Rain pattered softly against the window, blurring Main Street’s faded storefronts. The scent of cinnamon rolls drifted between two figures perched on high stools beside the counter. “You always pick the one with the chip in the icing.” “I like my pastries a little imperfect. Makes them harder to accuse.” “Accuse of what, exactly? Too much butter?” “Being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like Mrs. Tilley’s eclair yesterday.” “Don’t remind me. She’s still convinced it vanished by sorcery.” “I saw Larry lingering near the pastry case.” “Larry’s allergic to custard.” “He’s also allergic to confrontation. But he does love a good puzzle.” “So you think the mystery of the missing eclair was an inside job?” “Possible. All I’m saying is: no crumb goes missing in this bakery without someone noticing.” “Well, I notice that your cinnamon roll is getting smaller.” “You noticed that, did you?” “Detective work, you could say. And just so you know, I always spot a guilty nibble.” “You might make a good partner, then.” “I already am—at least until the next eclair disappears.” The bell above the bakery door jingled, and both heads turned, crumbs at the corners of their smiles.