The bell above the door tinkled as it opened, letting in a gust of crisp autumn air. “Good morning, Mildred!” “Morning, Agnes. You look flustered. Did someone steal your knitting needles again?” “Don’t be ridiculous. Someone stole something far more important. The prize-winning pumpkin from the Harvest Festival! It was sitting right there, on the front porch, and poof – gone. Like magic.” “Oh, dear,” Mildred sighed, swirling a batter in a mixing bowl with practiced ease. “Well, it’s a good thing you’re here, Agnes. I’ve been meaning to ask, how did your entry for the baking contest come out this year?” “The apple pie? It’s the best I’ve ever made, Mildred, I’m telling you. But now, what good is a winning pie if you don’t have a pumpkin to put it on?” Agnes wrung her hands. “Maybe you should just enter a recipe for pumpkin pie instead.” Agnes’ eyes narrowed. “I’d have to use store-bought pumpkins. And everyone knows, store-bought pumpkins are just not the same.”