# The Missing Ingredient The morning light filtered through the checkered curtains of Sweet Crumbs Bakery, casting warm squares across the flour-dusted counter. A tray of cinnamon rolls sat between the two women, their icing still glistening. "She was found right there in the garden, clutching a sprig of rosemary." "Rosemary? That's peculiar. Helen never gardened a day in her life." "Exactly what I told Sheriff Dawson, but he just shrugged and called it natural causes." "Natural causes don't explain why her entire spice cabinet was emptied out. I saw the movers carrying boxes from her house yesterday — not a single jar of anything left in that kitchen." "You don't think someone was looking for something?" "I think someone already found it. Remember last month when she started locking the bakery's back door? She never locked that door in thirty years." A timer dinged from the kitchen. Neither woman moved. "Helen gave me a recipe card the week before she died. Told me to keep it safe but never actually bake it." "What recipe?" "That's the thing. The measurements don't make any sense. Not unless they're not measurements at all." The cinnamon rolls went cold between them.