Light filtered through the lace curtains of the Bluebird Bakery, where sugar-dusted muffins lined the shelves. At the worn oak counter, a half-finished loaf sat cooling on a rack. - "I didn’t think a stolen recipe would bring so much fuss." - "Especially in Maplewood. Our biggest scandal is Mrs. Fletcher’s peacock escaping." - "Yet here we are, staring at an empty binder and a pile of spilled almond flour." - "Did you check the storeroom? Maybe it slipped behind the boxes." He knelt and peered into shadows by the sacks of sugar. - "Nothing but a ratty apron and this sticky note: 'Stop meddling.'" - "How quaint. Someone's decided to play villain." A bell tinkled as the door cracked open, and a chill draft swept through rows of cinnamon buns. - "Did you see who that was?" She shrugged, brushing a strand of hair back, flour smudging her cheek. - "Not yet. But the footprints suggest they left in a hurry." The wind rattled the windowpanes, and the faint scent of cardamom turned abruptly acrid. - "We need that recipe back before Mrs. Carmichael’s tea club arrives." - "Agreed. Let’s follow the trail of crumbs." They exchanged a nod, ready to sift truth from treacle and catch a sweetness-loving culprit.