Page 3 of A Whisker in the Night (Country Cottage Mysteries #29)

T he spring air is sweet, carrying the scent of wildflowers and chocolate as it mingles with the sound of laughter and chatter from the bustling crowd right here at the Chocolate Bunny Hop Festival.

The sprawling lawn of the Country Cottage Inn is buzzing with families snapping photos near one of the many topiary bunnies, children chase each other with sticky fingers and chocolate-stained smiles, and vendors hawk chocolate-dipped everything. That last bit is my favorite part.

The scene is pure celebratory perfection—or at least it was right up until now.

Matilda Westoff glares daggers at the white-haired man who doubles as a silver fox—albeit a silver fox with an insufferable smirk.

Hamish Westoff. I recognize him immediately from all those old Blueberries and Chocolate Heaven ads that used to take over the airwaves on local TV. He’s holding a black and white cat decked out with a bright pink bow, and the cat looks just as unimpressed with him as Matilda does.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Matilda snaps once again, her voice sharp enough to slice through any one of those giant chocolate bunnies on display.

A passing crowd notices the brewing tension and their heads turn this way like sunflowers following the light.

Mom still has her phone out, and to my horror, I can see she’s actually recording the event before us. It’s safe to say she forgot to stop once the competition was over. But it’s not her fault. Mom isn’t exactly the most tech-savvy among us. She still refers to text messages as emails no matter how often we correct her.

Georgie sidles up next to me, munching on what I can only assume is her sixth chocolate bunny of the day. And along with her trot Fish and Sherlock.

“This is better than listening to your mama spill the tea,” Georgie whispers as she elbows me. “Do you think they’ll throw punches? Or better yet, chocolate?”

“I’m rooting for chocolate,” I say.

“ Shh ,” Mom hisses, unable to take her eyes off the unfolding drama. And to be honest, neither can I.

Fish groans as she twirls around my ankles. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.

You say that about everything, Sherlock sniffs. And you’re always wrong.

Fish’s eyes widen and I recognize that look of indignation on her face, although it’s quickly morphing into a look that spells out revenge.

I don’t want to argue about who’s wrong and who’s right . She slices the air with her tail. How about we call a truce? I’ll even find you a nice piece of chocolate that you can enjoy.

I shoot her a look. She knows full well that chocolate is lethal to dogs.

“Hello, Matilda,” Hamish says to his ex-wife, his voice oozing with charm that’s about as smooth as melted chocolate. He shakes his head at the woman. You know what they say— he thinks to himself —t he devil works hard, but Matilda Westoff works harder. Judging by that look in her eye, she’s bent on making me miserable. But I know just how to win her over. “You look wonderful, per usual,” he tells her. Wonderfully wicked. He chuckles at the thought.

“Oh, stuff it. I don’t have time for your head games, Hamish,” Matilda bites out the words while straightening her posture like a queen preparing for battle. “Find someone else to irritate.”

“Now, now.” Hamish widens his devilish grin. “I’m here for the festival, same as everyone else. What’s the Easter holiday season without a little chocolate and family bonding?”

“Family bonding?” Matilda scoffs with a brittle laugh. “You wouldn’t know the meaning of family if it hit you over the head with a chocolate mallet.”

“Ouch.” Hamish places a hand over his heart as if she’s wounded him. “Still holding onto the same old grudge, are we?”

“Better than chasing after women half your age,” Matilda snaps back, her designer heels sinking slightly into the fresh spring grass.

A collective gasp circles through our small group.

The spotted cat in Hamish’s arms lets out another dramatic sigh like only a furry diva can. Hoomans. Always going for the jugular when chocolate is involved.

I’ll say.

“All right, you two.” Hammie Mae steps between her parents with her hand protectively covering her baby bump. “Let’s not start with the accusations. This is supposed to be a celebration. I just won the contest, in case anyone cares to acknowledge that.” Not that either of them has ever bothered to acknowledge anything about me as of late . And not that I care what my father has to say. I haven’t spoken to him in a solid year.

Ouch. I guess it’s safe to say they’re on the outs.

“Of course, we care, sweetheart,” Hamish tells her, though his eyes never leave Matilda’s face. “Your mother here just seems to forget that I own fifty-one percent of the company that provided those very bunnies you just devoured.”

“Temporarily.” Matilda’s smile could cut glass. “But I doubt the general public will want you anywhere near the property once my new book comes out.”

My mother actually squeals with delight at this revelation. “I’ve already preordered a copy of Chocolate-Dipped Deception: What Really Happened at Westoff Farms! My book club and I can hardly wait to read it.”

“ Mother ,” I whisper as I grab her arm in an effort to keep her from texting the gossip committee all about the exchange at hand. And is she still recording this?

I gasp once I see that red light of hers still glowing on her phone.

The spotted cat in Hamish’s arms gives a lazy stretch of her furry little limbs. I give it ten minutes before someone ends up wearing one of those chocolate bunnies as a hat.

Fish’s whiskers twitch at the thought. My money is on five.

“Hey there, stranger.” A honeyed voice cuts through the tension like a hot knife through chocolate ganache. “Looking for me?”

We watch as a willowy blonde in a pale pink power suit, bright red high heels with tiny gold Vs on the front, and a matching giant designer handbag that probably costs more than all the money I have in the bank glides across the lawn toward us. And that handbag is about the size of half of her body.

I lean toward Emmie. “Who is this?”

“Verity Westoff—the latest Mrs. Westoff,” Emmie whispers back.

Emmie, much like my mother, is always in the know.

The woman in pink smirks at the entire lot of us, and I can hear her thoughts loud and clear. Little inn, quaint festival... how... provincial.

Fish’s tail bristles like a pipe cleaner. I don’t think I care for her one bit.

“Verity.” Matilda’s voice drops to arctic temperatures. “Shouldn’t you be at your restaurant? Or has it already shuttered its doors?” A week sooner than I predicted.

“Actually, we’re doing better than ever.” Verity’s smile is sharp as she hooks her arm through Hamish’s. “Unlike some people, I know how to keep a business and a marriage thriving.” She tugs at her husband. “Come on, honey,” she coos. “I want you to see the new display at the Blueberry and Chocolate Heaven booth before it gets picked over by all these... enthusiastic festival-goers.”

The way she says “enthusiastic” makes it sound like a disease.

I swear I can see steam coming out of Matilda’s ears.

“Still marking your territory, I see,” she growls at the blonde. “How predictable and desperate of you.”

Georgie ticks her head to the side. “Well, this escalated quickly.”

I nod in agreement. “I’m beginning to think this festival needs a referee,” I mutter to myself and Emmie gives a quick nod in agreement.

“ Bizzy ,” Georgie says, nudging me. “Ten bucks says Matilda smacks them both with her purse.”

“I’m not taking that bet,” I whisper back. “It’s practically a guarantee.”

Before things can escalate further, Jasper and Leo return with drinks in hand, and thankfully so. Their timing is impeccable.

“What did we miss?” Jasper asks, handing me a glass of creamy chocolate milk.

“Just a little family drama,” I whisper, taking a sip.

Leo raises a brow. “Should we intervene?”

“Not unless someone starts swinging or slinging chocolate,” Georgie says under her breath while popping the last bite of her chocolate bunny into her mouth.

As if on cue, Matilda takes a step closer to her ex and her eyes are blazing. “You’ve overstayed your welcome, Hamish. Leave. Now .”

That devilish grin on his face begins to falter, but just for a moment. “Fine. I’ll leave.” He straightens. “But don’t think for a second that this is over.” He nods her way. I’m not above sharing what I know, he muses to himself. Or at least I want her to think that.

With that, he turns on his heel and both he and Verity scuttle off into the crowd.

“Well”—Georgie says, clapping her hands together—“that was fun. What’s next? An egg toss? Maybe a pie-eating contest? Or should we just skip to the part where someone gets murdered?”

I shoot her a look. “Don’t you even joke about that.”

“Who’s joking?” she says with a grin.

And just like that, I can’t shake the feeling that Georgie might be onto something. After all, this is Cider Cove. If history is any indication, indeed it’s not a matter of if someone ends up dead—it’s a matter of when .

“As much as I hate to admit it”—Jasper says before knocking back the rest of his chocolate milk—“Georgie has a point. Leo, what do you say we do a quick patrol of the grounds?”

Leo nods, already scanning the crowd. “Better safe than sorry, especially with that kind of tension in the air.”

“I should get back to the kitchen,” Emmie says, rubbing her beach ball of a belly. “Those chocolate cream puffs won’t frost themselves.”

“ Ooh! Speaking of chocolate—” Georgie loops her arm through my mother’s. “I hear there’s a chocolate fountain we haven’t checked out yet. I say we run a couple of coffee mugs underneath it. Or we can cut out the middleman and dive in headfirst.”

“Now you’re talking.” Mom pulls her close. “Lead the way!”

I shake my head as they dash off to make every one of their chocolate fantasies come true. Some things never change. And on that note, I’ll have to alert the staff that there will be a cleanup needed at the chocolate fountain in about two minutes.

In fact, I take off into the crowd to do just that with both Fish and Sherlock by my side.

I walk in circles and nearly get steamrolled by a crowd of preschoolers as the egg hunt gets underway for the afternoon.

Almost an hour drifts by and I pause to look out at the grounds as the rolling green lawns gleam like a jewel under the powder blue sky. The crowds are thicker than ever and with no sign of dissipating soon.

I’m about to head to the inn when something catches my eye near the border of the woods.

It’s that black and white kitten darting back and forth, looking anxious as can be.

“I think that’s Hamish’s cat,” I say, nodding in that direction and both Fish and Sherlock look that way. “I think the poor thing is lost. Come on, let’s go.”

Fish and Sherlock are ten steps ahead of me as I make my way across the grounds. The festivities seem distant now, the laughter and chatter fading with each step toward the tree line.

We continue to head that way, and just as we come upon the cute kitten, she darts into the woods and we follow along.

“Don’t be afraid,” I call out. “We’ll help you get back to your owner.”

The little cat stops short of what looks like a scarecrow face down in the dirt just beyond the first row of trees. Except the festival doesn’t have any scarecrows.

My heart plummets into my stomach as I get closer and dread builds with every step.

That’s no scarecrow.

It’s the cat’s owner. And if that crimson gash on the back of his head is a telltale sign—he’s not breathing.

Just a foot away from him, I spot a gold foil-wrapped bunny with the same crimson stain on it and I gasp.

Looks like I was right after all. It wasn’t a matter of if —it was a matter of when . And when just happened.

Hamish Westoff is dead.