Run: 2026-10-20-01M5C6G32SGMBECXCPWQ0YQ10H

“You’re telling me the cinnamon rolls vanished between the oven and the display case?” “Not all of them. Just the tray with the blue-ribbon recipe—the one I was entering in the Harvest Fair.” “And you locked the back door?” “Twice. Same as always. But look—flour footprints lead to the pantry and stop at a dead end.” “Dead end or hidden door?” “If it’s a hidden door, it’s been hidden from me for thirty years.” “Then someone knows this bakery better than you do.” “Impossible. I know every loose board and stubborn hinge.” “Except the one behind the sack of rye?” “That’s not a door; that’s where I keep the mop.” “Then why is the mop wearing a buttercream smiley face?” “Because someone’s been in here, and they’ve got a sense of humor.” “Or a key.” “Or a very small accomplice.” “Don’t look at me. I only came in for a cruller.” “And yet you’re standing in flour up to your ankles.” “I was checking the floor for evidence.” “In your Sunday shoes?” “They’re sensible. Mostly.” “Whoever took that recipe left something behind. Smell that?” “Almond extract. The expensive kind. Nobody in town buys it.” “Nobody except the new pastry chef at the inn.” “Who just ordered a dozen cinnamon rolls for tomorrow morning.”