Chapter 19
I push the stroller back toward the gift shop area right here in the chocolate barn at Westoff Farms, while my mind spins faster than a Halloween pinwheel in a hurricane.
Could Hammie Mae really be my half-sister? And if so, does her mother know more about Heath’s murder than she’s letting on? Because apparently, discovering potential siblings and solving murders is just my average afternoon now.
The sound of raised voices pulls me from my existential family crisis. I round the corner by a towering display of Halloween gift baskets and freeze in horror at the scene before me—a scene that could only be described as Chocolate Apocalypse: The Georgie Edition.
Georgie, with her fake mustache now tilted at a severe angle, is standing precariously atop a step ladder that definitely wasn’t designed for senior citizens in orthopedic shoes.
She’s reaching for something on the highest shelf of the chocolate display, while my mother stands below, holding what appears to be Georgie’s hat filled with assorted chocolates.
Oh, good grief. It looks as if my mother has finally caved and is completely sucked into whatever scheme Georgie is cooking up now. A daredevil scheme no less.
“Just a little more to the left,” Mom whispers, looking nervously over her shoulder as if they’re planning a heist instead of committing what amounts to chocolate larceny. “The limited edition Haunted Mansion chocolate set is right there!”
“I can almost reach it,” Georgie grunts, stretching her arm so far, I’m afraid she’ll dislocate something vital—or at minimum, require physical therapy. “These babies are going for eighty bucks a pop on eBay. That’s highway robbery, if you ask me.”
“ Georgie ,” I hiss, hurrying forward, trying to stave off a natural disaster. “What are you doing?”
“Paying my respects to fine craftsmanship,” she snips back without looking down. “This isn’t stealing. It’s chocolate appreciation.”
“From a display marked Do Not Touch ?” I point to the sign directly below her, written in what I’d consider extremely clear lettering—the kind that usually prevents lawsuits and insurance claims.
“Signs are more like suggestions,” Georgie says, as her fingers close around a small chocolate haunted house. “Besides, they should thank me for testing their security systems. And I got it! ”
Her cry of triumph turns to one of alarm as the ladder wobbles beneath her like a drunken sailor.
In slow motion—the kind you see in disaster movies right before everything goes spectacularly wrong—I watch as Georgie, the ladder, and the entire display sway in unison.
For one hopeful moment, it seems like everything might stabilize.
But then it happens.
With a thunderous crash worthy of a Hollywood disaster movie, Georgie, the ladder, and approximately thirty pounds of premium Halloween chocolate hit the floor simultaneously. The impact sends chocolate flying in all directions like sugary shrapnel.
This is the most beautiful disaster I’ve ever witnessed, Fish yowls from her position in the stroller.
Chocolate rain! Sherlock barks as he dashes to snatch a fallen treat. It’s raining chocolate! This is the best day of my entire life!
“No!” I lunge to intercept him before he can eat anything potentially toxic. “Drop it, buddy!”
Sherlock gives me a look of such profound betrayal and I almost feel guilty. Almost .
“Cleanup needed at the Halloween display,” a voice announces over the intercom. “Security to the Halloween display— again .”
Georgie lies sprawled amid the wreckage, chocolate smeared across her disguise, looking like a defeated villain from a Willy Wonka movie. She raises her head, adjusts her mustache, and declares with all the dignity she can muster, “I regret nothing.”
My mother, to her credit, is already on her knees attempting to salvage what she can. “Bizzy, quick! Help me get these back on the shelf before?—”
“Before what?” a cool voice asks from behind me, cutting through the chocolate chaos like a knife through cocoa butter.
I turn to find Matilda Westoff herself standing there, arms crossed, impeccably dressed in a tailored burgundy suit that somehow manages to intimidate despite its autumn color scheme.
Her silver-streaked red hair is pulled back into a severe bun, and her expression could freeze boiling chocolate solid.
“Mrs. Westoff,” I begin, scrambling for some plausible explanation that doesn’t involve my family being banned from every chocolate establishment in the Northern Hemisphere. “There’s been a slight mishap.”
“If this is what you call a slight mishap, then I’d hate to see your definition of full-blown destruction,” she replies, her eyes flicking from Mom to Georgie to the devastation surrounding them.
“And Professor Whiskerton, is it?” She arches a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at Georgie’s now-crooked mustache.
Georgie attempts to scramble to her feet with all the grace of a newborn giraffe while slipping on a chocolate caramel square and crashes back down with a thud that rattles nearby displays.
“The disguise was her idea,” she says, pointing accusingly at my mother like we’re in elementary school and someone just got caught passing notes. On second thought, elementary school children might be too mature for what’s happening here.
“Et tu, Whiskerton?” Mom mutters.
Matilda’s gaze finally lands on me, and for the briefest moment, something registers in her eyes. And now a part of me wonders if she knows full well that I’m Hammie Mae’s sister. But not a single thought flies through her mind .
“Ms. Baker,” she says coolly. “I believe you were just leaving.”
“Actually, it’s Mrs. Wilder now,” I correct automatically, then immediately wish I hadn’t as her eyes narrow dangerously, and I can tell she’s mentally adding my new name to some kind of chocolate shop blacklist.
“Indeed,” she says, the single word somehow conveying volumes of disdain and possibly a few veiled threats.
“Allow me to escort you all to your vehicle. I believe we can agree that any future chocolate needs can be satisfied elsewhere.” She gestures to the security guards now flanking her. “Permanently.”
One of the guards helps Georgie to her feet while the other begins taking photos of the damage—presumably for insurance purposes or possibly a most-wanted poster for the Chocolate Crimes Unit. If that unit did exist, I’d so push Jasper in that direction.
“What about my purchases?” Mom asks, holding up a shopping basket I hadn’t noticed before, filled with chocolate ghosts and pumpkins. And boy, do they look scrumptious.
“Consider them a parting gift,” Matilda says with an icy smile. “A small price to pay for ensuring we never cross paths in my establishment again.”
Soon enough, we’re marched toward the exit like prisoners of the Chocolate War, and I catch a glimpse of Hammie Mae watching from the café area with baby Matilda still tucked in her arms. She gives me a small, sympathetic smile and a little wave that somehow makes this whole debacle slightly less mortifying.
If only she knew, Fish mewls from her hiding spot, family reunions could be this awkward all the time.
Outside in the parking lot, Matilda personally watches as we load into my minivan—probably to make sure we don’t attempt a daring escape with their display fixtures. Just before I close my door, she leans down slightly.
“Mrs. Baker Wilder,” she says with her voice pitched low enough that only I can hear, and that’s somehow more menacing than her previous ice-queen routine, “a word of advice. Some mysteries are better left unsolved. For everyone’s sake.”
Before I can respond, she turns sharply and strides back toward the barn, leaving me with a chill that has nothing to do with the October breeze.
“Well,” Georgie says from the backseat as she peels off her mustache, “I think that went rather well, all things considered.”
“We’re banned for life, Georgie,” Mom points out, already rummaging through her basket of contraband chocolate for comfort. “From the best chocolate shop in three counties.”
“Exactly.” Georgie nods sagely. “But we went out in a blaze of glory. And chocolate. Lots and lots of chocolate.”
I can’t help but laugh as we load up and I start the minivan. “I hope it was worth it.”
“Oh, it was,” Georgie assures me, pulling a small chocolate haunted house from her pocket like a magician revealing her final trick. “Mission accomplished.”
We drive away from Westoff Farms, and I glance in the rearview mirror at the red barn growing smaller in the distance.
Hammie Mae is still there somewhere, going about her day, completely unaware that she might have just shared hot chocolate with her half-sister—and witnessed said half-sister’s family get permanently banned from the premises.
But then again, she might know exactly that.
And judging by the warning Matilda just gave me, she definitely knows more than she’s saying—about Heath, about her daughter’s parentage, about my father’s two-timing behavior.
The question is—what am I going to do about it?
Just another typical day in the life of Bizzy Baker Wilder—amateur sleuth, professional innkeeper, and apparently, chocolate shop menace.