The scent of cinnamon and something faintly citrusy hung heavy in the air, a comforting embrace against the damp chill outside. Sunlight, weak and watery, streamed through the bakery window, illuminating dust motes dancing around the display case overflowing with frosted cakes and plump pastries. "You're awfully quiet this morning. Everything alright?" A sigh, soft as powdered sugar. "Just... thinking. About Mrs. Gable's prize-winning petunias. They were the talk of the garden club, weren't they?" "Indeed. And now they're... gone. Along with her." A pause, filled with the rhythmic whir of the mixer from the back room. "Never thought I'd see the day someone would have the nerve." "Nor I. Especially not here, in Oakhaven. We're a peaceful lot." "Mostly. Except when someone decides they want something they shouldn't. Or someone decides they've had enough of something they should have loved." "You think it was something personal, then? Not just a random bit of mischief gone too far?" "Mischief doesn't usually involve vanishing acts. This smells deliberate."