Page 44 of Ghosts, Ghouls, and Growls
But then it happens.
With a thunderous crash worthy of a Hollywood disaster movie, Georgie, the ladder, and approximately thirty pounds of premium Halloween chocolate hit the floor simultaneously. The impact sends chocolate flying in all directions like sugary shrapnel.
This is the most beautiful disaster I’ve ever witnessed,Fish yowls from her position in the stroller.
Chocolate rain!Sherlock barks as he dashes to snatch a fallen treat.It’s raining chocolate! This is the best day of my entire life!
“No!” I lunge to intercept him before he can eat anything potentially toxic. “Drop it, buddy!”
Sherlock gives me a look of such profound betrayal and I almost feel guilty. Almost.
“Cleanup needed at the Halloween display,” a voice announces over the intercom. “Security to the Halloween display—again.”
Georgie lies sprawled amid the wreckage, chocolate smeared across her disguise, looking like a defeated villain from a Willy Wonka movie. She raises her head, adjusts her mustache, and declares with all the dignity she can muster, “I regret nothing.”
My mother, to her credit, is already on her knees attempting to salvage what she can. “Bizzy, quick! Help me get these back on the shelf before?—”
“Before what?” a cool voice asks from behind me, cutting through the chocolate chaos like a knife through cocoa butter.
I turn to find Matilda Westoff herself standing there, arms crossed, impeccably dressed in a tailored burgundy suit that somehow manages to intimidate despite its autumn color scheme. Her silver-streaked red hair is pulled back into a severe bun, and her expression could freeze boiling chocolate solid.
“Mrs. Westoff,” I begin, scrambling for some plausible explanation that doesn’t involve my family being banned from every chocolate establishment in the Northern Hemisphere. “There’s been a slight mishap.”
“If this is what you call a slight mishap, then I’d hate to see your definition of full-blown destruction,” she replies, her eyes flicking from Mom to Georgie to the devastation surrounding them. “And Professor Whiskerton, is it?” She arches a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at Georgie’s now-crooked mustache.
Georgie attempts to scramble to her feet with all the grace of a newborn giraffe while slipping on a chocolate caramel square and crashes back down with a thud that rattles nearby displays.
“The disguise was her idea,” she says, pointing accusingly at my mother like we’re in elementary school and someone just got caught passing notes. On second thought, elementary school children might be too mature for what’s happening here.
“Et tu, Whiskerton?” Mom mutters.
Matilda’s gaze finally lands on me, and for the briefest moment, something registers in her eyes. And now a part of me wonders if she knows full well that I’m Hammie Mae’s sister. But not a single thought flies through her mind.
“Ms. Baker,” she says coolly. “I believe you were just leaving.”
“Actually, it’s Mrs. Wilder now,” I correct automatically, then immediately wish I hadn’t as her eyes narrow dangerously, and I can tell she’s mentally adding my new name to some kind of chocolate shop blacklist.
“Indeed,” she says, the single word somehow conveying volumes of disdain and possibly a few veiled threats. “Allow me to escort you all to your vehicle. I believe we can agree that any future chocolate needs can be satisfied elsewhere.” She gestures to the security guards now flanking her. “Permanently.”
One of the guards helps Georgie to her feet while the other begins taking photos of the damage—presumably for insurance purposes or possibly a most-wanted poster for the Chocolate Crimes Unit. If that unit did exist, I’d so push Jasper in that direction.
“What about my purchases?” Mom asks, holding up a shopping basket I hadn’t noticed before, filled with chocolate ghosts and pumpkins. And boy, do they look scrumptious.
“Consider them a parting gift,” Matilda says with an icy smile. “A small price to pay for ensuring we never cross paths in my establishment again.”
Soon enough, we’re marched toward the exit like prisoners of the Chocolate War, and I catch a glimpse of Hammie Mae watching from the café area with baby Matilda still tucked in her arms. She gives me a small, sympathetic smile and a little wave that somehow makes this whole debacle slightly less mortifying.
If only she knew,Fish mewls from her hiding spot,family reunions could be this awkward all the time.
Outside in the parking lot, Matilda personally watches as we load into my minivan—probably to make sure we don’t attempt a daring escape with their display fixtures. Just before I close my door, she leans down slightly.
“Mrs. Baker Wilder,” she says with her voice pitched low enough that only I can hear, and that’s somehow more menacing than her previous ice-queen routine, “a word of advice. Some mysteries are better left unsolved. For everyone’s sake.”
Before I can respond, she turns sharply and strides back towardthe barn, leaving me with a chill that has nothing to do with the October breeze.
“Well,” Georgie says from the backseat as she peels off her mustache, “I think that went rather well, all things considered.”
“We’re banned for life, Georgie,” Mom points out, already rummaging through her basket of contraband chocolate for comfort. “From the best chocolate shop in three counties.”
