The scent of cinnamon and yeast hung heavy in the air, a warm blanket against the autumn chill. The display case was nearly empty, save for a few lonely croissants. “Still warm from the oven. I saved one for you.” “You’re a lifesaver. Mrs. Gable’s prize-winning roses are all anyone can talk about. It’s been a morning.” “Ah. Her ‘disappearing’ blue ribbon, you mean?” “Precisely. She’s convinced old Mr. Higgins stole it out of spite. Says she saw him lurking by her garden fence last night with a pair of shears.” “Higgins? With his bad knee? He can barely bend to tie his own shoes, let alone hop a fence. Besides, his prize-winning pumpkins are looking rather magnificent this year. Too magnificent.” “You think she took her own ribbon? To frame him?” “To make him look like a sore loser. Classic diversion tactic. The question is, where did she hide it?” “Somewhere no one would think to look. Somewhere public, right under our noses.” The bakery door chimed as Mrs. Gable herself walked in, a picture of wounded innocence. “Somewhere like inside the winning pumpkin, perhaps?”