Chapter 17
T he October sun hangs like a shiny copper penny in a sky so blue it hurts your eyes to look at it directly.
Westoff Farms is bathed in a golden autumn light that turns the rolling fields into a patchwork quilt of harvest colors—the deep green of late-season blueberry bushes, the russet brown of freshly tilled earth, and the fiery orange of pumpkin patches scattered across the landscape like polka dots on Mother Nature’s favorite dress.
“I still can’t believe we’re doing this,” I mutter to my mother while wrestling with Ella’s stroller as we navigate the gravel parking lot that’s apparently designed to test the structural integrity of baby equipment.
My one-month-old daughter is mercifully asleep, bundled in a pumpkin-themed onesie with a matching hat that makes her look like the world’s cutest gourd.
“And I especially can’t believe we brought Georgie along. ”
Ella was a given, but Georgie had to beg, borrow, and well, commit to dressing in costume in order for us to let her tag along.
Georgie, who is currently adjusting what has to be the world’s most unconvincing disguise—a bushy fake mustache that appears to have been stolen from a community theater production of The Three Musketeers that went very, very wrong, paired with a deerstalker cap straight out of Sherlock Holmes, and sunglasses large enough to house a family of four.
The whole ensemble screams I am definitely not trying to sneak into a place where I’ve been banned for life .
“What?” Georgie asks, her mustache tilting alarmingly to the left as she speaks, giving her the appearance of someone having a facial hair emergency. “You don’t think I look convincing as... what was my name again?”
“Professor Whiskerton,” Mom says helpfully, straightening the mustache with the patience of someone who’s clearly done this before—and knowing the two of them, she has. “You’re a visiting scholar of agricultural economics from Miskatonic University.”
“That’s not even a real university,” I protest. “It’s from H.P. Lovecraft. You know, tentacle monsters and cosmic horror?”
“All the better,” Georgie says with a sage nod. “No one can check my credentials.”
“Not unless they know their way around literature—or tentacle monsters and cosmic horror,” I muse.
Buffy comes to mind. She would so know. But thankfully, we’re not here to see Buffy this afternoon.
“So you’re saying I’m basically bulletproof,” Georgie says with a clap.
Mom groans. “Let’s not tempt fate.”
Fish pokes her head out from the basket on the bottom of Ella’s stroller and checks out Georgie’s disguise with a heavy sigh. She looks like a rejected villain from a children’s cartoon. Even the baby isn’t buying it.
As if on cue, Ella stirs, her tiny face scrunching in what I’ve come to recognize as her preparing for sonic warfare expression—the same look she gets right before she demonstrates that her lungs are fully functional and extremely powerful.
“Quick, keep walking,” I urge, pushing the stroller forward with renewed purpose and a touch of panic. “Motion is the only thing keeping her from realizing she’s awake and deciding to share her opinions about this whole situation with everyone in a three-mile radius.”
Sherlock trots alongside us with his tail wagging with the excitement of someone who’s about to embark on the greatest adventure of his life, while Fudge zigzags ahead with purpose, occasionally returning to make sure we’re following the right path like a tiny furry tour guide .
So many smells! Sherlock barks happily as his nose works overtime. Apples, and pumpkins, and hay, and people, and horses, and tractors, and SQUIRREL—no, wait, focus. We’re on a mission. A very important mission involving potential snacks.
Heath loved this place, Fudge gives a wistful bark with the thought. He always brought me treats from the bakery section. The ones shaped like little bones made of peanut butter.
Those do sound good right now, even to me.
We follow a winding path lined with decorative gourds and cornstalks tied with festive orange ribbons.
Signs point in various directions, each more whimsical than the last— This Way to Make Your Wildest Blueberry Dreams Come True and Guided Tours and Hayrides , and the one we’re heading for— Gift Shop and Chocolate Heaven Straight Ahead (the most honest advertising I’ve seen all day).
“Remember,” I warn as we approach the massive red barn that houses the chocolate factory and gift shop.
“We’re here for information, not chaos. Hammie Mae might know something about Heath’s murder, and she might be…
” I glance at Mom, then lower my voice. “You know, connected to all this somehow. So let’s try not to get thrown out before I can talk to her. ”
“That was ONE TIME,” Georgie protests, tugging her mustache straight with the indignation of someone whose criminal record is being unfairly maligned. “And how was I supposed to know that pulling the emergency stop lever on the chocolate conveyor belt would cause such a ruckus?”
“Perhaps the words EMERGENCY and DO NOT TOUCH printed in red capital letters might have been a clue?” Mom suggests dryly. She’s not wrong. I was there.
“I thought it was reverse psychology,” Georgie sniffs. “Besides, those chocolate-covered blueberries were heading right for the floor. I was trying to prevent wastage. It was practically a public service that I was doing.”
“By diving headfirst onto the conveyor belt,” I remind her. “Which then required three employees and a maintenance worker to extract you from the cooling tunnel while you were still clutching handfuls of stolen merchandise.”
“I prefer to think of it as quality control sampling,” Georgie adjusts her sunglasses with dignity. “The judge seemed to agree since I only got community service and a lifetime ban.”
“Which is why you’re now disguised as a fictional professor from a fictional university,” I point out as we reach the barn doors that are decorated with enough Halloween regalia to outfit a small theme park. “Let’s just hope no one recognizes you behind that impressive facial hair.”
“ Pish-posh .” Georgie gives a dismissive wave. “It’s been months. Plus, I’ve gone full incognito. I’m basically invisible. A ghost, if you will.”
None of that happened. Or at least I’m pretty sure that’s not exactly how it went down, but who am I to stop my mother from spinning a fictional tale in the name of keeping Georgie out of a potential prison sentence?
Mom catches my eye behind Georgie’s back and mimes a prayer. I stifle a laugh as we step into the converted barn, bracing myself for whatever chaos is about to unfold.
The interior hits all your senses at once—the rich, intoxicating scent of chocolate, warm and melted, the golden glow from overhead string lights, the buzz of excited chatter from tourists and locals alike, and the visual feast of the most elaborately decorated gift shops this side of Santa’s workshop.
Halloween has thoroughly invaded the space like a festive army of orange and black.
Chocolate bats hang from fishing lines attached to the ceiling, creating the illusion of a candy swarm overhead that’s either adorable or mildly terrifying depending on your relationship with the winged creatures.
Display tables feature chocolate jack-o’-lanterns with varying expressions from goofy to ghoulish as if they’re auditioning for different horror movie roles.
An entire wall is dedicated to something called “Boo-Berry Blasts,” chocolate-covered blueberries dusted with edible shimmer that makes them look like tiny, tasty galaxies.
“Oh, sweet merciful heavens,” Georgie moans, going slack-jawed at the sight like someone who’s just witnessed the Second Coming of Chocolate. “I’ve died and gone to confectionery paradise.”
“Stay focused,” I whisper, grabbing her arm as she begins to drift toward a display of Monster Munch, a Halloween trail mix featuring chocolate-covered nuts, dried berries, and candy corn that looks suspiciously addictive. “We’re here for answers, not snacks.”
Sherlock belts out a bark. Speak for yourself.
“At least not primarily for snacks,” I’m quick to concede. I’m sort of with him on this one.
“Can’t we have both?” Georgie asks with a whine as if she was just told she couldn’t have ice cream for breakfast. And side note: while pregnant with Ella, that was the breakfast of pregnant champions—and I happened to be the pregnant champion in that equation.
Okay, fine, so I still indulge a few mornings a week. It’s not a crime.
“We’ll stock up on snacks afterward,” Mom promises, patting Georgie’s arm as if she were negotiating.
“Let’s help Bizzy first, then we’ll bruise.
I mean, browse.” Although bruise was more right on the money.
Here’s hoping no one breaks a bone this time, she muses to herself, and I can’t help but share a commiserating smile.
A floor-to-ceiling glass wall at the back of the shop offers a view into the chocolate factory itself, where white-coated workers tend to gleaming copper vats and conveyor belts that snake through the space like rivers carrying liquid heaven.
The machinery hums with purpose as it transforms simple ingredients into confectionery magic that would make Willy Wonka weep with envy.
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.