Page 14 of A Whisker in the Night

This place has changed so much, Jellybean observes as she does her best to stand tall.Hamish used to say it was just a humble blueberry farm before he met Matilda.

And now it’s a chocolate wonderland, Sherlock woofs as his nose twitches at the heavenly scents wafting from the factory.Is that chocolate-covered bacon I smell?

“Don’t even think about it,” I warn him. “Chocolate is lethal to dogs, remember?”

Oh, let him dream, Fish purrs wickedly.Natural selection at its finest.

I shoot my beloved but occasionally murderous cat a look. “Behave.”

The gift shop portion of the barn is basically a Pinterest board brought to life with pastel Easter trees dripping with hand-painted eggs, artisanal chocolates arranged in displays that belong in an art museum, and shelves lined with everything from locally made soaps (none of which were made by my sister—no wonder Macy is so furious) to chocolate-scented candles (a must-have before I leave).

Those twinkle lights draped over the exposed beams up above are lined with vintage copper pots and they give the whole space a magical warm glow—especially the chocolate. And there’s so much chocolate! Truffle eggs, chocolate peanut butter eggs, chocolate bunnies in every size and color, and they even have something called a chocolate flower pot dessert, small little pots made of chocolate with chocolate “dirt” and the most beautiful pink and white chocolate roses sitting on top. I’ll need to pick up at least a half dozen of those before I leave.

Hamish wasn’t allowed to spend much time here after the divorce,Jellybean continues, her voice tinged with sadness as we weave through displays of chocolate-dipped everything.But he told me all about how he started the farm with just a few blueberry bushes. Then his manager at the time, Verity, came along and convinced him to expand into chocolate. She had all these grand ideas.

The baby gives a swift kick as if sensing the undertone of scandal. Or maybe they’re just reminding me that we’re surrounded by chocolate and not eating any of it. These days, it’s hard to tell the difference between my craving for justice and my craving for chocolate-covered everything. Honestly, they may as well be one and the same.

A thought occurs to me. I don’t know why I didn’t think to return Jellybean to Verity first. I’m sure she’s worried sick about her sweet cat.

My initial thought was to bring Jellybean to Hammie Mae, but since we’re already here, I don’t see why I couldn’t ask her a few questions. You know, just to help Jasper out a bit.

Okay, who am I kidding? It’s to help myself with myowninvestigation. I’m hardwired for solving mysteries just the way this baby is hardwired for demanding chocolate at all hours.

“Excuse me, ma’am”—a sweet voice calls from behind—“can I offer you a sweet treat?”

“No need to ask,” I say with a laugh as I turn around a little too abruptly. My protruding belly knocks into something and sends an explosion of pastel cookies flying all over.

Now we’re talking,Sherlock barks as he does his best to snap them all up midair.

Chapter 8

The aroma of chocolate and warm sugar mingles with the earthy scent of the old barn’s wooden beams as pastel Easter treats sparkle under the twinkle lights.

Hammie Mae Westoff stands before me, holding a now-empty tray while Sherlock Bones does his best to aid in the clean-up effort by way of inhaling the scattered cookies at record speed.

“I’m so sorry,” I gasp as I say it and watch helplessly as Sherlock performs his version of community service—cookie-based community service, that is. “My expanding belly seems to have its own zip code these days.”

Hammie Mae laughs and a sprig of her strawberry blonde hair escapes from a messy bun sitting on top of her head. Her freckled face lights up as she pats her own prominent baby bump beneath her denim jumper.

I can’t help but note that outfit makes her look like a quintessential berry farmer—if that berry farmer happened to be about seven months pregnant and specialized in chocolate as well.

“My belly has its own zip code, too.” She laughs. “Just yesterday, I knocked over an entire display of chocolate bunnies.Lucky for me, they all broke and so I took them home to my place. That’s one way to feed my addiction.”

We share a robust laugh at that one.

I don’t really know Hammie Mae personally, despite the fact we both grew up in Cider Cove. She’s a few years older than Emmie and me, and we were busy running around with our own circle of friends—which, believe it or not, once included Mackenzie Woods.

Yes, the same Mackenzie Woods who helped introduce me to my supernatural abilities by trying to drown me while bobbing for apples one Halloween. And to make matters worse, she actually pushed me into the barrel.

Four things came from that horrific day. One, I’m afraid of confined spaces. Two, the fact I’m now extremely wary of large bodies of water. Three, my distrust of Mackenzie Woods was born, and four, I walked away with the ability to pry into other people’s minds.

Come to find out, I’m something called transmundane, further classified as telesensual. There are others like me—my bestie’s hubby Leo, for instance. Though he’s never been dunked in a barrel of apples, thank goodness.

Hammie Mae does a double take at the tote bag hanging from my shoulder.

“Oh my word!” she screeches as she spots Jellybean and Fish peeking out from the top of my bag. “I love cats.” Before I can blink, she’s scooped them both out and is snuggling with them posthaste. “Wow”—she muses as she inspects Jellybean—“this spotted one looks just like the cat my father adopted.”

I cringe slightly. “That’s because she is. I was bringing her by in case you were looking for her, but then I just remembered she might belong to your father’s new wife.”

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