The morning rush had trickled to a steady hum when the bell above the door jangled. A fragrant blend of cinnamon and fresh bread filled the air. “I heard Marjorie found something strange in her garden yesterday. A real mystery, right in our own backyard.” “Strange? How so?” “Well, buried beneath her prize-winning roses, she dug up a box. An old, rusty thing it was.” “Roses are no place for secrets. What was inside?” “The way she tells it, old letters and a photograph. But here’s the kicker—none of them belonged to her.” “Not to her? Then to whom?” “That’s the mystery. She’s convinced they’re significant. Why else hide them among the roses?” “Could be a tale of forbidden love or maybe undisclosed debts. Maybe we should investigate?” “Us? We’re bakers, not detectives!” “That didn’t stop us from solving who pilfered Mrs. Henderson’s blue ribbon pie last year.” “That was different. Everyone knows you can’t trust the summer tourists around pie.” “Exactly! Now help me finish these scones. We have our own mysteries to sort—like why these never rise quite as they should.”