Georgie stares at the glass wall like a child looking through a toy store window at Christmas, complete with the same level of desperate longing.
“It’s the scene of the crime,” she pants out the words to herself. “And it was worth every minute of picking up roadside trash in an orange vest.”
Before I can respond to this disturbing revelation about her community service activities, a familiar black-and-white blur shoots out from behind a display of caramel apples.
Bizzy! Fish! Sherlock!Jellybean yowls with pure joy, racing toward us like a furry missile of happiness. Jellybean is Hammie Mae’s sweet cat. We met her last spring, and she’s as cute and smart as they come—as most cats are.You came back! I was hoping you would! And you brought the miniature hooman in the stroller!
Jellybean!Fish perks up immediately, abandoning her hiding spot in the stroller basket to greet her friend.How have you been?
Are they treating you well here?Sherlock sniffs the cute kitty every which way.
Very well,Jellybean purrs, rubbing against Fish’s legs like the old pals they are.Hammie Mae gives me the best snacks, and there are so many mice in the storage areas. It’s like a buffet!
Wonderful. I wince at the thought.
And who’s this?Jellybean asks, nodding at Fudge, who’s wagging his tail with the enthusiasm of someone meeting a new friend. And I’m positive Fudge has never met a friend he didn’t like.
I’m Fudge,he yips excitedly.I used to live with Heath, but now I live with Bizzy and her family. Do you like belly rubs? I love belly rubs!
Dogs,Jellybean sighs with exasperation.Always so enthusiastic about everything.Yes, I love belly rubs.
“It’s so nice to see you again, Jellybean.” I give the cute kitty a quick scratch behind the ears. “I can see you’re really keeping things in tip-top shape around here.” I push the stroller deeper into the shop, scanning for signs of Hammie Mae.
The last thing I need is for her mother, Matilda, to spot us first. Based on what I learned earlier, Matilda might have more than enough reason to have murdered Heath if he was blackmailing her about Hammie Mae’s biological father.
“Keep an eye out for strawberry blonde curls,” I instruct Mom and Georgie—who has wandered over to a free sample table and is currently trying to figure out how many chocolate squares she can palm without the teenage attendant noticing the obvious larceny.
“Georgie,” Mom hisses, hurrying over to extract her from what is rapidly becoming another crime scene.
I sigh and continue my search. At least Ella is still asleep, and I can’t help but coo at how cute she is with her little pumpkin hat slightly askew. Fish has retreated entirely into the stroller’s storage compartment, likely to avoid the overwhelming sensory experience of humans in a sugar frenzy. I can’t say I blame her.
This place smells like hyper children and regret,she mewls my way.Wake me when we’re back in civilization.
“Will do,” I whisper.
Sherlock and Fudge, meanwhile, have positioned themselves strategically near a display of dog-friendly carob treats shaped likelittle ghosts, probably hoping their cuteness will earn them some samples, and I have no doubt it will.
If we look really cute, someone might buy us treats,Sherlock strategizes.Or at least drop some. I’m not picky.
And sure enough, it starts raining carob ghosts.
But it’s across the crowded barn, on the far side near a display of specialty Halloween gift baskets, where I finally spot Hammie Mae. Her strawberry blonde curls are piled into a messy bun that’s fighting a losing battle with gravity, and she’s wearing a deep green apron over jeans and a flannel shirt as she arranges chocolate pumpkins in a festive display.
Even from this distance, I can see the dark circles under her eyes—the universal badge of a new mother who’s gotten approximately four hours of sleep in the past week and is running on caffeine and pure determination.
“I see her,” I murmur to my mother, who has returned with Georgie in tow, the latter’s pockets suspiciously bulging. “Near the Halloween baskets.”
Mom follows my gaze, and she winces as if it stings just to look at her.
Oh, there she is.She shakes her head.Be still my heart.
Be still my heart? I inch back, inspecting my mother for a moment. For the most part, Hammie Mae is the town’s chocolate queen. I suppose my own heart should be a little more appreciative of the woman, too.
“You go on,” she says, patting my arm with the encouragement of someone sending a soldier into battle. “I’ll keep an eye on this one.” She tilts her head toward Georgie, who is now eyeing a chocolate fountain as if she’s contemplating whether she can fit her entire face under the flow. I honestly don’t know what the debate is, she’s done it before.
“Don’t leave me alone with the temptation,” Georgie pleads. “I’m only human, and my willpower is notoriously weak when it comes to dairy products and cocoa.”
“A human with a criminal record for chocolate-related offenses,” I remind her. “Just behave for five minutes while I talk to Hammie Mae.”
