The scent of freshly baked bread hung heavy in the air, mingling with the soft hum of a radio playing old jazz tunes. The bell above the bakery door jingled as the newcomer stepped inside, wiping rain from a worn trench coat. “Well, if it isn’t the town’s favorite detective, wandering into my bakery during the busiest hour,” the baker said cheerfully, sliding a tray of cinnamon rolls onto the counter. “Busy is good. Means the town’s healthy. But somehow, trouble finds its way in anyway,” the newcomer replied, leaning casually on the glass display. “You mean like last week’s ‘missing’ pie incident?” a laugh escaped. “Turned out Mr. Carmichael just ate it himself.” “Exactly. Though this time, it feels different. More… deliberate.” The baker frowned, fingering a flour-dusted apron. “People around here don’t do ‘deliberate’ very well. We’re more of the accidentally drop the jam kind.” “Maybe. Or maybe someone thought they could get away with more than a harmless mix-up. Ever notice anything unusual? Strange customers? Odd questions?” “Besides you poking around again? Not really. Except Mrs. Hensley asked if I’d seen a peculiar package. Said it vanished from her porch.” “Now that’s interesting. Packages don’t just disappear in Willowbrook.” The baker gave a tight smile. “Maybe we should keep an eye out. Starting with the next batch of blueberry muffins.”