The bell above the door jingled as a gust of autumn wind swept in, scattering a few golden leaves across the checkered 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 bake a pie crust, it turns out like a Frisbee." 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 in a baby." "Well, my hands are more used to wrangling unruly sheep than tucking in anything." The first woman sighed, brushing flour from her sleeve. "Speaking of unruly, did you hear about what happened at the harvest festival last night?" The baker’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "You mean the *incident* with Mayor Whitmore’s prized pumpkin?" "Mmm. Someone carved it into something *very* unflattering before the judging. And let’s just say it wasn’t a jack-o’-lantern." A pause. The sound of a loaf being slid into a paper bag. "You don’t think…?" "Oh, I *know*. And I’d bet my last scone it was either Marjorie or that new handyman. Both had reason to be sore at the mayor." The baker leaned in, eyes twinkling. "Then I suppose we’d better keep our ears open. And maybe bake an extra pie—just in case we need to sweeten the truth out of someone."