The bell above the bakery door jingled softly as morning light spilled across flour-dusted counters. Cinnamon rolls steamed in the display case, and the scent of vanilla bean and coffee curled through the air. “Didn’t expect to see you here so early. You usually hate mornings.” “Couldn’t sleep. Something about Marigold’s cat being found in Old Man Hemlock’s tool shed has me wound tight.” “Marigold’s cat? Mr. Whiskers? He’s been missing three days.” “And now he’s back, groomed, fed, and curled up among rusted trowels and a half-empty can of kerosene. That doesn’t strike you as odd?” “Maybe Hemlock’s not as grumpy as he pretends.” “He doesn’t *like* cats. Says they’re ‘too clever for their own good.’ Besides, his door was locked. No footprints in the flower bed. Nothing.” “You think someone put the cat there on purpose?” “Why? To frame him? Warn him? Or just to confuse us before the Harvest Festival?” “You’ve been watching too many noir films again.” “Or maybe I just know this town. Things here don’t happen without a reason—even things that seem small.” A loaf of sourdough cracked as it cooled. Outside, a crow cawed once, then fell silent. “You going to the festival rehearsal tonight?” “I am. And I’ll be watching Hemlock. And anyone else who’s too calm about a very strange cat.” A smile flickered. “Want a croissant while you plot?” “Make it chocolate. I’ve earned it.”