The oven timer chimed as dawn light spilled through gingham curtains. Flour dusted the counter like first snow. “That scent shouldn’t be coming from the back room.” A tray of cinnamon rolls trembled in the wooden rack. “I thought I locked it last night.” Boot prints marred the tiled floor, half-hidden beneath stray sprinkles. “And yet the sugar’s been fiddled with.” A hand hovered over a butter knife, knuckles white. “Who in Willow Creek knows the secret recipe for honey scones?” The bell above the door jingled, though no customer appeared. “He must’ve followed the scent of lemon zest again.” A soft sigh echoed between jars of jam. “I don’t believe this is the work of Mrs. Pemberton’s cat.” The croissant rack rattled as if nudged by invisible paws. “Someone wanted those pecan tarts more than they wanted gossip.” Outside, the old clocktower struck eight. The morning rush would arrive in minutes. “We can’t let word slip—no one must know the bakery’s true treasure is missing.” The oven’s warmth pressed against chilled spines as the first car rolled into the parking lot. The hunt was just beginning.