Page 8 of A Whisker in the Night (Country Cottage Mysteries #29)
T he aroma of chocolate and warm sugar mingles with the earthy scent of the old barn’s wooden beams as pastel Easter treats sparkle under the twinkle lights.
Hammie Mae Westoff stands before me, holding a now-empty tray while Sherlock Bones does his best to aid in the clean-up effort by way of inhaling the scattered cookies at record speed.
“I’m so sorry,” I gasp as I say it and watch helplessly as Sherlock performs his version of community service—cookie-based community service, that is. “My expanding belly seems to have its own zip code these days.”
Hammie Mae laughs and a sprig of her strawberry blonde hair escapes from a messy bun sitting on top of her head. Her freckled face lights up as she pats her own prominent baby bump beneath her denim jumper.
I can’t help but note that outfit makes her look like a quintessential berry farmer—if that berry farmer happened to be about seven months pregnant and specialized in chocolate as well.
“My belly has its own zip code, too.” She laughs. “Just yesterday, I knocked over an entire display of chocolate bunnies. Lucky for me, they all broke and so I took them home to my place. That’s one way to feed my addiction.”
We share a robust laugh at that one.
I don’t really know Hammie Mae personally, despite the fact we both grew up in Cider Cove. She’s a few years older than Emmie and me, and we were busy running around with our own circle of friends—which, believe it or not, once included Mackenzie Woods.
Yes, the same Mackenzie Woods who helped introduce me to my supernatural abilities by trying to drown me while bobbing for apples one Halloween. And to make matters worse, she actually pushed me into the barrel.
Four things came from that horrific day. One, I’m afraid of confined spaces. Two, the fact I’m now extremely wary of large bodies of water. Three, my distrust of Mackenzie Woods was born, and four, I walked away with the ability to pry into other people’s minds.
Come to find out, I’m something called transmundane, further classified as telesensual. There are others like me—my bestie’s hubby Leo, for instance. Though he’s never been dunked in a barrel of apples, thank goodness.
Hammie Mae does a double take at the tote bag hanging from my shoulder.
“Oh my word!” she screeches as she spots Jellybean and Fish peeking out from the top of my bag. “I love cats.” Before I can blink, she’s scooped them both out and is snuggling with them posthaste. “Wow”—she muses as she inspects Jellybean—“this spotted one looks just like the cat my father adopted.”
I cringe slightly. “That’s because she is. I was bringing her by in case you were looking for her, but then I just remembered she might belong to your father’s new wife.”
Hammie Mae’s smile falters. Just about everything belongs to that witch these days.
A breath hitches in my throat at her internal musing.
“Thank you,” she says just above a whisper and her voice is warm despite her thoughts. “That was very thoughtful of you.” Her eyes moisten with tears and she quickly blinks them away. “So when are you due?” She plasters on a manufactured smile as she quickly changes the subject away from her father.
I get it. If something happened to my father, I couldn’t talk about it either.
And that means getting her to talk about what happened will be harder than I thought.
“I’m due in late August.” I’m quick to say. “And you?”
“June and it can’t get here soon enough,” she says and we share another laugh. “Who are you seeing?”
“Dr. Grace Applewhite,” I say with a touch too much enthusiasm, but I can’t help it. I just love my obstetrician to death. I cringe a little with the thought, considering my track record with dead bodies.
“Really?” Her face lights up. “I’m seeing Dr. Applewhite, too. She’s fantastic!”
“Oh, I love her. My best friend Emmie is seeing her as well.” The baby gives an enthusiastic kick when I mention Emmie. I like to think that our babies are already besties. “In fact, I always go to Emmie’s appointments with her, along with her husband, of course,” I say. “Then we get Mexican food after—Emmie’s favorite food. And she comes to mine, along with my husband Jasper, then the three of us hit up that great Chinese place on Main Street—my favorite food.”
Her expression dampens. “I wish I had someone interested enough to come to any of my appointments.” Hammie Mae sighs.
“Oh gosh, I’m so sorry.” My hand flies to my mouth. “I didn’t mean to?—”
She laughs again, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes this time. “It’s fine. The father was a loser boyfriend who took off after he found out the news. I’m better off without him. I can support myself—I’m the manager here at the farm. And lucky for me, my mother got the farm in the divorce.”
She stares out at the bustling crowd. I hope Mom is on the phone right now canceling that nasty tell-all book with the publisher. What kind of a title is Chocolate-Dipped Deception: What Really Happened at Westoff Farms , anyway? One that screams I’m about to air all of my dirty laundry and I don’t care what the fallout might be .
The divorce was bad enough to live through. Must she tell every sordid detail of how my father wronged her?
She gives a few rapid blinks before forcing a bright smile my way. “Bizzy, I just must show you all of our baby things. You’re going to love them.”
The next few minutes are a whirlwind of adorable Easter-themed baby clothes—tiny bonnets with bunny ears, onesies with chocolate-dipped strawberry prints, and the sweetest little baby chick knit booties I’ve ever seen.
“Oh wow ,” I moan at the sight of all the adorableness. “Good thing these are all gender neutral. I’m going to snap every single one of these up. Make that two of each. I’d hate to leave my best friend out of the cute loop.”
“Can’t say I blame you.” She tips her head at the thought. “I’ve already beat you to the cute punch. Do you know what you’re having?” she asks while holding up a pink dress with embroidered spring flowers and a glittery bunny embossed on the front.
“No. I guess you could say we like surprises,” I tell her just as the baby kicks as if to protest this decision. I won’t lie. The suspense is killing me. “How about you?”
“A girl,” she beams, then shows me about a half dozen more precious girl items. “I’m thinking of naming her Michaela.”
“Oh, that’s beautiful ,” I say. “Speaking of names, how did you get yours? “Hammie Mae is pretty unique.”
“I’ll say.” She laughs, but it sputters out quickly. “It’s so unique, I’ve never seen my name on a pen or a mug.” Her expression darkens as she glances into the crowd. “I was named after my father.”
And just like that, we’re about to dive into the very subject I was hoping to explore. The baby gives another kick, as if they were pleased by this, too. And let’s face it, the sooner we interrogate the suspect at hand, the sooner we can stuff our face with all the chocolate bunnies we can get our mitts on.
After all, ’tis the season.