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“I know what it sounds like,” Bloomfield said, gently. “And I want to be clear that I would not have put it past Douglas. In principle. Not for a moment.” He paused. “But there’s no way it was him.”

Emily blinked. “What?”

“Just before Christmas that year—the twenty-third of December, the day of the bake-off”—Bloomfield folded his hands on his desk—“Douglas was rushed to Maple Falls General just before noon with a ruptured appendix. Emergency surgery. He spent Christmas in the hospital and the week following.”

The silence in the office was very complete.

Emily stared at the mayor.

“He was in the hospital,” she said.

“Before the cookies were ever even baked.” Bloomfield looked genuinely apologetic, as if he were personally responsible for Douglas’s inconvenient alibi. “I’m sorry. I know it would have been a tidy answer.”

Emily sat back. The satisfying click reversed itself. The picture she’d been assembling shattered.

Cole, beside her, said nothing. He was writing something in his own notebook, which he’d been doing quietly throughout. She looked at him. He gave her a small, brief look that meant: Not done yet.

“Is there anything else you remember about that day?” he asked the mayor. “Anyone else who might have had access to the bakery. Anyone who stands out in your memory.”

Bloomfield thought for a moment. He looked at the poinsettias on the windowsill the way people looked at things when they were actually looking at the past.

“You know,” he said slowly, “I do remember Norma Steigler being there. She used to help your grandmother from time to time. Part-time, informal. When it was busy or your grandmother needed an extra pair of hands.” He looked at Emily. “She was there that day. I remember seeing her when I stopped in to drop off Douglas’s entry—he’d given me his baked goods to submit before he went to the hospital, bless him.” He shook his head. “Norma was behind the counter when I came in.”

Emily went very still.

“Norma Steigler worked at the bakery?” Emily asked.

“On and off, for a few years. Lovely woman. I’m sure she’d remember the day more clearly than I do.” Bloomfield looked between them. “Have you spoken to her?”

“We did. She didn’t mention it.” Emily looked at Cole. He looked at her. His pen was already moving.

Norma Steigler. Was in the bakery. All day.

Emily thought about Norma in her tennis racket snowshoes. Norma with her pincushion and her homemade sweatshirt and her absolute certainty that Mr. Alders hadn’t taken the cookies because his spice cake was clearly better and why would he need to.

She thought about how confident Norma had been when she’d said that.

“Thank you,” she said to the mayor. “This has been very helpful.”

The mayor walked them to the door with his usual warmth, shook both their hands, and told Emily he’d heard very good things about the sugar and spice cookies and hoped she’d bring some to the Christmas dinner.

She said she would. And proceeded to wait two seconds after they were out of earshot to turn to Cole and say, “Norma Steigler?”

Emily’s pulse kicked with the thrill of a new lead. “We should go interview her again.”

“We should.”

But Cole didn’t move toward the truck. He stepped closer instead, crowding her back against the brick wall beside the mayor’s office. His gaze dropped to her mouth.

“The sooner we solve this,” he said quietly, “the sooner I can get you into my bed.”

Heat rushed through her so fast she forgot Norma Steigler existed.

Cole leaned in, his mouth brushing the shell of her ear.

“Hair spread across my pillow. Legs wrapped around my waist.” His voice lowered another degree. “And nothing in that head of yours except how deep I am inside you.”

Emily’s breath caught.