Freshly baked cinnamon rolls lined the glass case, their sweet aroma weaving through the cozy morning air. Flour dusted the oak counter like early frost. ”Did you see that? A muddy footprint right here.” She pressed a finger onto the pale smudge, then looked up. ”It’s the same pattern as the boots left at Mrs. Whitaker’s porch.” A quiet hush drifted from the ovens at the back, where a kettle boiled. ”You really think Bert could be involved?” A shop bell chimed as the door opened, but the girl behind the counter didn’t look away. ”He disappeared last night, and his story has more holes than our pie crust.” Soft footsteps moved behind the counter. The light flickered for a heartbeat. ”Don’t let Mrs. Crane catch you snooping.” Hands paused over dough. ”If someone wanted that locket, they’d use any distraction.” The whisk clattered against the bowl. ”So we’re doing this before the morning rush?” An unspoken agreement settled between them. Outside, a car engine rumbled to life, fading down Main Street. A lone robin tapped at the window, as if urging them onward. The scent of sugar and spice masked the tension in the air.