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beading shop on the first floor of Fisherman’s Village, stepped forward. Dressed in a black-and-white frock and strands of marbled beads, she looked sharp and almost jaunty. Pepper hadn’t been happy when I’d returned to Crystal Cove. In the past month, however, she and I had put our differences aside—all due to a misunderstanding with my father. His apology to her had helped us mend fences. On occasion, she even smiled a hello to me. She offered a thumbs-up sign to the beader contestant, who wiggled a pinky in response.
    “And I’m sure many of you know Rhett Jackson.” The mayor nodded in his direction.
    Rhett waved to the audience. I would never forget my first glimpse of the man. Tousled dark hair, a sly grin, and jeans that fit just right. Today he had dressed up a notch for the occasion. He wore a blue jacket over a white shirt tucked into chinos, as handsome as ever and hunkier than the fireman contestant.
    “For those of you that might not know him, Rhett is the owner of Bait and Switch Fishing and Sport Supply Store. He’s a fabulous chef, I might add.”
    Previously Rhett was the chef at The Grotto restaurant, which had been located on the second floor of Fisherman’s Village until it burned down over a year ago. Rumor was that Rhett had started the fire, but Rhett swore he hadn’t. My father, my aunt, and pretty much everyone else in town believed him. Rhett was certain that the owner had set the fire, run off with millions in artwork, and reaped the insurance benefits; however, he could never prove it. Disheartened, he’d left the restaurant business behind. He was taking a week off from his latest business venture to judge the contest because the mayor, who adored him, had begged and pleaded. It was hard to say no to Mayor Zeller.
    I felt a tap on my shoulder and pivoted. Cinnamon Pritchett, daughter of the beading shop owner and Crystal Cove’s chief of police, flashed a copy of
Grilled Cheese, Please!
“You should carry this in the shop,” she said.
    “We do. It’s on the display table with the others.”
    “Guess I should become more familiar with the product in your store.”
    “Guess you should.”
    Cinnamon, in her mid-thirties, reminded me of a perky camp counselor with her bobbed hair, fresh face, and brown-on-brown uniform, but she had a crisp, no-nonsense attitude that a mother superior could appreciate. Now that the brouhaha of her suspecting me of murder was over, I was eager to foster a friendship with her. We had gone out for coffee and sweet rolls a couple of weeks ago and had talked about our love of good food. We agreed to set another outing, but we hadn’t found the time. “Is there any place I can stand where I might be able to see better?” she asked.
    “Kids’ section is over there,” I teased. Cinnamon was a few inches shorter than I.
    “Very funny.” She maneuvered through the throng and found a spot by the wall.
    The first round got under way. While Katie fetched the contestants’ preparations, which we had stored in the café’s refrigerators, the contestants, starting with Tito, would explain what they were making.
    “I will attempt a grilled cheese
al carbón,
” Tito said, “which includes jack cheese, marinated steak, crisp bacon, slices of avocado, and a smoky salsa.”
    For his first entry, the fireman was making a three-alarm chili grilled cheese. I told Katie that I wanted her to duplicate the guy’s recipe. I would dedicate it to my mother, who made a chili that was so hot it nearly seared my stomach. Delish.
    Natalie intended to make a classic croque-monsieur. She didn’t elaborate for the sake of the audience, which annoyed me, but I kept my opinion to myself.
    Lola, in contrast, was effusive. “I’m making a tilapia grilled cheese. I’ll be using Port Salut. Do you all know that cheese?” She eyed the audience. “It’s delectable. Made in the region of Brittany, France.”
    “Cheese doesn’t go with fish,” Natalie cut in.