The scent of cinnamon and warm bread filled the air of “The Daily Crumb,” a comforting hug against the crisp autumn morning. Mrs. Gable, proprietor of the town’s only haberdashery, peered over the display case. “Did you hear about poor Mr. Henderson’s prize-winning pumpkin?” A faint clatter of ceramic from the back room preceded a young woman’s voice. “Mr. Henderson? The one with the particularly loud gardening smock?” “That’s the one! Apparently, it turned up… well, let’s just say it wasn't in one piece this morning. Smashed to smithereens, right there in his prize patch.” “Oh, no! That’s terrible. He’d been tending to that pumpkin like it was his firstborn.” A warm, honey-glazed croissant was placed before Mrs. Gable. “Precisely. And the oddest thing is, nothing else was touched. Not a single marigold trampled, not a lettuce leaf out of place. Just the pumpkin, utterly demolished.” Mrs. Gable took a delicate bite, her brow furrowed in thought. “How… specific. Was there any sign of who did it?” “Sheriff Brody said there’s a footprint. A very small one, he noted. Too small for Mr. Henderson himself, unless he’s taken to tap-dancing in his sleep.” “A small footprint in Mr. Henderson’s prize patch, near a perfectly smashed pumpkin. That *is* peculiar.”