The morning sun slanted through the bakery window, dusting the cinnamon rolls with gold. Flour dusted the countertops like early snow, and the scent of vanilla and yeast curled in the air. "You’re in early. Again." "Couldn’t sleep. Mrs. Gunderson’s rooster must’ve started crowing at three." "Again? That bird’s got a grudge. You’d think after the Fourth of July fiasco—" "He still thinks I’m the reason his headband ended up in the punch bowl." "You *did* knock him over during the three-legged race." "He should’ve tied it more securely. Besides, you were laughing harder than anyone." "Only because Mayor Finch tried to give him a speech afterward." A bell chimed above the door, and both peered toward the entrance. "Don’t look now, but Doris is back. Same table, same prune danish. Third day this week." "What’s she doing with that notebook?" "Probably documenting the butter-to-flour ratio. You know how she gets when she thinks someone switched brands." "I heard she brought a magnifying glass last Tuesday." "Only because the scone looked ‘suspiciously fluffy.’ Honestly, if she spent half as much time gardening as she does inspecting pastries—" "She’d miss her real calling. We’re not just bakers. We’re suspects in her daily investigation." A soft laugh escaped as one slid a steaming mug across the counter. "Just don’t let her find out about the almond paste substitution. That one’s *our* little secret."