The scent of cinnamon sugar and proofing yeast hung heavy in the air, a warm blanket against the rattling chill of the October wind. Behind the glass display case, a dozen lemon tarts sat in perfect, mocking rows. "I’m telling you, the flour wasn't just spilled. It was a message." "It’s a bakery. Flour on the floor is a job description, not a cry for help." "Not when it’s tracked all the way from the back door to the cooling racks in size eleven work boots. Arthur wears a nine." "Maybe he’s bought thicker socks for the winter." "Be serious. And the timer on the sourdough? It was set for three in the morning. Nobody was here at three." "Except the cat, but she’s notoriously bad with digital interfaces." "Stop joking. Look at the frosting on the hummingbird cake. It’s lopsided. Arthur is a perfectionist. He wouldn’t let a cake leave his sight looking like a sagging porch." "So, what are you saying? That our mild-mannered baker has been replaced by a clumsy doppelgänger with large feet?" "I’m saying we shouldn't eat the crumpets until we find out where he’s hiding the spare key."