Kylie, his much younger wife, who looked like a porcelain figurine placed on the wrong shelf. Hank was the owner of one of the most popular restaurants in town, the Slaughterhouse Smoke Shack. Best barbecue east of the Mississippi. He got even more business than Hayley’s place.

Hayley forced a smile and elbowed Bruce. “Wedding crasher at three o’clock.”

Bruce sighed. “Of course it’s Hank.”

They both stepped forward to intercept.

“Hank. Kylie,” Hayley said warmly, always the hostess, even if the guest had not exactly been invited. “You made it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Hank boomed, slapping Bruce on the back with such force the tongs flew from Bruce’s hand and landed in the bushes. “Heard there was food. I came running. And I needed to talk to Chase before he disappears back to his little millionaire’s lair.”

Kylie gave a soft wave, then immediately turned her face away, wincing slightly as Hank exhaled a plume of cigar smoke over her shoulder. Up close, Hayley could see she was pale—paler than usual—and her lipstick had smudged at the corners of her mouth, like she’d reapplied in a hurry with shaky hands.

“Didn’t mean to crash,” Hank added with a grin that suggested he absolutely had. “But I just came from the bottling plant and couldn’t wait to share the good news.”

He pulled a bottle from the back pocket of his pants—how he had managed to stuff it in there without cracking the glass was a mystery—and held it aloft.

“Desmond’s Devil Fire Barbecue Sauce,” he announced like he was toasting the Queen. “National distribution. Starting next quarter. We’re talking supermarket shelves from Bar Harbor to Boise, baby.”

“Oh, boy,” Hayley muttered.

“I knew it!” Mona Barnes hollered from across the yard. “I always said this town would produce one world-class condiment!”

Hank laughed, the sound echoing over the fence.

“Where’s Chase Wingate?” he bellowed. “I heard that big spender was lurking around here somewhere.”

As if on cue, Chase Wingate materialized near the drink station, sipping from a crystal tumbler he’d probably brought from home. Tall, silver-haired, and radiating old money vibes, Chase had the demeanor of someone who owned half the Eastern Seaboard—and the tan to prove it.

He wasn’t technically on the guest list, either, but his connection to Kelton’s late father—a long-ago college friend and fishing buddy—made his appearance a welcome surprise for the couple.

Hank spotted him, marched over, and clapped him on the back so hard Chase nearly dropped his drink.

“Chase, my man! You’re coming aboard my boat this weekend, right? Labor Day fireworks cruise, best view in the bay, booze and brisket guaranteed.”

Chase smiled politely, the way rich people do when trying not to make a scene. “Of course, Hank. Wouldn’t miss it.”

Hayley glanced at Kylie. She was standing just behind them, motionless, eyes trained not on her husband, but on Chase. Her face was blank, except for the forced smile. Her hands clutched the hem of her sundress so tightly the fabric twisted in her fists.

“Excuse me,” Kylie murmured, ducking toward the bar.

Hayley watched her go, heart twinging. Something about the look in that woman’s eyes—too wide, too glassy, too alert—set off internal alarm bells.

And the way she kept stealing glances at Chase Wingate?

Something was brewing.

And it wasn’t just cocktails.

Across the yard, Liddy squealed and flung her arms around Chelsea Mahoney, who was still tending bar.

“He asked me out to dinner!” Liddy cried. “Doug Marsh. Actual Southern gentleman. I’ve been working on this one for weeks.”

Chelsea cocked an eyebrow. “I thought you just met him today.”

“Technically. And technically I crashed his cocktail party last week but never managed to get close enough for him to notice me. But today he finally did! I’m going to need an entirely new outfit.”

Chelsea snorted. “Good luck finding one in this town. It’s fleece vests and fishing boots from where I’m standing.”

Hayley joined them, nodding toward the bar. “Doug’s got nice taste. Just be careful. He looks like the kind of man who’ll talk you into trouble and make it sound like fun.”

“I’ll gladly let him,” Liddy said, dreamily.

Before Hayley could ask if Liddy knew anything about Doug beyond his cocktail preferences, Mona appeared, dragging poor Earl behind her like a kid about to confess to shoplifting.

“Tell her,” Mona demanded, gesturing wildly. “Tell Hayley what you told me.”

Earl looked like a man on his way to a firing squad. “I really don’t like to gossip.”

“Oh, give me a break,” Mona said. “You already did gossip. Now, be a man and finish the job.”

Earl sighed and turned to Hayley. “I overheard something. Sergio. Down at the station. On the phone.”

Hayley’s stomach did a little flip. “Okay …”

“He said something about resigning. From the police department. After almost twenty years. Said he was tired. That maybe it was time.”

Hayley’s mouth fell open. “What?”

“I don’t know who he was talking to. Maybe someone at the town office. But he sounded serious.”

Hayley’s heart was thudding now. Randy hadn’t said a word. And she talked to him every day. The idea of Sergio leaving—of both of them maybe leaving—sent a ripple of something cold and sharp through her.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

Earl nodded solemnly. “I wouldn’t have said anything if I wasn’t.”

Hayley looked across the yard to where Randy was refilling someone’s prosecco. He smiled, easy and relaxed.

Why hadn’t he told her?

The sun was gone now, and the first stars were flickering into view. The air had taken on that post-sunset chill, the kind that slipped under your skin and reminded you summer didn’t last forever, not in Maine.

Hayley stepped behind the bar to grab a blanket from under the table and stopped short.

Kylie was there. Alone. One hand braced against the counter, the other dabbing at her eyes with a cocktail napkin.

“Kylie?” Hayley said gently.

Kylie startled, turning fast and blinking like she’d just been caught stealing.

“Oh—hi. Sorry. Allergies. Ragweed’s a killer.”

Hayley didn’t push. Not yet. “Need a minute?”

“No, I’m fine.” Kylie’s voice was tight, her smile even tighter. “I just needed some space. Half the town is jammed into your backyard.”

She slipped past Hayley and disappeared into the crowd.

Chelsea approached moments later, still drying her hands on a bar rag. “That woman’s crying behind the bar and then pretending she’s not? Please. I may be new in town, but I’ve bartended my way through enough Philly weddings to spot a ticking marriage time bomb.”

Hayley watched Kylie rejoin Hank, who was now holding court with Chase and a few others, still brandishing that bottle of Devil Fire like it was holy water.

“Yeah,” Hayley murmured. “Something’s definitely off.”

As the crowd thinned and the music faded into softer ballads, Hayley found her way back to Bruce, who was sitting beside the smoldering grill, sipping a beer, his mind elsewhere.

“You okay?” she asked, sitting beside him.

He nodded. “Just taking a moment before we have to scrape grease off everything we own.”

They sat in silence awhile before Bruce added, “You notice anything strange with Randy and Sergio today?”

Hayley stiffened slightly. “Why?”

Bruce shrugged. “Randy seemed … distant tonight. And I saw Sergio leave the station early this afternoon, looking stressed. I don’t know. Could be nothing.”

Hayley felt a sudden, unwelcome chill.

“No,” she said softly. “I don’t think it’s nothing.”

Labor Day dawned hot and clear in Bar Harbor, the sky bright and the ocean sparkling.

By 9 a.m., Hayley could already hear the hum of anticipation buzzing through the residential streets—neighbors hauling beach bags and lawn chairs out to the curb, tourists lingering over breakfast sandwiches from Morning Glory Bakery, shopkeepers stringing red, white, and blue pennants along awnings. Someone down the block was already blasting Bruce Springsteen at a volume that suggested patriotic zeal or unresolved personal drama. Possibly both.

It was the day of the “Big Bang on Frenchman’s Bay,” Bar Harbor’s most elaborate fireworks display to date, funded by an unexpected surplus from one of the town’s most successful tourism seasons in years. The town council, often gridlocked on decisions involving zoning permits and sidewalk repairs, had unanimously voted to blow the whole thing on fireworks.

Bruce stood by the front door loading their collapsible beach chairs into the trunk while Hayley finished assembling their picnic cooler in the kitchen. She tossed in a container of potato salad, two bags of kettle chips, her roast beef sandwiches with horseradish mayo and extra pickles (Bruce’s request), and—wrapped in a dish towel to discourage questions—their metal thermoses filled with “lemonade.” Spiked, naturally.

It wasn’t that she hated crowds. Okay, she did. But the real reason Hayley had no intention of jockeying for a spot along the jam-packed pier was because she and Bruce had a secret.

About a quarter mile past Agamont Park, beyond the bend where the Shore Path narrowed into a thin dirt trail clinging to the edge of a rocky bluff, there was a flat shelf of granite halfway down the cliff. Big enough for two chairs and a cooler. Surrounded by stunted pines. Invisible unless you knew where to look. It was their spot.

Bruce called it their “cove of solitude.”

By dusk, they’d made the short hike out and were settled into their favorite chairs. The cooler sat between them, squat and sun-bleached, its sticker-covered lid keeping everything inside perfectly chilled.

The breeze coming off the water ruffled Bruce’s hair as he flipped open his spiral notebook and began scribbling, tongue pressed lightly to the corner of his mouth in concentration.

Hayley sipped her lemonade and smirked. “You’re working on your book again.”

“I’m outlining,” he replied without looking up.

“You better not be killing me off in chapter one.”

“I’m not saying anything.”

“Oh my God, I am the body in the library, aren’t I?”

Still no answer.

Which was as good as a guilty plea.

Hayley leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes, and let the sunlight soak into her skin. In the distance, music from the town pier carried faintly on the breeze—a cover band murdering “Sweet Caroline” with gusto. Boats bobbed along the bay, angling for the best view of the sky come nightfall.

She reached for her thermos again, took a long sip, and exhaled slowly. The lemonade was kicking in. A rare moment of stillness surrounded them.

“I invited Randy and Sergio,” she said, opening her eyes.

Bruce looked up. “I figured.”

“He said they had other plans. But he was vague. Like … evasive.”

Bruce nodded, his expression unreadable.

“Do you think it’s true?” Hayley asked. “What Earl said? That Sergio’s resigning?”

Bruce shrugged and set his notebook on his lap. “Maybe. But Sergio’s not impulsive. If he’s stepping down, it’s not just burnout. It’s something deeper.”

Hayley stared out over the bay, troubled. “He hasn’t said a word to me. And Randy … he’s my brother. My younger brother. He used to tell me everything. Now I’m getting these tight little texts and half smiles.”

“Maybe they’re not ready to talk yet,” Bruce said gently.

Hayley frowned. “I just hate being kept in the dark.”

Bruce chuckled. “You? No …”

She swatted his arm.

“Seriously,” he said. “It’s because you always want to fix everything.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No. It’s one of the things I love about you. But sometimes people don’t want to be fixed. They just want space. Even from their very competent, nosy big sister.”

Hayley rolled her eyes and took another sip. “Great. Now you sound like Liddy’s therapist. Or her stylist. Actually, I think they might be the same person.”

They lapsed into silence again, listening t. . .