Excerpt of Grilling the Subject by Daryl Wood Gerber

I didn’t mean to. It was an accident. But as I swooped past one of The Cookbook Nook display tables while carrying a stack of cookbooks in my arms, my elbow nicked a spine. That set off an event that would make a domino chain reaction physicist proud. Every book that I had carefully placed upright fell. Smack-smack-smack. All the customers in the shop, a few still in their Sunday finest, spun to take a peek. My cheeks burned with embarrassment. Slick, Jenna, real slick. Why was I off my game? I had been on edge since I woke up this morning. I’d taken a tumble over a log on the beach during my morning walk, and then I burned the toast, broke a glass, and snagged my favorite lace sweater on the door latch. Each time I blundered, I had felt like I was being watched—judged—by an unknown someone. “Shoot,” I muttered under my breath. I didn’t mind the mess. Ever since I’d quit advertising and joined my aunt in our culinary bookshop venture over a year ago, I had arranged and rearranged The Cookbook Nook multiple times. I had grouped books by chefs, by theme, and by ease or difficulty of recipe. Customers seemed to enjoy the rotation. I think they secretly liked the personal attention all of us at the shop provided when they asked for help locating a title. “Eek!” Bailey, who was my best friend and also my employee, yelled at the top of her lungs, which sent my already pinging nerves into overdrive. She was at the back of the store near the children’s table, trotting in place. Her multicolored bangles jangled; her summery skirt flounced up and down. “Jenna, help!” I rushed to her, flip-flops flapping. My hair caught in my mouth; I sputtered it out. “What’s going on?” “Eek!” she shrieked again. She wasn’t on fire. I didn’t see a mouse. “Are you practicing the flamenco?” I asked trying to lighten the mood. “Spiders. You know I hate spiders!” She tap-danced, trying to nail her prey with the toes of her espadrille sandals. “Help!” I pushed up the sleeves of my second favorite lacy sweater, hitched up the knee of my trousers, and crouched to inspect. Afternoon sunlight highlighted two spiders: one, including its legs, couldn’t have been the size of a pea; the other wasn’t much larger. They must have materialized from the box of books Bailey had brought from the stockroom. I rose to my full height, a head taller than my pal, and said, “They’re itty-bitty.” “Jenna Hart, dagnabbit, do something! Or are you too old and feeble?” “Ha!” I was an official thirty-something now. I had celebrated my birthday a couple of weeks ago. No big bash, just a May fling with friends. I didn’t feel older, but I was definitely looking at life differently. In decades rather than in years. Weird. Maybe that was the thing that was bothering me. Age. Life. Zipping by. “C’mon,” Bailey pleaded. Tigger, the darling ginger kitten—now cat—who rescued me when I first moved back to Crystal Cove, darted from beneath the children’s reading table and pounced at one of the spiders. He didn’t catch it. His quarry fled to safety under a floorboard. “One flew the coop,” I quipped. “Nail the other one,” Bailey cried. I wasn’t a fan of spiders, but I would never make such a ruckus about teensy creatures. Wait. I take that back. I might—might—squeal if I saw a black widow spider. Memories from an overnight at Girl Scout summer camp flashed before my eyes: dozens of spiders scampering up the bark of a tree. Ick! I shimmied away the thought. “C’mon, Jenna! Pronto. Puh-lease!” “Okay, hold your horses. Calm down. You’re going to drive away customers,” I quipped, if my antics over by the display table hadn’t already scared them off. A number of customers, arms filled with cookbooks to purchase, were backing toward the exit. “Don’t flee, folks,” I said. “She’s overreacting. Everything is fine.” To Bailey, I whispered, “Stop it. You’re yelling so loudly, you’d think we’ve encountered an onslaught of bugs worthy of a Stephen Spielberg movie!” “I’m s-sorry.” Her teeth were chattering, her eyes as wide as saucers. She didn’t like bugs. Any kind. Her fear stemmed from a time, way back in grade school, when a trio of boys dumped her in a woodpile. Her hair at the time had been long and quickly became a nest for a horde of creepy crawlers. Over the past year, my aunt Vera had tried hypnosis and all sorts of sense therapy with Bailey to help her overcome her dread, but nothing had worked. Maybe I should consult my aunt about the weird vibes I had been experiencing all day. “Swat it,” Bailey pleaded. I snatched a piece of construction paper off the children’s table—the table was always set with artistic goodies so kids could have fun while their parents shopped—and I flailed at the teensy spider. I caught it with one blow and glanced at my buddy. “Feeling better?” “I will if I’m able to nab one of Katie’s delicious barbecue muffins before they’re all gone.” A half hour ago Katie, my other best friend and the chef of The Nook Café, an adjunct of the bookshop, had set out a tasty display of barbecue muffins for our customers to snack on. Customers had been flocking into the store ever since to taste the savory delights. Sure, they intended to purchase cookbooks, too, but the cheese- and ground beef-stuffed muffins were fast becoming legendary. Katie promised to cook all sorts of scrumptious ranch-style food throughout the week, like horseshoe cookies, mini- cups of baked beans, and a cake decorated to look like a cactus. I’d begged her to include her finger-licking- good, dry-rub ribs, and she had agreed. Yum! Why was she hooked on a barbecue theme? Because this week and on into next week, Crystal Cove was hosting the Wild West Extravaganza. Thanks to the mayor, the extravaganza would be family-friendly as well as animal-friendly. Yes, there would be rodeo-style events but no steer wrestling and no bulldogging. There would be horse races, rope jumping, stunt fighting, and more. To get ourselves in the mood, we had rimmed the front door of the shop with the image of an old-style jail. “Jenna! Bailey!” Ava Judge, one of our regular customers, flew through the front door in her typical designer suit and smart high heels. Spitfire. That’s how people would describe her. She had a sizzling personality and high- octane energy, all wrapped up in a raring-to-go athletic body. She played tennis two to three times a week—great for a forty-something—and most often won. As she always did, she brandished a real estate flyer. She never missed an opportunity to promote her business. Ava scooted to a stop and thrust the flyer at me. I accepted it. A million dollar home in the hills was for sale. “Where’s Vera?” she asked. “In the stockroom.” I returned the flyer to her. “Why?” “It’s so sad.” Ava’s voice caught. I took a closer look at her perfectly made-up face. Tears pressed at the corners of her eyes. She fished in her oversized, crammed-to-the-gills tote; her hand came out empty. Realizing she was searching for a tissue, I raced to the sales counter, fetched a tissue from a box, and returned. I handed it to her. “What’s got you so upset?” “Haven’t you heard?” She dabbed her eyes, then stuffed the tissue in her bag. “The promoter for this week’s event…died.” “Oh, no.” “Was he murdered?” Bailey asked. I whacked her. “Not every death is suspicious.” “Some are.”