The bell above the door chimed as morning light spilled across the flour-dusted counter. The scent of cinnamon rolls hung heavy in the air, mingling with fresh coffee and something darker—whispered secrets. "You heard about Margaret's garden gnome, I suppose?" "The one that went missing last Tuesday? Found it myself, actually. Sitting pretty in the gazebo by the library." "That's not the interesting part." A pause filled only by the soft thud of a rolling pin against dough. "There was a note tucked underneath it." "A note?" "Written in that fancy calligraphy Margaret always claimed she never learned." Steam curled up from a ceramic mug, dancing between the two figures at the counter. Outside, a tabby cat stretched lazily on the windowsill, indifferent to small-town intrigue. "You think she staged the whole thing?" "I think Margaret knows exactly what happened to Eleanor's missing recipe box. The one that vanished the same night as that gnome." "The secret snickerdoodle recipe?" "The very same. And I intend to find out why a seventy-three-year-old woman would go to such elaborate lengths over cookies." "In this town? Could be anything from old grudges to buried treasure." "That's what worries me."