Page 7 of A Whisker in the Night (Country Cottage Mysteries #29)
M om, Georgie, Fish, Sherlock, and Jellybean pile into my car as we head over to the upper west side of town where the fields are verdant, the spring flowers dot the hillsides in every shade of pastel, and the sky is the perfect shade of robin egg blue.
The winding drive to Blueberry and Chocolate Heaven at Westoff Farms feels like ascending into an ethereal dream.
The sprawling property sits regally atop rolling hills overlooking Cider Cove, with the Atlantic Ocean stretching endlessly beyond its reach in a shade of gorgeous cobalt.
The dirt parking lot is relatively full, which assures me this is the farm’s busy season. Miraculously, I find a spot near the front before we all jump out of the car and stretch our legs as if we drove fifteen hours and not fifteen minutes.
The earthy scent of the surrounding pines mingles with the sweet scent of warm chocolate, and suddenly I can’t take in enough air to satisfy my cravings. The baby gives a little tap to my ribcage as if beckoning me to go straight to the chocolaty source, and I pat my belly, assuring them of just that.
I don’t make it a practice to miss out on any available chocolate, and I’m certainly not going to start now.
I take in the sights and gasp.
“Geez, I haven’t been here in years. Just look at this view,” I say, looking out over the rest of Cider Cove below, and from this height, I can even spot the Country Cottage Inn looking like a tiny little dollhouse among the spring greenery below.
“I came last week with the Women’s League,” my mother is quick to say.
“Showoff,” Georgie says, scooping up Fish and Jellybean and helping me land them in my tote bag. A lot of places don’t mind dogs coming along for the ride, but a loose cat usually turns some heads.
“I am not showing off.” Mom swats Georgie on the arm. “While I was here, I spoke with the manager of the gift shop and got them to take a few of our Easter-themed wonky quilts for us. They’ll get a commission, but we get the bulk of the sale, and I attached a business card to every quilt with a thirty percent off coupon if they visit Two Old Broads.” Two Old Broads is the boutique that Mom and Georgie own and run over on Main Street. Macy gave the shop its moniker as a joke, but the name stuck and I think some of their success exists because of it. “It’s called networking”—Mom continues—“and advertising . You’ll thank me at the end of the month, when our bottom line expands.”
Georgie huffs. “The only bottom line I’m interested in expanding is right here.” She gives her rump a light tap. “Now get a movin’. It’s time to get my chocolate game a groovin’.”
“Hear, hear,” I say, giving my belly a rub and the baby gives a little happy dance because they clearly agree, too.
The grounds here at the farm are laid out in a sprawling fashion. There’s a large sign to the left that reads This Way to Make Your Wildest Blueberry Dreams Come True —where acres of green bushes happen to be dotted with those cute juicy little berries just waiting to be picked.
Another sign points to the right and reads Guided Tours and Hayrides , and sure enough, I see a tractor pulling a flatbed piled with hay, pluming with dust in its wake as it heads down a country road.
And the most glorious sign of them all reads Gift Shop and Chocolate Heaven Straight Ahead as it points to the large crimson structure.
Sherlock gives a soft woof as he happily leads us in that direction.
The historic red barn dominates the landscape with its weathered crimson exterior glossy in the spring sunshine. Double doors decorated with oversized wreaths stand wide open, welcoming visitors into what has to be the most magical gift shop in Maine.
The wreaths are adorable with pastel eggs, spring flowers, and cute little chocolate bunnies peeking out from silk flower nests. They’re so cute, I hope they sell those in the gift shop.
As much as I’ve been craving chocolate, I’ve been craving some seriously cute Easter décor, too. Of course, that stood for Christmas, Valentine’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day, and I’m sure this odd craving of mine will still be in effect for the rest of the holidays until I give birth. Suffice it to say, I’ve amassed quite the army of storage bins because of it, too.
We take one step inside and are treated to a light and bright palatial space with rustic wood floors, giant wicker chandeliers up above, and a glorious gift shop to the left with a country appeal where most of the goods are brimming from barrels or stacked on wood crates.
And to the right, at the back of the converted barn, a magnificent floor-to-ceiling glass wall offers a tantalizing view into the chocolate factory itself. It’s an all-white room filled with women and men in white chef’s clothes, working on what seems like an endless line of chocolate creations.
Soft country music plays from unseen speakers as mobs of people move around every which way, but most of them seem to be migrating toward chocolate heaven and that’s because of the scent of this place. It is heaven indeed.
The thick aroma of warm, sweet chocolate dominates our senses.
Georgie gives a hard groan as she looks longingly at the chocolate dream team. “I think it’s time to butter my chocolate britches.”
Mom groans as well but for entirely different reasons. “I don’t know what that means, but I don’t like it one bit.”
“You don’t like anything,” Georgie says, hooking her arm to my mother’s. “How about we dive into a vat of chocolate and loosen you up?”
Mom huffs. “More like get me arrested.”
“I never said I didn’t have a whole day of fun mapped out.” She whisks my mother off in that direction, despite my mother’s sputtering protests.
“I think they’re making chocolate bunnies as we speak,” Georgie calls over her shoulder at me before weaving through a forest of people. “Look at those little conveyor belts! The tiny molds! The— ooh , is that a chocolate waterfall?”
Heaven help, Mom wails internally.
“And they’re off,” I say as I scan the vicinity in hopes to find my target for the day, Hammie Mae Westoff, but if she is here, she blends in with the thicket of people.
The place is more or less packed, and there’s a buzz of excitement in the air as mostly women with children zip from the gift shop to the window at the chocolate shop and vice versa.
“How about we scour the gift shop first?” I say to my furry menagerie. “I have a feeling that’s where the chocolate is sold. We can always see how it’s made once I’m stuffing my face with it.”
Sherlock barks, I sure hope they have something I can stuff my face with, too.
That’s all he thinks about is food , Fish mewls to Jellybean as they both poke their heads out of my tote bag.
That’s all Hamish thought about, too, Jellybeans says with a sigh. That’s why he opened a restaurant. Verity says he was good at one thing and one thing only: eating all of the profits away.
I give a slight nod. “I could see the hazard in that,” I whisper. “Jasper and I have put a good dent into the profits at the Country Cottage Café ourselves. But that’s because I don’t cook.”
Fish chitters with a laugh. Bizzy has been officially banned from the kitchen. If you need a good structure fire, she’s your girl.
“It’s true.” I sigh. “Heaven help this little one.” I give my belly a pat. “Unless Jasper starts tossing around pots and pans in the kitchen, there’s no hope of a home-cooked meal.”
We head for the gift shop and soon we’re enveloped in a boutique wonderland. Rustic wooden beams strung with twinkling lights soar overhead, while below, artfully arranged displays showcase everything from handmade chocolates to local crafts.
This place has changed so much , Jellybean observes as she does her best to stand tall. Hamish used to say it was just a humble blueberry farm before he met Matilda.
And now it’s a chocolate wonderland , Sherlock woofs as his nose twitches at the heavenly scents wafting from the factory. Is that chocolate-covered bacon I smell?
“Don’t even think about it,” I warn him. “Chocolate is lethal to dogs, remember?”
Oh, let him dream , Fish purrs wickedly. Natural selection at its finest.
I shoot my beloved but occasionally murderous cat a look. “Behave.”
The gift shop portion of the barn is basically a Pinterest board brought to life with pastel Easter trees dripping with hand-painted eggs, artisanal chocolates arranged in displays that belong in an art museum, and shelves lined with everything from locally made soaps (none of which were made by my sister—no wonder Macy is so furious) to chocolate-scented candles (a must-have before I leave).
Those twinkle lights draped over the exposed beams up above are lined with vintage copper pots and they give the whole space a magical warm glow—especially the chocolate. And there’s so much chocolate! Truffle eggs, chocolate peanut butter eggs, chocolate bunnies in every size and color, and they even have something called a chocolate flower pot dessert, small little pots made of chocolate with chocolate “dirt” and the most beautiful pink and white chocolate roses sitting on top. I’ll need to pick up at least a half dozen of those before I leave.
Hamish wasn’t allowed to spend much time here after the divorce, Jellybean continues, her voice tinged with sadness as we weave through displays of chocolate-dipped everything. But he told me all about how he started the farm with just a few blueberry bushes. Then his manager at the time, Verity, came along and convinced him to expand into chocolate. She had all these grand ideas.
The baby gives a swift kick as if sensing the undertone of scandal. Or maybe they’re just reminding me that we’re surrounded by chocolate and not eating any of it. These days, it’s hard to tell the difference between my craving for justice and my craving for chocolate-covered everything. Honestly, they may as well be one and the same.
A thought occurs to me. I don’t know why I didn’t think to return Jellybean to Verity first. I’m sure she’s worried sick about her sweet cat.
My initial thought was to bring Jellybean to Hammie Mae, but since we’re already here, I don’t see why I couldn’t ask her a few questions. You know, just to help Jasper out a bit.
Okay, who am I kidding? It’s to help myself with my own investigation. I’m hardwired for solving mysteries just the way this baby is hardwired for demanding chocolate at all hours.
“Excuse me, ma’am”—a sweet voice calls from behind—“can I offer you a sweet treat?”
“No need to ask,” I say with a laugh as I turn around a little too abruptly. My protruding belly knocks into something and sends an explosion of pastel cookies flying all over.
Now we’re talking, Sherlock barks as he does his best to snap them all up midair.