Page 18 of A Whisker in the Night (Country Cottage Mysteries #29)
A wooden sign that could probably be seen from the space station reads Blueberry and Chocolate Heaven with a smaller, more modest sign underneath declaring Welcome to the Spring Fling Side Dish Swing!
The verdant grounds here at Westoff Farms hold the scent of rosemary roasted potatoes and fresh baked dinner rolls, not to mention that the place is decked out like a pastel dream from top to bottom.
Someone—most likely Matilda—has gone all out with the decorations. Pastel buntings flutter in the warm breeze like butterfly wings, and there is enough Easter décor scattered around the grounds to make the Easter Bunny himself file a trademark infringement suit.
The parking lot is packed with what looks like half of Cider Cove’s population, all clutching covered dishes and recipe cards while racing to enter their dishes and win the thousand bucks on the line. I spot at least three different versions of potato salad being carried past us. At least two pasta salads, and one macaroni and cheese casserole that is begging me to follow it and give it a new home inside my stomach.
The never-ending rolling green lawns here glow with the dew of springtime, and the blueberry fields fade in the background, but the oversized red barn looms to our right like a beacon.
Both Mom and Georgie have promised not to go anywhere near the facility after I reminded them of their lifetime ban. Mom said she would rather die than go through the embarrassment of being kicked out on her keister once again. And Georgie said she’d rather dance naked in a vat of chocolate and said it would be worth two consecutive lifetime bans to do it. And oddly, I still think she somehow got the point.
The side dish competition area sprawls across the grassy field like a potluck gone rogue. Elongated tables draped in pastel linens stretch as far as the eye can see, already groaning under the weight of what must be half of Cider Cove’s kitchen output.
The scents of herbs, spices, and at least three different varieties of baked beans mingle in the air. And scattered all around are smaller round tables with elegant pink and blue tablecloths strewn over them.
A pastel flower arrangement is set in the center of each table, and standing on the gold chargers set out at each plate setting is a gold foil treat for everyone who shows up this afternoon. That is mighty generous of the Westoffs. Those ten-inch gold foil chocolate bunnies certainly aren’t cheap.
I count seventeen hundred chocolate bunnies, Sherlock announces proudly. No, eighteen thousand! And is that bacon-wrapped asparagus I’m smelling?
Suffice it to say, math isn’t Sherlock’s strong suit, but bacon is.
You smell everything. Your nose is basically a food-seeking radar system. Fish sighs from her perch in my tote bag where she’s nestled alongside Jellybean. Though I have to admit, some of these dishes actually look edible.
Dibs on anything that hits the ground! Sherlock’s tail wags with half-starved anticipation. I can so relate.
You can have the Jell-O offerings, Jellybean generously offers. I prefer my food to stay still when I’m eating it.
“Ditto,” I say.
A small stage has been set up at one end of the field, complete with TV cameras and lights. That must be where Matilda’s cooking show will be filmed. Speaking of Matilda, I scan the growing crowd but don’t spot her signature silver-streaked locks anywhere.
Mom and Georgie waste no time rushing off to enter their culinary creations, leaving me to wonder if someone should warn the judges about what they’re in for.
The baby gives an emphatic kick, probably trying to remind me about our backup granola bars. But with all the chocolate floating around, who wants granola?
Ten dollars says your mother tries to bribe the judges, Fish meows as she watches them go.
Jellybean’s ear twitches. Twenty says Georgie’s Jell-O creation comes to life and eats every last one of us—just like in that movie with the giant green blob.
“Let’s hope not.”
In the distance I spot a small round dessert table and on it sits a three-tiered chocolate fountain. You can bet your britches I’ll be glugging down as much of that liquid heaven as I can fit in my body before I leave.
Georgie may have a sordid history with chocolate, but if my fantasies come true today, I’ll be putting her chocolate infamy to shame.
A woman carrying a bright blue Dutch oven walks by and the scent of something savory trails in her wake.
I smell bacon! Sherlock barks so loud you’d think it was starting to rain that heavenly breakfast food. I’d better make sure she doesn’t drop anything.
He darts off and both cats waste no time in leaping out of my tote bag and charging after him.
Sorry, Bizzy, Fish calls out. But I have to make sure he doesn’t hog all the crumbs for himself.
And I’ll show them where to get the best of the crumbs, Jellybean yowls as she races to keep up.
“Wonderful,” I mutter. “Well, at least they’ll be fed by the time we get home.” I give my belly a pat as I scan the festive grounds.
I’m plotting the best way to track down Matilda when I literally bump into Hammie Mae. She looks fresh-faced and adorable in a spring dress that makes her copper freckles pop, her strawberry blonde hair is pulled back into a ponytail looking as perky as can be, and her beach ball of a belly bumps into mine before any other part of us makes contact.
She’s not Matilda, but you know what they say—one Westoff in the hand is worth two in the bush.
Here goes nothing.