Chapter 18
H ammie Mae’s eyes widen as I make my way to her right here in the barn that houses a chocolate paradise located at Westoff Farms. Her face breaks into a warm smile that transforms her tired features from exhausted new mom to exhausted new mom who’s genuinely happy to see you.
She’s holding a tiny bundle wrapped in a pumpkin-patterned blanket—her sweet daughter Matilda, who’s blinking sleepily at the world with curious hazel eyes that match her mother’s and the general expression of someone trying to figure out why everything is so bright and loud.
“Bizzy Baker!” Hammie Mae calls out, adjusting Matilda in her arms with the ease of someone who has adjusted to doing everything one-handed.
“What a nice surprise to see you back at the farm!” Her gaze drops to my stroller where Ella is miraculously still asleep despite the cacophony of the chocolate barn.
“And my goodness, little Ella just keeps getting cuter and cuter! I swear she’s grown since the festival last week.
I caught up with her when your dad and Gwyneth were taking off with her. ”
My lips press tight. She ran into my father! Who could very well be her father, too.
“Yes, Ella is growing by the minute,” I confirm, smiling at little Matilda who’s now staring at me with the intense focus only babies can manage. “And look at Miss Matilda. She’s getting so big! Four and a half months already, right?”
“Four months and exactly three days,” Hammie Mae confirms with the precision only a mother can muster when keeping track of developmental milestones.
“And determined to hit every milestone a month early, especially the ones that involve making messes or refusing to sleep. I named her after my mother. Seemed fitting since she’s just as stubborn and opinionated as her grandmother. ”
We share a knowing laugh and the camaraderie of sleep-deprived mothers seems to transcend any awkwardness—despite the potential murder connections.
“Here, let me introduce our daughters properly,” Hammie Mae says, crouching down to peer into my stroller like she’s facilitating a very important business meeting. “Matilda, this is Ella. You two will probably be in the same class at school someday, assuming we can all survive the toddler years.”
“School?” I gawk with a laugh. “Why does everything feel like it’s already moving way too fast?”
We share a little laugh as she bounces Matilda on her hip as she begins to fuss a little.
And if she’s anything like Ella, she will voice her displeasure for all the barn and the rest of the world to hear.
“I think someone is getting hungry. Follow me to the café. I was just about to take my break anyway.”
I glance back to check on Mom and Georgie, spotting them near a Halloween display where Georgie appears to be explaining something about her fake mustache to a skeptical shop assistant.
Mom’s smile looks increasingly strained, like someone trying to negotiate a peace treaty with a sugar-fueled toddler.
I’m not all too concerned. She’s done it before.
Not well, but still. Georgie is a steep learning curve.
“Lead the way,” I say, maneuvering the stroller after Hammie Mae as she weaves through the crowded shop.
The café area just so happens to be tucked into a cozy corner of the barn, with rustic wooden tables and chairs decorated with tiny pumpkins and gourds.
Hammie Mae guides me to a quiet table in the back, away from the main traffic flow and the chaos of children with sugar-highs — and the adults with the same .
“I’ll be right back,” she says, handing Matilda to me without hesitation. “Let me grab us some sustenance. New mom fuel to the rescue!”
I sit there, slightly stunned at the fact I’m suddenly in charge of two babies—sleepy Ella in the stroller and now Matilda in my arms, who happens to be studying my face with comical seriousness as if she’s conducting her own investigation into my qualifications for temporary babysitting duty—or motherhood for that matter.
Sherlock and Fudge settle at my feet while Fish remains curled at the bottom of the stroller, and judging by the look on her furry face, she’s declared the entire expedition beneath her dignity.
Wake me when there’s actual progress in this investigation, she meows. Or for catnip. Preferably catnip.
I like it here. Fudge gives a happy little bark with his tail wagging as he looks around at the friendly chaos. Lots of people, lots of smells, and that lady smells like Heath sometimes. Good Heath smells!
I’ll be the last to tell Hammie Mae she smells like a man. But honestly, I think she holds the scent of yummy chocolate. If Jasper smelled like chocolate, we would never leave the cottage, and Ella would have more siblings than she could count. Yummy, chocolate-scented siblings.
Oh, I adore Westie terriers, Jellybean purrs as she pops out and rubs against Fudge’s furry little legs. You’re all so spirited and optimistic. It’s refreshing after spending so much time with these pessimistic felines. Cats can really be a downer sometimes.
Hey! Fish protests from the stroller basket. I resemble that remark. She chitters to herself with a laugh.
Hammie Mae returns quickly with a tray holding two large mugs topped with whipped cream that looks like it could be its own food group and a plate of chocolate truffles in different colors that should probably come with a warning label.
“Double chocolate hot cocoa with pumpkin spice whipped cream,” she announces, setting the tray down and reclaiming Matilda with the smooth efficiency of someone who’s mastered the art of baby handoffs.
“Secret recipe. The ultimate new mom fuel that should probably be prescribed by doctors everywhere. And these,” she nudges the plate of truffles toward me, “are our new Halloween specialties.”
“Oh my word,” I moan at the sight. “I just gained twenty pounds looking at all this. But don’t think that’s enough to stop me from inhaling every last sip and bite.”
She gives a good-natured laugh. “The green ones are apple caramel, the purple are blackberry ganache, and the orange—my personal favorite—are pumpkin spice with white chocolate.” She selects an orange one and pops it into her mouth with the reverence of someone participating in a religious ceremony.
“Quality control,” she explains through a bite of chocolate.
“It’s the most important part of the job. ”
“A dream job,” I say, scooping up an orange one, and the flavor explosion in my mouth is like autumn distilled into a single bite—warm spices, creamy pumpkin, and rich chocolate creating a perfect harmony that makes my taste buds want to write thank-you notes to everyone in this chocolate factory.
“Oh my goodness,” I moan involuntarily. “This should be illegal. Like, controlled substance illegal.”
“That’s what we aim for,” Hammie Mae says with a wicked laugh. “The it’s so good it should be criminal reaction.”
Speaking of criminal, it’s an uncomfortable reminder of why I’m actually here, considering someone recently committed an actual crime that was definitely not chocolate-related.
“So,” I begin, taking a sip of my cocoa, “this might seem out of the blue, but I wanted to ask you about Heath Cullen.” I keep my voice casual but watch her reaction as if I’m studying for a test in human behavior.
And sure enough, the change is immediate and dramatic. Hammie Mae’s smile slips like a mask being removed, and she holds Matilda a little closer, as if for comfort or protection. She glances around quickly as if checking who might be listening to our conversation about the recently deceased.
“Heath?” she asks, her voice noticeably cooler as if she just turned down the thermostat on our friendship. “Why would you ask me about him?”
“I’m trying to understand what happened,” I explain, leaning in. “ He was found at my inn, and I feel responsible, I guess. I’ve been talking to the members of his paranormal club, trying to piece together who might have wanted to harm him.”
Fudge perks up at the mention of Heath’s name with the alertness of someone who’s just heard their favorite song. Heath was mean to her . He gives a little yip while looking up at Hammie Mae. He made her cry.
My mouth falls open at the thought.
Interesting. I file that information away in my mental filing cabinet labeled reasons people might want Heath dead as Hammie Mae’s expression shifts from coolness to something more complex—a mixture of discomfort and what might be relief.
“Look,” she says, lowering her voice and leaning closer. “I wouldn’t normally gossip about the dead, but Heath wasn’t exactly the person he pretended to be.”
She adjusts Matilda on her lap, looking down at her daughter with such tenderness it makes my heart ache.
She shakes her head a moment. “I’m sorry to change the subject, but you know, I see you with Jasper, and I can’t help feeling a little envious,” she admits suddenly, and her voice softens.
“Ella is so lucky to have both parents in her life. I wish Matilda had that.”
“Are you and Matilda’s father...?” I let the question hang, unsure how to phrase it delicately. I remember from the last time we had a similar conversation that he wasn’t in the picture at that point.
“Still not together,” Hammie Mae confirms with a tight smile. “Never really were. It was a brief thing, and when I told him I was pregnant, he made it very clear he wasn’t ready for fatherhood. Last I heard, he was working on a cruise ship somewhere in the Caribbean.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, and I genuinely mean it.
Hammie Mae shrugs, but I can still see the hurt in her eyes.
“It is what it is. I just wish my dad was still here. We weren’t on the greatest terms, but he was so excited about becoming a grandfather.
” Her voice catches slightly. “He bought Matilda a custom rocking chair before he passed. At least I have that.”
“I’m so sorry.”