Page 19 of A Whisker in the Night (Country Cottage Mysteries #29)

“ B

izzy!” Hammie Mae Westoff brightens at the sight of me, right here on the grounds of Westoff Farms. “It’s so great to see you. Are you entering the competition?” She riffles through the wicker Easter basket in her hand, brimming with pink plastic grass before handing me a miniature gold foil bunny no bigger than my index finger.

“ Ooh , thank you. I’m in serious need of a fix,” I say, quickly unwrapping it. “I’m actually just here supporting Mom and Georgie,” I tell her. “And I promise to keep them far away from the barn. They’re still talking about their lifetime ban.”

Hammie Mae laughs, and a wheezing sound escapes her that makes her nose scrunch up. “I will never forget about the Great Chocolate Catastrophe. My staff is still finding sprinkles in their hair and on the ceiling.” She gives her belly a warm pat. “So how are you feeling?”

I gobble down the miniature chocolate bunny in three hasty bites and moan.

“Thank you, that was wonderful. And to answer your question, I guess you could say I’m feeling hungry,” I admit and we both laugh once again as she hands me another bunny. “Though I’m going to miss using pregnancy as an excuse for everything. Yesterday I told Jasper I couldn’t do dishes because the baby needed me to eat ice cream instead.”

True story. That tub of Rocky Road never stood a chance.

The baby gives a soft kick at the dreamy creamy memory.

“Ice cream for the win,” Hammie Mae says as if falling into a Rocky Road trance herself.

Despite everything that’s happened, I can’t help but feel a connection with her.

I really like Bizzy, she thinks to herself and it’s nice to know we’re on the same wavelength. We’re both about to become first-time mothers, both navigating this strange new territory of constantly being kicked from the inside. And soon we’ll be snuggling with our little ones on the outside—in this big scary world, no less.

“Speaking of bringing our little angels into the world”—she says as her eyes light up with far too much enthusiasm—“do you have a birthing plan?”

“A birthing plan? Um….” I falter. “Does packing a bag count?” I tease. I leave out the part where I beg for all the drugs they’re legally allowed to give me.

Hey? I guess I do have a plan—one that involves high levels of quasi-backstreet narcotics.

“Oh, Bizzy, you really need to get a proper plan in place.” She launches in with the intensity of someone who’s read every guide on childbirth ever published. And I have no doubt she has. “I’m having a home birth, of course. I’m sort of a germaphobe, and we all know what hospitals are known for. I’ve already imported organic bamboo sheets from Japan, and I’ve hired a trio of violinists to play Mozart while I’m in active labor—studies show it increases the baby’s intelligence.” She gives a knowing nod.

“Oh right,” I say, trying not to cringe. “I’ve heard the same.” I think.

Although there’s no way a trio of strangers is going to be front and center while I hyperventilate trying to bring new life into this world.

“Of course, my doula will be there,” she continues. “She’ll be spreading rose petals while my birthing coach leads meditation, and I’m having fresh herbs woven into crystal wreaths to enhance the spiritual energy in the room.”

“Of course,” I say with an eager nod as if I’m in the know when it comes to all things herbs and crystals.

Bamboo sheets? Classical music? Funny herbs and crystals? Should I be implementing these things at my birth? At a germ-infested hospital, no less?

The baby gives a swift kick in my ribs as if to knock me back to reality. Either that or they’re trying to escape before someone makes them listen to Mozart.

“And that’s not all,” Hammie Mae goes on, practically glowing with prenatal preparation pride. “I’m having a professional photographer and videographer document everything.” She leans in. “I’ve even hired an artist to paint the skyline at the exact moment of birth.”

“The skyline?” I say, more than a little amazed at the level of detail going into this event. And here I was hoping Jasper wouldn’t miss the big moment because he was off chasing down a killer—but sort of resigned that he might.

Who am I kidding? I’ll be lucky I don’t miss the birth because I’m chasing down a killer.

“Of course, I’ll be utilizing organic essential oils.” Hammie Mae averts her eyes as if it were a given. “I couldn’t have gotten through my first two trimesters without them.”

“For sure,” I say.

Does hot chili pepper oil count? I’m pretty certain I’ve had an infusion of it in all of the Chinese food Jasper and I have consumed as of late.

“And I’ve been practicing my birth mantras in Sanskrit.”

“Sanskrit?” I squint over at her. What does that even mean?

I get the feeling Hammie Mae’s birth plan comes with its own flow chart.

I clear my throat. “Well, that sounds...” I search for a diplomatic word that isn’t in the neighborhood of terrifying—but ironically, terrifying is the only word I can come up with.

An airhorn pierces the silence between us and I’m thankful for the fact I just nearly had my eardrum forcibly removed.

Saved by the competition buzzer, which rings out across the field like a dinner bell for all of Cider Cove.

A cheer erupts as the crowd begins gravitating toward the tables brimming with savory treats.

“Looks like it’s time for me to start judging.” Hammie Mae grips her belly as if she has to carry it across the lawn in her own two hands. “You should definitely try some of the dishes. There’s actually a People’s Choice Award, so your vote counts, too. Though maybe stay away from entry number seven.” She lowers her voice a notch. “I hear someone brought something that involves Jell-O and cottage cheese. Avoid at all costs.”

I press my lips tight. “Sounds like a sensible plan.”

Leave it to Georgie’s contribution to challenge people’s digestive systems.

Hammie Mae races off and I waddle behind her at a more accommodating pace.

The baby kicks again, and I pat my belly soothingly. “Don’t worry. When the time comes, the only music you’ll hear is the sound of my heavy breathing. Though I can’t promise Georgie won’t try to bring her karaoke machine.”

Now that’s a thought terrifying enough to send anyone into labor.

I scan the crowd again, this time spotting a familiar redhead with a silver streak in her hair standing near the judges’ table.

Perfect.

It’s time to see what Matilda Westoff knows about golden bunnies and her ex-husband’s untimely demise.

But first, I might need to sample some of these delicious side dishes.

After all, what’s a little murder investigation without a snack or two?

The baby gives a gentle knock over my belly.

At least someone agrees with my priorities.

I’m definitely eating for two detectives.