The hush of dawn mingled with the smell of vanilla and yeast. Sunlight painted the floorboards. "Have you seen the missing recipe?" "Which one? The lavender shortbread or the cinnamon swirl?" "The one Mrs. Hargrove locked away last night." "I thought she placed an amber key in her jacket pocket." "That key is gone. And this morning the safe’s door is slightly ajar." "No broken lock?" "A clean turn. Careful fingers." "What’s in the safe besides her handwritten notes?" "Legends say an heirloom locket with a mini parchment inside—directions to her famed cherry tarts." "I heard she threatened to retire if anyone discovered her secret." "This isn’t about retirement, it’s personal." "Did you check the back room?" "Only crumbs. And a single glove." "Blank, no identifying marks?" "Just a scorch of flour, as if someone tried to wipe it clean." "Someone doesn’t want us snooping." "The customer in the teal coat seemed suspicious." "He lingered too long by the rack of scones." "I caught his reflection in the window—he was wearing white gloves." "Maybe he picked the lock." "Mrs. Hargrove accused her own niece." "You don’t really believe that?" "Suspicion tastes bitter."