The bell above the door jingled as a gust of autumn wind swept in, sending a few golden leaves skittering across the checkerboard floor. The scent of cinnamon and warm bread wrapped around the two women like a cozy blanket. "Honestly, I don’t know how you do it. Every time I try to make a pie crust, it turns out like cardboard." A soft chuckle came from behind the counter. "You’re not using enough butter. And you’re overworking the dough. It’s all in the touch—gentle, like you’re tucking a baby into bed." "Well, my babies are grown, and my touch is more like a lumberjack’s." The first woman leaned against the glass display case, eyeing the rows of golden pastries. "Speaking of babies, did you hear about what happened at the old Miller place last night?" The baker’s hands stilled mid-scoop of flour. "You mean the break-in? I did. Sheriff said nothing was taken, just a mess left behind." "Funny, isn’t it? First the break-in, then poor old Mr. Higgins finds his prize-winning pumpkin carved into a jack-o’-lantern *before* the harvest festival." A pause. The sound of a whisk tapping against a mixing bowl. "You don’t think…?" "Oh, I think. And I think someone in this town knows more than they’re letting on." The woman tapped her fingernail against the glass. "Now, about that pie crust—how *exactly* do you tuck a baby into bed?"