Page 12 of A Whisker in the Night (Country Cottage Mysteries #29)
T he Celebration Grill sits perched on a cliff with its weathered cedar shingles and crisp white trim that glow in the spring sunshine.
The glorious oceanfront structure is just a stone’s throw from the sheriff’s department here in Seaview, and I can see how this place could quickly become the centerpiece of this town. The building itself is framed with the bold blue Atlantic and looks like a painting that’s come to life.
The wraparound porch is dotted with umbrella-shaded tables, pastel ribbons flutter in the wind from the railings, and strategically placed Easter lilies flaunt themselves as if they’re auditioning for a floral calendar.
“ Fancy .” Emmie whistles as we pull into the parking lot. “I feel underdressed already.”
“You look beautiful,” I tell her, even though I’m starting to doubt my own fashion choices.
Maternity jeans and a flowy blouse seemed like a solid move this morning, but now... maybe not. At least the blouse is a cheerful spring green, and given the enthusiastic kick the baby just delivered, they clearly approve of it. Either that or they really want me to get a move on into the fancy establishment before us and find something fancy yet delicious to send down the pike. Most likely that.
Turns out, I’ve got a real foodie on my hands. Although I’m not surprised. I know for a fact this little sweet thing got their appreciation for all things culinary from both of their parents.
Fish twitches her whiskers at the sight up ahead from the tote bag that I’ve landed both her and Jellybean in.
Oh, great, Fish mewls. Another one of those places where they serve food that’s smaller than the plate it comes on.
“Oh, I hope not,” I mutter. “I’m starved.”
“Ditto,” Emmie says, regardless of the fact she didn’t hear Fish’s comment. Come to think of it, it’s for the best.
I smell truffle fries. Sherlock’s tail thumps against the seat, his nose twitching like mad. And wagyu beef! And ? —
We get it, we get it, Fish interrupts with a huff. Your nose is practically reciting the menu. Stand down, Bones.
He doesn’t look like a bone, Jellybean points out.
Fish chuckles at that one. You said it, not me.
We park and head toward the entrance, where all of the beachy charm kicks into high gear.
Elegant French doors are flanked by topiaries shaped like Easter bunnies and there are white glorious Easter baskets sitting on crates as you come up the walk, filled with bright green grass made of raffia and stocked with gold-foiled bunnies surrounded by bright orange carrots with glorious green plumes.
The closer we get to the entrance, the more I notice the little details that scream understated elegance like the door handles shaped like antique keys, a welcome mat featuring a fancy compass rose, and menu boards with calligraphy so elegant I half expect them to start reciting poetry.
We step inside and are instantly engulfed with the scent of fries as well as the tantalizing scent of a fresh grilled steak. Its dimly lit and dreamy atmosphere takes us the rest of the way to a culinary paradise.
Dark wood tables and chairs match the dark wood floors. The ceilings are twenty feet high at least and it gives off a posh warehouse vibe. Easy listening music seeps through the speakers and there’s a marble reception counter with a waitstaff clad in black, looking mildly bored and offering up barely-there smiles our way.
A cute blonde hostess greets us and quickly points to a large silver bowl brimming with bottles of champagne and sparkling cider that are nestled in crushed ice which looks more like a bed of diamonds. Pastel ribbons adorn their glass necks and everything in this place is giving off a festive spring vibe.
“Welcome to the Celebration Grill,” the young blonde chirps. “We’d be delighted to start your afternoon with a complimentary glass of bubbly.” Just my luck. Two preggos. I’d better warn the kitchen. Every time a baby factory walks through the door, the kitchen has to double production. And wow, the one on the left is huge. I so hope she doesn’t drop a kid while I’m on my shift.
I press my lips tight and try not to make bug eyes at Emmie. She’ll so know she’s being talked about, and not exactly in the best way. But the blonde isn’t wrong. Emmie does look as if she’s about to pop. And in all honesty, if Emmie were about to “drop a kid” on this woman’s shift, Emmie would be both thrilled and relieved.
The blonde shifts her attention to me. Come to think of it, the one in the green looks ready to pop herself.
“What?” I quickly grip my belly and Jasper gasps.
“Bizzy, is something wrong with the baby?” he asks with a severe note of panic.
“Oh no, we’re fine,” I quickly assure him. My husband is as brave as they come, but I have a feeling when it’s time to give birth, he’s going to need smelling salts and a tranquilizer dart to get through the event. “I was just—so surprised that they’re offering a complimentary glass of bubbly.” I nod to the blonde. “Sparkling cider for us two baby factories, please.” I sling an arm over Emmie’s shoulder when I say it and the blonde’s mouth falls open.
Is calling people a baby factory really a thing? she muses to herself. I so thought I made that up.
She quickly delivers on the sparkling cider and Jasper accepts a glass of champagne.
“Now this is the kind of greeting I can get used to,” Emmie says with a grin as she lifts her crystal flute my way. I do the same and take a quick sip and the baby gives a somersault of approval.
Bubbly drinks for the win every single time—with the exception of the fact I don’t drink alcohol. I find it exacerbates that little mind-reading quirk of mine. And seeing that I nearly just launched Jasper into a full-blown panic attack because of my mind-prying prowess, I find it’s best I steer clear of anything that can amplify the situation.
“This place has been all over my social media lately,” I tell Jasper as we follow the hostess inside. “Apparently, their chef trained in Paris.”
“And charges Paris prices,” Emmie says with a nervous laugh. “But everyone swears it’s worth it.”
We follow the blonde as she weaves us through a maze of tables and chairs. I can’t help but note all of the gold goblets and matching chargers. Even the utensils are gleaming with gilded pride.
Someone has expensive taste, Fish quips as dry as a martini.
That would be Verity, Jellybean mewls. Hamish used to say she had champagne taste and a beer budget. He kept promising that she’d take us to the poorhouse one day. But she never took us. And I was so looking forward to going. I hear they serve the best mice there—caught fresh daily right there within their walls.
Fish gasps. Oh Bizzy, quick, take us to the poorhouse!
I nod over at my sweet cat. “Don’t worry. I have a feeling if we keep eating at places like this, we’ll land there sooner than we think.”
We quickly make our way to the expansive back patio, and just before we’re about to step outside, that’s when I spot my shiny new suspect.
And judging by that horrified look on her face, she knows exactly who we are and perhaps why we’re truly here.