The morning light filtered through the lace curtains, painting sugar-dusted counters in a gentle glow. A row of freshly baked strudels steamed behind the glass, and the bell above the door chimed softly. – Did you actually see Mrs. Waverly slip that sugar shaker into her purse before closing time? – I thought it was just an accident—her handbag kept brushing the counter. A tumble of flour drifted from a tray as the baker turned, wiping hands on a flour-streaked apron. – If it was a mistake, she would’ve apologized, right? Instead, she hurried past with that peculiar smirk. – Maybe she thought no one noticed. But who takes sugar in this town? It’s practically given away. A swirl of coffee steam rose as another customer lingered by the espresso machine, nodding in sympathy. – I asked her about the old family recipe. She said she had it memorized, then vanished into the back storage room. – You’re saying she stole more than sugar? The baker stiffened, glancing toward a small metal safe behind the counter. – The recipe box vanished too. Right after Mrs. Waverly’s visit. Silence hovered among the croissants and muffins, broken only by the faint hum of the oven—an accusation baked into the morning.