Grilling the Subject (3 page)

Aunt Vera reclaimed the binoculars. “I fear she's going to confront Sylvia. She is walking like she's on the warpath.”

Bailey said, “If she had her magic stiletto from
Sinz of the City
, she could—”

“Honestly.” My father seized the binoculars and scowled at all of us. “Lola, call D'Ann. Stop her.”

“Oho! Look who's acting reasonable now,” Lola taunted. She stabbed a number into the cordless phone and waited.

D'Ann stopped her descent, steadied herself with her walking staff, and pulled a shiny cell phone from a pocket.

“D'Ann, darling, it's me, Lola. Stop. Whatever you're thinking of doing, don't do it. Go home.” Lola paused. “Where am I? On Cary's balcony, darling. See me?” She raised an arm.

D'Ann waved.

“Don't take on Sylvia alone,” Lola continued. “Please. Tomorrow, at Ava's—” She nodded while listening. “Yes, I know. Sylvia is the devil incarnate and should return to you-know-where.”

My father cursed under his breath.

Lola cupped the phone and whispered, “Cary, watch your language.” Back into the telephone, she said, “C'mon, D'Ann, there are better ways to deal with the devil. Please. Go home.
We'll attack this as a group, okay? Breakfast on me at the diner at eight
A.M.
, okay?” Lola ended the call.

Bailey
eek
ed with glee. “D'Ann Davis is coming to the diner for breakfast? I'm there!”

“No, she passed on the invitation.”

“Dang.”

Aunt Vera clapped her hands. “Enough of this nonsense. Dinner, everyone. Let's eat and put this behind us for now.”

But we couldn't, because right then Sylvia's band kicked into gear and nearly blasted us off the patio.

My father . . . well, let's just say, he looked like he wanted to blast her to kingdom come.

B
ecause I had
worked long hours and seven days a week for so many years in advertising, I refused to do so or make our employees at The Cookbook Nook do so. However, because we lived in a town that thrived on tourism, we didn't close the shop on weekends, and we dedicated Monday to restocking and taking inventory; therefore, Tuesday was the day we closed. For some reason, this particular Monday seemed to take forever to wrap up. Tons of customers came in searching for just the right grilling cookbook. The shop teemed with children between 3:00
P
.
M
.
and 5:00
P
.
M
.
At closing, we were bustling to conclude sales. By the time I got home to my cottage, I was too tired to cook dinner. Luckily Katie had sent me home with a to-go box of barbecued chicken thighs. I ate two and stowed the rest in the refrigerator, and then I played with Tigger and attempted to read a chapter of a new foodie mystery. At 9:00
P
.
M
.
, I tumbled into bed, dead to the world.

On Tuesday morning, refreshed after nearly ten hours of
sleep, I took my morning stroll on the beach, baked a batch of trail ride cookies using a recipe Katie had shared with me—they were packed with healthy fiber and raisins—and painted. Painting is my safe haven. I'm not gifted enough to give up everything and live the artist's life, but I'm not bad. I have been working on a watercolor of the ocean and lighthouse. It's about half done. I intend to hang it above the fireplace in the cottage where I live, which my aunt owns. Her beach house is about thirty yards away. Yes, at some point, I want to purchase my own place, but I'm not quite ready. A one-room cottage is the right size for me—not too much responsibility. And the location is perfect. I treasure being able to roam the beach whenever I want. Unless I win the lottery, I will never be able to afford something of equal value. My aunt had invested well as a young woman. Did I mention that she, being a savvy businesswoman, also owns Fisherman's Village, the shopping center where The Cookbook Nook is located? She has never revealed which cutting-edge stock she purchased in the 1970s, but I figure it had to be some startup in Silicon Valley.

In the early afternoon, I threw on a cute pair of short-shorts and a navy tank top, spritzed myself with sunblock, and took a quickie tour of the city on my bicycle, an old Schwinn that I'd inherited from my mother, complete with basket.

Buena Vista Boulevard was decorated to the max for the Wild West Extravaganza. The Pelican Brief Diner looked like a saloon. Lola had gone all out with the decorating, adding swinging doors, a fake balcony and columns, and even the word
saloon
emblazoned on a placard that hung beneath the restaurant's regular sign. Cowboy boot–shaped flags hung across the upper rim of the window frames. The diner's neighbor, the Play Room Toy Store, had stationed a coin-operated pinto pony next to the front door. Children were clamoring for a ride.

Across the street there seemed to be a sale going on at the Artiste Arcade, a splendid grouping of high-end dress
and accessory shops. Women, dressed to the “cowboy” nines, meaning pressed jeans, jewel-studded boots, and fancy silk blouses, were standing in a line. Each was holding a silver ticket. The chatter was vivacious yet competitive. As I pedaled near, I realized the women were hoping to get inside Sterling Sylvia. She was offering twenty percent off on all horse charms for charm bracelets and necklaces. Smart marketing.

Passing B-B-Q, a funky restaurant with a great dance floor, I smelled the most delectable barbecue. Rousing line-dance music was playing through a portable speaker set up on the sidewalk. Customers waiting to get inside were shuffling their feet in time to the music. I recalled a commercial I'd headed up for Taylor & Squibb, Shakey's Steak Sauce. One customer started to dance and then another, until everyone in the crowd was wiggling his or her fanny to the tune of KC and the Sunshine Band's “Shake Your Booty.” The rights to the music had cost a pretty penny, but it had been worth it. The commercial was a huge hit and ran for two straight years.

I bicycled to the center of town and noticed a Wells Fargo wagon at the crossroads of Buena Vista and the main road leading up the hill. Cutely, the dancing dolphins that were normally the focus at the junction had been installed inside the wagon and were poking their noses out the windows. Each wore a red bandana around its neck.

Beyond the intersection, in the parking lots that abutted the junior college and the aquarium, stood a slew of white tents and food trucks. None was open to the public yet. I couldn't wait until they were.

Charmed beyond measure, I did a U-turn at the far end of town and rode back to the cottage. I showered, and around 4:00
P.M.
I dressed in bright blue capris, slinky white top, sandals, and beach-themed earrings, and then I spruced up my hair and applied a dash of makeup, ready for my date with my boyfriend, Rhett Jackson. Yes, I am officially calling him my boyfriend these days. Rhett, formerly a chef, owns
Bait and Switch Fishing and Sport Supply Store. We have been seeing each other for about nine months. A few months ago, I was blessed with the opportunity to meet his family; they reside in Napa Valley. At first, it was touch and go whether the trip would take place. Long story short, years ago, Rhett and his father had a rift because Rhett disobeyed his father and eloped. That marriage dissolved less than a year later, but the rift continued until recently, when Rhett and his father finally mended fences. His parents run a well-known French restaurant called Intime, a gourmand's delight. His sisters own a vineyard. I couldn't wait for another visit to both. I adored his mother and sisters, and I got along well with his crusty father, who wasn't dissimilar to mine. Rules are rules.

On tonight's date, Rhett and I were going to catch a cowboy movie—yep, a cowboy movie or what some call an
oater
, one of my all-time favorites:
High Noon
, with Gary Cooper. I loved how the marshal, compelled to face a returning enemy alone, finds the courage. The movie was showing at The Cameo, the art-house theater located on the second floor of Fisherman's Village. Afterward, Rhett and I were going to Bailey and Tito's engagement party. We were closing The Nook Café for the occasion.

At a quarter past four, Rhett rapped on my front door with his snappy rhythm that never varied. I loved that about him. He was an upbeat, positive-thinking man, as reliable as the day is long. I opened the door and drank in all of him: his brilliant blue eyes that made me feel as if I might be swept away whole; his hunky frame; the rugged edge of his jaw; that roguish grin. He gathered me into his arms, and we shared a warm, sensuous kiss. A moment later, Tigger danced across our feet. We laughed and broke apart.

“Jealous, buddy?” Rhett picked up Tigger for a cuddle. “Want your own kisses?”

“Come in for a sec,” I said. I wanted to fetch my purse and make sure Tigger's food dish was filled. As I moved to
close the door, I spotted movement outside. A blur. Was it human? Running away?

“What's wrong?” Rhett placed a hand at the arch of my back.

“Nothing.”

“You gasped.”

“Did I?”

“What are you staring at?” Rhett set Tigger down and gripped my shoulders. “Jenna.”

“I . . . I thought I saw someone dart behind that tree.” I pointed at a massive sycamore near my aunt's house.

“I'll go check.”

“No, don't.” Pinpoints of angst nicked my eyelids. “It must have been a squirrel or something.”

“You said
someone
, not something.
Someone
is not a squirrel.”

He had a point. There were no yetis or bears in our neck of the woods, either.

“Maybe a large section of newspaper blew off the beach and disappeared behind the tree,” I said. “I'm sure my eyes were playing tricks on me. I'm just jittery because . . .” I told Rhett about the edgy feelings I'd awakened with on Sunday morning and about seeing the driver of the Prius later in the day. “Something's got hold of me. You know how it is.”

He shook his head. He didn't know how it felt to be afraid.
Ah, men.
They were lucky. Living as a single woman in San Francisco hadn't done me any favors in the trust department. After an incident the first year I was at Taylor & Squibb, I never went into a parking garage alone anymore. I rarely got on an elevator by myself.

“Tigger's not jumpy,” I said, “and he's usually my barometer that something is amiss. Maybe it's the weather. It's crisper than normal. Almost electric.” I grabbed my things and kissed Tigger good-bye.

As we drove down the driveway, Rhett slowed past the sycamore. No one was hiding behind it. My fear melted
away, and I made a mental note to set up an eye doctor appointment . . . and possibly a visit with a therapist.

When we arrived at Fisherman's Village, we jogged upstairs to the second floor. The line for The Cameo was surprisingly long, weaving back and forth along the landing like a snake. Obviously, we weren't the only people who were looking forward to watching an old-fashioned classic movie on the big screen at the bargain deal of two for the price of one.

“Jenna!” a man ahead of us in line called.

“Who's that?” Rhett asked.

“Shane Maverick,” I said.

Shane beckoned us to join him and Emily Hawthorne, who was, indeed,
very
pregnant. In her lace blouse and long skirt, she reminded me of a woman who belonged in a Brontë novel: pearly white skin, large innocent eyes, and long curly locks hanging delicately in front of her shoulders.

“Jenna,” Shane said, “so great to see you.”

“You, too,” I replied. He looked even better than he had when I'd run into him at the gym a few months ago, and at that time I had thought he was as fit as an Olympic athlete. Now, he resembled the Marlboro Man. Maybe it was the cowboy hat; maybe it was the jeans and plaid shirt and deep tan. His hair was all one color, too—no gray streak—which made him look younger than his forty-five years.

Shane gave me a hug and then thrust a hand at Rhett while flashing an easy smile. “Shane Maverick.”

“Rhett Jackson.”

“Nice to meet you, dude.”

They shook heartily, but I couldn't help notice that they were sizing each other up.

“Shane and I used to work at the advertising agency together,” I said to Rhett. “Now he's managing the Wild West Extravaganza, which has relocated its offices here.”

“Congratulations,” Rhett said.

Shane grinned. “Life is full of changes. Speaking of
which, Jenna, you know my fiancée, Emily, don't you?” He threw an arm around Emily and squeezed her shoulder.

“Sure do,” I said. “How are you feeling?”

“Good.” Emily had a dainty, childlike voice.

“What are you having?” I asked. “A boy or a girl, or is it a secret?”

“A boy.” She instinctively touched her pregnant belly and blushed.

“Boys can be a handful,” Rhett said.

“Tell me about it.” Emily chuckled. “I have four brothers.”

“Move, Ronald!” a woman shouted.

Out of nowhere, Ronald Gump stumbled toward Emily. The eagle-headed cane he was carrying flipped forward, but he kept his grip. When had he started using that? Shane steadied Ronald and Emily at the same time. Poor Ronald appeared startled. His usually styled salt-and-pepper hair was sticking out in every direction. He pushed his glasses higher on his narrow nose.

Shane stared daggers at Ronald's wife, Sylvia, who was in her midfifties and so thin she reminded me of a fancy candy stick dipped in white icing, her white hair slick to the sides of her head, her mouth swathed with silver lipstick to match her sleek silver clothes and scads of jewelry. Silver was always the color of the day for Sylvia. Even the cell phone in her hand was encased in sparkling silver.

“What's your problem?” she said to Shane.

“What's going on?” he demanded.

“The line was moving.” Sylvia entered some urgent message into her phone, or at least it seemed urgent. She was stabbing the buttons. “Ronald wasn't paying attention, like always.”

“Well,
we
weren't moving,” Shane said.

“Sorry,” Ronald mumbled.

“I'm not,” Sylvia countered.

Emily tugged Shane's arm and said, “Let's go home.”

“No, we're staying.”

“How very like you, Shane,” Sylvia said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “You never let the lady choose.”

Shane jutted his chin. “What's that supposed to mean?”

Uh-oh. I got the distinct feeling there was a history between Shane and Sylvia. Had he had a liaison with Sylvia on one of his jaunts to town for the extravaganza? She was older than he was, but that didn't mean anything. Was it before he started up with Emily or, um, after?