A tinkling bell chimed as the door to Peppermint Patty's opened, letting in a gust of chilly autumn air along with a customer. "Good morning!" the man boomed cheerfully. "Two dozen of your delicious gingerbread cookies, please. I absolutely loved the ones I got yesterday, they're just like my grandmother used to make!" "Well, you came back for them! You must have had a good night's sleep at least," came the playful response. "Oh, absolutely. I dreamed of mountains of them, frosted and covered in gumdrops. Perfectly delightful." The shop was bathed in the warm glow of the ovens, their heat filling every corner with the smell of cinnamon and brown sugar, the mainstay aromas of a bakery filled with the joyful cacophony of clanging pans, the hiss of cooling sugar, and the chatter of warming ovens The bulking alley of the baker's cubicle was small and cozy, filled with the comforting smell of freshly baked dessert bread, sugar, and warm cinnamon. "You realize those weren't for the faint of heart, right?" "Oh, I wouldn't worry about that," was the easygoing reply. "My grandma was a baker, not a baker of gingerbread dreams." The oven timer beeped its shrill song, prompting a burst of joyous laughter. "They were some good dreams, though, thanks to those cinnamon buns." Glazed emanated the sweet aroma of cinnamon, as if they were the original source. You’d be surprised how many cops I see every morning." "One bite of these, and even I'd be tempted to confess to anything." “Don’t forget the coffee, I know,” someone chuckled as they pulled the tray of warm, gooey buns from the oven. “And they are good. You’ve been coming here for breakfast pastries at least every other day this week. I must have a sleuth on my hands!" “Pssst." a hushed voice sounded from the doorway.