The scent of cinnamon and sugar always hit you first, a warm hug that banished all worries. Today, it was tinged with a faint, metallic tang. "Smells a bit off, doesn't it?" "Just the flour, probably. A fresh bag." "Hmm. Not quite. More like… old pennies. And did you hear that crashing sound earlier?" "Mrs. Higgins dropped a whole tray of croissants. Said they were too heavy even before they cooled." "Ah. That explains the… intensity. Still, this glaze looks a little… anemic." "The color’s always a bit unpredictable, depending on the batch. Don’t you worry your pretty head, it’ll taste divine." "I’m not worried. Just… observant. These crumbs on the counter, they’re not from your usual shortbread, are they?" "New recipe. Experiments are always a little messy." "I suppose. But that scratch mark on the floor near the back door… that looks recent. And deep." "Probably just the delivery man’s trolley. He’s not exactly gentle." "No, he’s not. But he doesn’t usually leave gouges like that. Almost looks like something was… dragged."