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“There was smoke,” Mrs. C. said, with the diplomatic restraint of a woman choosing her words. She picked up her teacup. “Dorothy told me afterward that she’d had no idea the fire department had gotten so handsome and that she might start burning toast more regularly.”

The sound of the car turning over reached them from the garage.

“She’s going to love Cole,” Emily said, before she could stop herself.

“She’s going to be insufferable,” Mrs. C. replied dryly before changing the subject. “Now, I don’t have any cookies as delicious as the ones you make, only store-bought, I’m afraid,” Mrs. C. said after filling Emily’s cup and putting a plate of shortbread before her.

“Oh, I never say no to a cookie,” Emily said, taking a cookie off the plate. “Speaking of cookies…” Emily was unable to resist such an easy segue. “We found my nana’s sugar and spice cookie recipe.”

Mrs. C.’s teacup stopped halfway to her mouth. “The recipe? The one that’s been missing for decades?”

“The one and only. It was hidden in a tin by the old wood-fired stove at the bakery. All smudged, sadly. But there was a letter with it.”

Mrs. C. set her cup down carefully. “A letter.”

“From my nana. She said she hid the recipe because someone stole her prize-winning cookies just before the 2009 bake-off.” Emily ran her finger around the rim of her teacup. “She said she was so fed up with the fighting that she put the recipe away for a future generation to find. She hoped they’d use it to rediscover the magic of Christmas.”

Mrs. C. was quiet for a moment. Her expression had shifted into something Emily couldn’t quite read. Not sad, exactly. More wistful, like she was remembering the years of Christmas past.

“It’s been almost twenty years,” Mrs. C. said slowly, “and I can still taste those cookies. Nothing like them. Not before, not since.”

“I know. They were my favorite too. I’m trying to recreate them, but the recipe card is really damaged. Some of the ingredients are hard to make out.” Emily took another sip and paused, as if the thought had only just occurred to her. “What do you think happened all those years ago? When the cookies went missing?”

Mrs. C. looked at her over the rim of her glasses. It was the same look she’d given thousands of students who had tried to return their library books late with a creative excuse. The look that said I see exactly what you’re doing.

“Emily Whitaker,” she said. “Are you interviewing me?”

“I’m making conversation.”

“Mm-hm.” Mrs. C. picked up her teacup again. She took a long, deliberate sip. “I remember that day. Everyone does, if they’re old enough. Your grandmother had been baking all morning. The whole of Oak Way smelled like cinnamon and cloves. The cookies were cooling in the back of the bakery, ready for the judging.”

Emily leaned forward slightly.

“And then they were gone.” Mrs. C. shook her head. “Just gone. One minute they were there, the next they weren’t. Your grandfather was beside himself. He went looking for answers, and the first person he landed on was Gary Alders.”

“Why is that exactly?” Emily pressed.

“Oh, well because he’d been at the bakery minutes before. He’d come by to fix something, if I recall. A hinge, or a shelf. He ran the hardware store, you know. People were always calling on him.” Mrs. C. frowned slightly, reaching back into the memory. “I remember seeing him there myself. Coming out of the back entrance with his toolbox.”

Emily felt a small, sharp thrill of vindication.

“But honestly, Emily.” Mrs. C. set her cup down and gave her the look. The full librarian look. “That was seventeen years ago. I can tell you he was there. I can’t tell you what he did or didn’t do. Memory is a tricky thing, especially when a whole town has been telling the same story for half a century. After a while, you can’t tell the difference between what you actually saw and what you’ve heard so many times you think you saw it.”

The garage door opened and Cole walked back in, wiping his hands on a rag. He looked at Mrs. C. He looked at Emily. He looked at the teacups, the cookies, noting the silence in the room, and his expression cooled by several degrees.

“Battery’s jumped,” he said to Mrs. C., his voice perfectly even. “Should hold, but if it dies again in the next couple of days, call the station, and I’ll bring a replacement.”

“Thank you, dear,” Mrs. C. said.

Emily smiled at him. It was not a kind smile.

“Mrs. C. was just telling me something interesting,” she said. “She recalls seeing your grandfather at the bakery the morning the cookies disappeared.”

Cole’s jaw tightened. Just barely, but it was enough.

“At the scene of the crime, you might say,” Emily added.

The room went very still.