The scent of yeast and cinnamon hung thick in the air, a comforting embrace. Sunlight, dappled through the stained-glass window, painted rainbows on the worn linoleum. A chipped bell above the door jingled as the proprietor dusted flour from his apron. “Morning, Agnes. The usual?” “Oh, you know me, Arthur. A large coffee, black as midnight, and one of those divine lemon poppy seed muffins.” He chuckled, a warm, rumbling sound. “Couldn’t resist, could you? They went like hotcakes this morning.” He reached for a ceramic mug. “Anything new on your mind? You’ve got that ‘something’s brewing’ look about you.” “Just a whisper, Arthur, nothing concrete. Did you see Mrs. Higgins yesterday? Her face was positively plastered with panic.” “She was in for her weekly sourdough. Said she’d misplaced her prize-winning knitting needles.” “Knitting needles? Really? That’s not like her. She’s usually as organized as… well, as your pastry cases.” “Perhaps she’s just flustered. People do odd things when they’re stressed.” “Or perhaps,” a pause, "something more than needles has gone missing.”