For Cheddar or Worse

by Avery Aames

  Set the cake on a platter and cover with plastic wrap. Cool the cake in the refrigerator 1–2 hours. When ready to serve, drizzle with the remaining caramel sauce. Top each slice with a dollop of whipped cream, if desired.

  [Note from Grandmère: There is nothing more satisfying to me than a rich cheesecake. It reminds me of when we moved to the United States. Etienne and I landed in New York, at Ellis Island. We stayed the night in New York and we tasted our first cheesecake. I will never forget the rich flavors and the sweetness. It will forever be our reminder of the sweet life we came to seek . . . and found.]

  Dear Reader,

  You may not know this, but I write two culinary mystery series under two names—my pseudonym, Avery Aames and my real name, Daryl Wood Gerber. As Daryl, I write the Cookbook Nook Mysteries. Fans of the Cheese Shop series often enjoy the Cookbook Nook series.

  If you haven’t yet had a taste of any of the Cookbook Nook mysteries, let me introduce you to Jenna Hart, a former advertising executive who, two years after losing her husband in a tragic accident, moved home to the beautiful coastal town of Crystal Cove, California, to help her aunt open a culinary bookstore and to find her smile. Jenna is an avid reader, a marketing whiz, and a foodie, but she doesn’t have a clue how to cook. As the series develops, Jenna is learning her way around the kitchen. She hopes to become an expert cook someday. The Cookbook Nook sells cookbooks, foodie fiction, and culinary goodies for the kitchen. In addition, there is The Nook Café, an adjunct of the shop, which serves up delicious meals throughout the week. During the year, the store and the town offer all sorts of specialty events. In the fifth installment in the series, Grilling the Subject, due out in 2016, Jenna celebrates along with the rest of the town as the Wild West Extravaganza comes to town. Yee-haw! But when a bonfire lights the morning sky of Crystal Cove, and hours later Jenna’s father is suspected of roasting a land-poaching neighbor, the revelry fades. To add to Jenna’s distress, an unexpected guest blazes into town like a tornado and throws her life into a tailspin. Can she keep calm while she grills suspects that include the victim’s tepid husband, a saucy Realtor, and the extravaganza’s sexy Casanova? Will Jenna clear her father before the killer turns up the heat and rakes Jenna over the coals? Can she survive the personal upheaval, too?

  I hope you will join Jenna and her loyal friends and family as Jenna once again seeks to right a wrong. Perhaps you’ll even find a new zesty recipe or cookbook title to share with friends!

  For those of you who love the Cheese Shop Mysteries, sadly, the series has come to an end. Charlotte, now an expectant mother, will forge a new life with her family. Wish her well on her way! I will be writing more series and stand-alone novels! Please keep in touch with me via my website and by joining my newsletter!

  Savor the mystery and say cheese!

  Avery aka Daryl

  Turn the page for a preview of the next Cookbook Nook Mystery

  Grilling the Subject

  Coming soon from Berkley Prime Crime

  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 dressed 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 lacy white 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 working as an advertising executive in San Francisco and returned to Crystal Cove to help my aunt Vera open a culinary bookshop—nearly a year ago; how time flies!—I had arranged and rearranged The Cookbook Nook multiple times. I had assembled 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 the staff at the shop provided when they asked for help locating a title.

  “Eek!” Bailey Bird, who was my best friend and also my employee, shrieked 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, my 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 white sweater, hiked 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, not with a 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.

  “Get 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.

  “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 said, “Stop it. You’re yelling so loudly, you’d think we’ve encountered an onslaught of bugs worthy of a Steven 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, unlike the short hairdo she sported now, had been long and quickly became a nest for a horde of creepy crawlers. Over the last year, my aunt Vera, who for the past forty of her sixty-something years liked to dabble in alternative methods of coping by telling fortunes or doing hypnosis and aura readings, had tried all sorts of sense therapy with Bailey to help her overcome her dread, but nothing had worked.

  Hmm. 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 blo
w 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 Casey, my other best friend and the inventive 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. People 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 yummy ranch-style food throughout the week, like horseshoe cookies, mini-cups of baked beans, cornbread, and even a cake decorated to look like a cactus. I’d begged her to include her finger-licking-good dry-rub ribs, but she said they would be too messy for the shop. Drat!

  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 jail and had decorated the interior with all sorts of Western doodads.

  “Jenna! Bailey!” Ava Judge, one of our regular customers, flew through the front door in her typical designer suit and sensible 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 flourished 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.

  “On a date. With the deputy.” 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 dashed 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.”

  “Not this time.” Ava shook her head. Her long, highlighted tresses swayed back and forth. “He was bucked off a mechanical bull last night. His second-in-command is going to take his place. Shane . . .” She snapped her fingers. Snap, snap, snap. “His last name is . . . Oh, help me out . . . What was that TV Western called, with the darling gambling brothers?”

  “Maverick?” I suggested.

  “That’s the one.”

  “I know Shane Maverick.” He had worked with me at Taylor & Squibb Advertising in San Francisco. “Bailey, you know him. Remember, he worked in sales and had the gift of gab?” Bailey and I had lost touch during college; we had reconnected while working at Taylor & Squibb. She had been in charge of monitoring all the campaigns—on air, in magazines, and on the Internet. However, city life isn’t for everyone, and she, like me, had moved home recently to switch up her future.

  “He’s quite a hunk,” Ava said.

  “He sure is.” At one time Shane was a good sixty pounds overweight; now he was ultra fit. “I didn’t know he was involved with the Wild West Extravaganza.” The last time I saw him, he was managing a chain of workout centers. Shane was the person who had opened my husband’s gym locker in San Francisco when I was trying to solve a mystery about his death. My heart snagged at the memory. David. Once the love of my life, gone over three years. Buck up, Jenna. No tears. Not at work. “The last time I saw him, he was managing a chain of workout centers.”

  “Not anymore. The Wild West Extravaganza group snatched him up; it has relocated its headquarters here. They do events all over the West Coast, you know. I sold Shane a place in your dad’s and my neighborhood.”

  I laughed. “And you couldn’t remember his last name?”

  “We haven’t closed escrow yet.”

  I gave her a long, knowing look; she obviously liked Shane. “Are you two—”

  “No,” Ava cut me off. “He’s engaged. To the piano teacher. The very pregnant piano teacher.”

  We only had one piano teacher in town: Emily Hawthorne. She was a regular in the store, though come to think of it, she hadn’t been in for quite a while. How could she be very pregnant unless Shane and she had hooked up months ago?

  “By the way—” Ava snapped three times again; I got the feeling she was a habitual snapper. I had seen her snap at service people, like a gardener or housepainter, and I’d caught her snapping at her clients, too. Nobody seemed to mind. She got things done. On time. A rarity in the real estate business. “Shane is an animal safety buff, so no horses or animals will be hurt this week. Also, he has some new ideas how to drum up tourist interest, and the mayor is on board. She thinks Shane is wonderful. I think she wants him to run for city council in the future.”

  “Wow,” Bailey said, “talk about jumping into a new town with both feet. Are you sure he didn’t kill the other guy to get the job?”

  “Stop it,” I said.

  “Murder happens.” Bailey plucked at her coppery hair and threw me a pert look. “You and I know that all too well.” She was referring to the fact that we had been acquainted with a few people who had died under suspicious circumstances. All that sadness was behind us now. A few months had passed without a single incident. To a former advertiser like me who understood flow charts, statistically Crystal Cove was on an upswing.

  “Shane is a good guy,” Ava went on. “Promise.” She hoisted her tote higher on her shoulder. “Mind if I browse the shelves?”

  “Be our guest.” I made a sweeping gesture and then remembered I hadn’t fixed the arrangement I’d destroyed on the display table. I hurried ahead of her to reset the dozens of barbecue- and grill-themed cookbooks.

  Without asking, Ava placed a stack of flyers on the sales counter and then moved to our display of Wild West–style aprons. I’d ordered a half-dozen fashioned out of bandanna material and another half-dozen made out of cute cow-print fabric with red-checkered borders. “Are any of you partaking in the festivities this week?” she asked while holding a cow-print apron in front of her and inspecting its length to her body.

  “Tito and I are going to the pole-bending event,” Bailey said. Tito Martinez, a reporter for the Crystal Cove Crier, is her fiancé. “Have you ever seen that? It’s sort of like slalom racing for skiing. One horse, one rider, weaving around poles. I hear it’s exciting.”

  “What about you, Jenna?” Ava asked.

  “I plan to take in the horse race.”

  “Down Buena Vista Boulevard?”

  “Is there going to be another?”

  Our fair city, which was set on the coast of California below Santa Cruz and above Monterey, was one long stretch of gorgeous territory, marked by an age-old lighthouse at the north end and a public pier filled with shops and fun things to do at the south end. The weather was beautiful year-round, with the occasional splash of rain or drift of fog. The hills to the east boasted wondrous vegetation and beautiful homes. The crests of the mountains sparkled as the waning sun cast its rays on them at sunset. Buena Vista Boulevard, which is what we called the section of the Pacific Coast Highway that cut through town, was populated with shops and restaurants. A main portion of the street would be closed off, and traffic detoure
d, for the horse race.

  “Don’t miss the rope twirling,” Ava said, “or the chuck wagon race.”

  The rope twirling would take place on The Pier. The chuck wagon race would be held on the beach. In addition, in the parking lots joining the community college and the aquarium, there were going to be live bands and food trucks. The Cookbook Nook had lots of activities planned over the course of the next ten days, too. For our first specialty event, Katie would lead an adult gingerbread-making session where customers could learn how to construct an old Western town.

  “I nearly forgot,” Ava said. “I came in looking for a Steve Raichlen book. You know, the TV host. It’s about grilling. I think it was first published ten years ago.” She raised her fingers to snap.

  Before she could, I grabbed her hand and guided her toward our celebrity chef section. Luckily Hurricane Jenna hadn’t demolished that area. The shelves were tidy and alphabetically arranged.

  “Is this it?” I pulled a book from its slot. “Raichlen’s How to Grill: The Complete Illustrated Book of Barbecue Techniques or A Barbecue Bible!” Raichlen offered a lot of show and tell as well as step-by-step instructions.

  “That’s the one.”

  “We also have Bobby Flay’s Grill It! and Smokin’ with Myron Mixon: Recipes Made Simple, from the Winningest Man in Barbecue.” I had stocked up on a few basic books from the Weber grill company as well, and made sure we had Guy Fieri’s Guy on Fire: 130 Recipes for Adventures in Outdoor Cooking. Reviewers said his book really appealed to male customers, of which we had many. It wasn’t your typically pretty tabletop cookbook; it was filled with humor. I loved the fact that Guy called his outdoor tools his arsenal.

  I nabbed a few more books from the shelf and handed them to Ava. Hands occupied and snapping waylaid, she continued to browse, so I ventured to the display table and did a quick re-do, without standing the books up. Call me foolish once, not twice.

  Next, I shifted to the display window to tweak our latest exhibit. Bailey and I had spent all day yesterday putting items in place. We set out a crisp checkered tablecloth and built levels beneath it, and then we added colorful barbecue tools with a variety of handles, a mini hibachi, some grill lights for late-night grilling, long tubes of matches, and candles. We included a corny-looking chuck wagon cookie jar—I had stumbled across an assortment of kooky cookie jars online and had purchased twenty of them—and we added a huge wicker picnic basket, red plastic cups, and a red pitcher. As a finishing touch, we set out wicker baskets packed with retro-style cinnamon candy sticks plus mason jars stuffed with gumballs.