The Great Cedarwick Pie Heist

Chapter 1: A New Hobby

The day Harry Marston decided to become a detective started out like any other — quiet, predictable, and a little too ordinary. He sat on the front porch of his cottage on Maple Street, sipping his tea and watching Cedarwick come to life.

Sherlock, his tabby cat, lounged lazily on the windowsill beside him, the very picture of feline indifference. Occasionally, the cat would flick an ear at the chirping birds, but Harry knew better than to think it was out of interest. No, Sherlock liked to give the impression of being observant without actually bothering to engage. Harry could relate to that.

“Another thrilling day in paradise, eh, Sherlock?” Harry muttered, flipping open his well-worn leather notebook. It was a habit he couldn’t quite break from his teaching days; jotting down little observations, tidbits of gossip, and stray thoughts that drifted his way.

The town of Cedarwick, population 4,302 (give or take a summer tourist or two), was a place where life ambled along at a steady pace. Cobblestone streets wound their way through rows of charming brick storefronts, and flower boxes adorned every windowsill. It was the sort of town where people still left their doors unlocked and where the biggest news last week was the arrival of a new ice cream flavor at Molly’s Café.

As Harry scribbled in his notebook, his neighbor Dotty Abernathy bustled out of her house across the street, her curly gray hair bobbing with each step. She wore a bright purple tracksuit and carried a tote bag filled to the brim with what looked like knitting supplies.

“Morning, Harry!” she called out, waving energetically.

“Morning, Dotty,” Harry replied. He glanced at the tote bag and raised an eyebrow. “Starting a new project?”

“Oh, always! But that’s not why I’m here.” Dotty trotted up to his porch and plopped herself down on the chair opposite him. “Did you hear about the commotion at the church bake sale last night?”

Harry suppressed a smile. Dotty’s definition of “commotion” was often debatable, but he played along. “Can’t say that I have.”

“Well,” Dotty said, leaning in conspiratorially, “someone tried to steal a batch of cookies right out of the kitchen!”

Harry blinked. “Cookies?”

“Not just any cookies. Myrtle Hawkins’s famous double-chocolate chunk cookies. You know, the ones she’s been making since the Reagan administration.”

“Ah, yes. A true Cedarwick institution,” Harry said dryly. “Did they catch the culprit?”

“Nope!” Dotty’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “But get this. The pastor swears he saw a shadowy figure running off toward the woods. Sounds like a mystery to me, doesn’t it?”

Harry chuckled. “A missing cookie caper. The scandal of the century.”

Dotty wagged a finger at him. “Don’t underestimate the importance of cookies, Harry. I’m telling you, this town is full of mysteries just waiting to be solved. Maybe you should do something about it. You’ve got the mind for it, after all.”

Harry waved off the suggestion with a laugh. “I’m a retired teacher, Dotty, not Sherlock Holmes.”

Dotty gave him a sly smile. “You’re retired. That just means you’ve got plenty of time to give it a try.”

As the morning wore on, Harry found himself strolling through the town square, as was his custom. He stopped by Molly’s Café for a fresh scone and a second cup of tea. Molly herself greeted him with a cheerful wave.

“Morning, Harry! Usual?” she asked, already pouring his tea.

“Thanks, Molly.” He took his cup and settled into a corner table by the window. From there, he had a perfect view of the square.

Cedarwick’s heart was its bustling town center. Vendors were setting up for the upcoming Pie Festival, an annual event that drew visitors from all over the county. Tables were laden with fresh produce, jars of homemade jam, and, of course, pies of every variety.

As Harry sipped his tea, he noticed something unusual. A young man in a bakery uniform was pacing near one of the vendor stalls, looking distinctly nervous. The man kept glancing over his shoulder and muttering to himself.

Harry’s curiosity piqued. He pulled out his notebook and made a quick note: Nervous baker. Something to hide?

“Harry!” a voice called out, snapping him out of his thoughts.

He looked up to see Tim Barkley, Cedarwick’s friendly but perpetually flustered police officer. Tim was in his late forties, with a kind face and a perpetual air of mild panic.

“Morning, Tim,” Harry said, closing his notebook.

“Big weekend ahead,” Tim said, gesturing to the festival preparations. “You planning to enter the pie contest this year?”

Harry laughed. “Me? I wouldn’t dare. Florence Crenshaw would have my head if I so much as tried to compete with her triple-berry pie.”

Tim chuckled. “True enough. She takes her pies very seriously.”

As Tim wandered off, Harry’s thoughts returned to the nervous baker. The young man was gone now, but Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. He made another note in his book: Keep an eye on the bakery.

Later that afternoon, Harry found himself back on his porch, Sherlock purring contentedly in his lap. The sun was beginning to set, casting a golden glow over the street.

Dotty reappeared, this time carrying a tray of lemon bars.

“Thought you might need a snack,” she said, setting the tray on the table.

“Very thoughtful of you,” Harry said, taking one. “How’s the cookie investigation going?”

Dotty grinned. “Oh, I’ve got my theories. But enough about that. You seemed deep in thought at the café earlier. What’s on your mind?”

Harry hesitated, then smiled. “Just something I noticed. Probably nothing.”

Dotty’s eyes lit up. “Harry Marston, don’t you dare keep secrets from me. Spill.”

With a sigh, Harry told her about the nervous baker. Dotty listened intently, nodding along.

“You know what this means, don’t you?” she said when he finished.

“That I’m too nosy for my own good?”

“It means you’ve got yourself a case!” Dotty declared. “Come on, Harry. You can’t just let a mystery like this slide. You’ve got the instincts, the smarts, and the time. Why not give it a shot?”

Harry shook his head, but he couldn’t deny the tiny flicker of excitement in his chest. Maybe Dotty was right. Maybe it was time to try something new.

“Fine,” he said finally. “I’ll look into it. But don’t get your hopes up. I’m not promising anything.”

Dotty clapped her hands. “That’s the spirit! Come on, Sherlock. Your human’s about to solve his first case.”

Sherlock gave a disinterested yawn, but Harry swore he saw the slightest twitch of approval in the cat’s tail.

As the stars began to twinkle overhead, Harry leaned back in his chair and allowed himself a small smile. A detective, huh? Why not? After all, every great story started with a single step. And as far as Harry was concerned, his story was just beginning.

Chapter 2: The Case Finds Him

Harry Marston wasn’t planning to take his new “detective hobby” seriously. At least, not until the Great Cedarwick Pie Heist thrust itself into his lap. Or rather, onto the cobblestones of the town square.

It all started the next morning. Harry was enjoying another leisurely stroll through the square, marveling at the hustle and bustle as vendors prepared for the annual Pie Festival. There were tables stacked with jars of homemade jams, rows of gleaming pie tins, and colorful bunting strung from every lamppost.

Dotty was practically vibrating with excitement as she dragged Harry from booth to booth. “Look at these! Rhubarb custard, Harry! You don’t see that every day,” she said, pointing at a particularly eye-catching pie on display.

Harry smiled indulgently. “You’d think you’ve never seen a pie before.”

“Oh, hush. The festival’s the highlight of the year! Besides, Florence Crenshaw’s triple-berry pie is supposed to be divine this year. If she wins again, it’ll be her tenth ribbon in a row!”

“You’re oddly invested in Florence’s streak,” Harry remarked.

“It’s not that I like her,” Dotty said, lowering her voice. “It’s that I don’t want to hear her gloating for the next year. You know how she gets.”

Harry chuckled. Florence was one of Cedarwick’s more... flamboyant personalities. She had a way of turning even the smallest victory into a town-wide celebration of her own greatness.

As they wandered closer to the judging table, the excitement in the square reached a fever pitch. The finalists were lined up, each pie glistening in the sunlight, their bakers standing proudly beside them. And, as expected, Florence Crenshaw was front and center, her hat adorned with fake berries to match her famous pie.

“All right, everyone!” boomed the festival emcee, a jovial man named Mr. Higby. “It’s time for the moment we’ve all been waiting for—the judging of the pies!”

The crowd hushed as the judges, a trio of Cedarwick’s most respected food connoisseurs, approached the table. They murmured amongst themselves, their forks poised to begin the tasting.

But just as they reached Florence’s pie, a gasp rippled through the crowd.

“Where’s my pie?!” Florence shrieked.

Harry blinked. Sure enough, the spot where Florence’s pie had been just moments ago was now an empty pie tin.

The square erupted into chaos.

“Who would do such a thing?” Florence wailed, clutching her berry-adorned hat like it might blow away. “That pie was a masterpiece! A work of art! A—”

“—A missing dessert,” Mr. Higby interrupted, raising his hands to calm the crowd. “Everyone, please! We’ll sort this out.”

Dotty nudged Harry. “Looks like your first big case just landed in your lap.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Harry muttered, though his mind was already racing.

As the festival committee tried to restore order, Harry found himself edging closer to the scene of the crime. The empty pie tin sat forlornly on the table, a few stray crumbs the only evidence of Florence’s masterpiece.

“Excuse me, sir,” said a voice behind him. Harry turned to see Mr. Higby, his face red with frustration. “You’re standing awfully close to the scene. Are you—oh, wait. You’re Harry Marston, aren’t you?”

“I am,” Harry said.

“You’re a smart fellow. Dotty’s always saying you notice things other people don’t.”

“I’m sure Dotty exaggerates,” Harry said, though he felt a small flicker of pride.

“Still, could you take a look? The town’s in an uproar, and frankly, I don’t know where to start.”

Before Harry could answer, Florence stormed over, her cheeks flushed with indignation. “Higby, I demand answers! My pie didn’t just sprout legs and walk away!”

Harry glanced at Dotty, who gave him an encouraging nod. “All right,” he said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

The Scene of the Crime

Harry began his investigation the way he’d taught his students to approach a tricky essay: by starting with the facts.

The first thing he noticed was that Florence’s pie tin wasn’t completely empty. A faint smear of berry filling clung to the edges, and a single flaky crust crumb sat on the edge. He jotted this down in his notebook, more out of habit than necessity.

“Looks like whoever took the pie didn’t eat it here,” he said aloud.

Dotty leaned over his shoulder. “What do you mean?”

“There’s no mess. No plates, no forks, no crumbs on the table. If someone had eaten it in a hurry, there’d be evidence. Whoever took it left with the whole pie.”

Florence let out a dramatic gasp. “A pie thief on the loose! What is this town coming to?”

Harry ignored her and scanned the area around the table. On the cobblestones near the judges’ stand, he spotted something curious: a faint smear of berry filling, like someone had dropped a bit and tried to wipe it up with their shoe.

“Interesting,” he murmured, crouching to inspect it.

“Find something?” Dotty asked, peering over his shoulder.

“Maybe.” He pointed at the smear. “If we follow this trail, we might find out where the thief went.”

Dotty clapped her hands. “A trail! Just like in the detective novels!”

Harry sighed but allowed himself a small smile. “Something like that.”

The Trail

The berry trail was faint but consistent, leading Harry and Dotty through the square and toward the edge of the festival grounds. It ended near the alley behind the bakery.

Harry paused, his instincts tingling. “Stay here,” he told Dotty.

“Not a chance,” she said, crossing her arms.

Harry gave her a look but didn’t argue. Together, they rounded the corner and found themselves face-to-face with a young man in a bakery uniform—the same nervous-looking fellow Harry had spotted the day before.

The man froze, his eyes darting between Harry and Dotty like a cornered animal.

“Hello there,” Harry said, his voice calm and friendly. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen a missing pie?”

The man’s face turned as red as Florence’s berry filling. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he stammered.

Dotty narrowed her eyes. “Oh, please. You look guilty as sin.”

Harry stepped closer, keeping his tone light. “What’s your name?”

“Ben,” the man said.

“Well, Ben,” Harry said, “I noticed you seemed a bit anxious yesterday. Now a pie’s gone missing, and the trail just so happens to lead right to your bakery. Care to explain?”

Ben swallowed hard. “I didn’t take it, I swear! I just... I just saw someone running off with it.”

“Did you recognize them?”

Ben hesitated. “N-no. They were wearing a hoodie. I couldn’t see their face.”

Harry studied him carefully. The boy was nervous, sure, but there was something genuine in his tone. He made another note in his book.

“Thank you, Ben,” he said. “You’ve been very helpful.”

As they walked away, Dotty huffed. “You’re just going to take his word for it?”

“No,” Harry said, a glint of determination in his eyes. “But I’ve got a feeling there’s more to this story than a nervous baker.”

Dotty grinned. “So, what’s the plan, Detective Marston?”

Harry tucked his notebook into his jacket pocket. “We follow the crumbs.”

Chapter 3: Clues and Confessions

The berry trail had led Harry and Dotty to the bakery, but as they left the alley and strolled back into the square, Harry’s thoughts buzzed like a beehive. Something didn’t quite add up with Ben’s story. His stammering denial, the hoodie-wearing mystery thief—was it all true, or was Ben hiding something?

“Harry,” Dotty said, tugging on his sleeve. “We can’t just let the boy off the hook. He’s got guilty written all over him!”

Harry glanced at her, amused. “You’ve already solved the case, have you?”

“I’m just saying he’s shifty. You saw it.”

“Oh, I saw it. But shifty doesn’t always mean guilty.”

Dotty gave an exasperated sigh, but before she could argue further, a voice called out from across the square.

“Harry! Dotty!”

It was Florence Crenshaw, storming toward them with all the fury of a woman wronged. Her hat bounced precariously with each step, and she clutched a lace parasol like she might use it as a weapon.

“I demand answers!” she cried. “You were at the scene. Surely you’ve uncovered something by now.”

“We’re working on it, Florence,” Harry said, his tone calm and measured.

“Well, work faster! That pie was my masterpiece — a culinary triumph!” She jabbed her parasol at Harry’s chest. “I won’t rest until the thief is brought to justice!”

Dotty cleared her throat. “Speaking of justice, Florence, have you noticed anyone acting suspiciously? You’re so good at keeping tabs on people.”

Florence sniffed, clearly pleased by the flattery. “Now that you mention it, I did see that scruffy delivery boy skulking about yesterday. Always looks like he’s up to no good, if you ask me.”

“Ben?” Harry asked.

“That’s the one. A bit too nervous for my liking.”

Harry nodded thoughtfully. “Anyone else?”

Florence hesitated, then leaned in conspiratorially. “Well, there was an argument yesterday between one of the contestants, Mabel Jenkins, and that dreadful baker, Mr. Porter. Something about ‘playing fair.’” She rolled her eyes. “Honestly, these people wouldn’t know good pie if it hit them in the face.”

“That’s very helpful, Florence,” Harry said, making a mental note to investigate the argument.

Florence preened. “Of course it is. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to speak with the festival committee about the judging delay. Do keep me informed, Harry. I expect results!”

As she swept off, Dotty turned to Harry. “Do you believe her?”

“I believe she believes herself,” Harry said. “But let’s see if we can verify her story.”

A Visit to the Bakery

The aroma of freshly baked bread greeted Harry and Dotty as they stepped into Porter’s Bakery. The shop was bustling with festival-goers picking up last-minute treats, but behind the counter stood Mr. Porter himself, a stout man with flour-dusted hands and a permanent scowl.

“Harry Marston,” Porter said gruffly. “Haven’t seen you in here since last Christmas. What brings you by?”

“Business, I’m afraid,” Harry replied. “I heard there was a bit of a disagreement between you and Mabel Jenkins yesterday.”

Porter stiffened. “What of it?”

“I’m trying to get to the bottom of what happened to Florence’s pie. Thought it might be connected.”

Porter let out a humorless laugh. “You think I’d steal her pie? Please. I wouldn’t touch her smug little ‘masterpiece’ if my life depended on it.”

Dotty stepped in, her eyes sharp. “So you admit there was an argument.”

“I admit nothing of the sort,” Porter said, crossing his arms. “Mabel was just running her mouth, accusing me of sabotaging her crust recipe. Like I’ve got time for nonsense like that.”

“And Ben?” Harry asked. “He works for you, doesn’t he?”

Porter’s scowl deepened. “That boy couldn’t sabotage his own lunch. He’s harmless. Nervous as a rabbit, but harmless.”

Harry studied the baker’s face carefully. There was irritation there, sure, but no flicker of guilt. Still, Porter’s defensive attitude left him unconvinced.

“Thank you for your time,” Harry said finally. “Let us know if you remember anything unusual.”

As they left the bakery, Dotty looked at Harry expectantly. “Well?”

“He’s hiding something,” Harry said. “But I don’t think it’s the pie.”

Pie Gossip at the Library

Their next stop was the Cedarwick Public Library, where Maggie Patel sat behind the front desk, sorting through a stack of books. She looked up with a grin as Harry and Dotty approached.

“Let me guess,” Maggie said. “Pie drama?”

“How did you know?” Harry asked.

“Are you kidding? It’s all anyone’s talking about. Half the book club canceled this morning because they were too busy swapping theories.”

“Perfect,” Dotty said. “You must have all the juicy gossip. Spill.”

Maggie laughed. “Well, rumor has it Mabel Jenkins was furious about Florence’s pie. Apparently, she accused Florence of using store-bought filling instead of fresh berries. Claimed it wasn’t fair.”

“Interesting,” Harry said, filing that away. “Anyone else seem suspicious?”

“There’s also some talk about Mrs. Beatrice Higgins, you know, the jam lady. People are saying she’s upset Florence didn’t buy her jam this year.”

“That’s helpful,” Harry said. “Mind if we take a look at the town archives while we’re here?”

“Be my guest,” Maggie said, pointing them toward the back room.

A New Clue

As they combed through old festival records and photos, Harry stumbled across something curious. In a photo from last year’s pie contest, Florence was holding her ribbon with a triumphant grin. But in the background, Ben was standing near the judging table, holding an empty pie tin.

Harry tapped the photo. “Look at this. Ben’s in the background.”

“So he’s been around the contest before,” Dotty said. “What does that prove?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Harry admitted. “But if he was here last year, it might explain why he’s so nervous now.”

Dotty frowned. “You think he’s done this before?”

“Possibly. Or he knows something he’s not telling us.”

Harry made a copy of the photo, tucking it into his notebook. “Let’s pay Ben another visit. I’ve got a feeling we’re not getting the whole story.”

With more suspects emerging and the mystery deepening, Harry feels the pieces beginning to fall into place. The next step? Getting to the truth, one crumb at a time.

Chapter 4: A Sticky Situation

By the time Harry and Dotty arrived at Ben’s small apartment above the bakery, the sun was starting to dip toward the horizon, casting long shadows across Cedarwick’s cobblestone streets. The smell of baking bread wafted through the air, but neither Harry nor Dotty was distracted by the aroma.

Harry knocked firmly on the door, and they waited. After a few moments, the door creaked open, revealing a very anxious Ben.

“Oh, it’s you,” Ben said, his voice cracking slightly.

“Mind if we come in?” Harry asked, his tone gentle but firm.

Ben hesitated, his eyes darting nervously between Harry and Dotty. “I, uh, I guess.”

The apartment was small but tidy, though it was clear Ben hadn’t expected company. A few dishes were piled in the sink, and a stack of unopened mail sat precariously on the edge of a table. Harry’s eyes immediately went to the counter, where a single pie tin rested, scrubbed clean.

Dotty noticed it too. “You keep a lot of pie tins lying around, Ben?”

Ben flinched, his face turning red. “It’s just for work. I use it for practice.”

Harry stepped closer, keeping his voice calm. “Ben, I’m going to ask you again. Did you take Florence’s pie?”

Ben’s hands trembled slightly as he shook his head. “No, I swear I didn’t.”

Harry pulled out the copy of last year’s festival photo and laid it on the table. He tapped the image of Ben holding the empty pie tin. “This is you, isn’t it? At last year’s festival.”

Ben’s eyes widened. “How did you?” He cut himself off, realizing he’d said too much.

Dotty crossed her arms. “You’ve got some explaining to do, young man.”

With a defeated sigh, Ben sank into a chair. “All right, fine. I took the pie last year. But it wasn’t for me! I was doing it for someone else.”

Harry exchanged a glance with Dotty. “Who?”

Ben hesitated, then mumbled, “Mrs. Higgins.”

“The jam lady?” Dotty exclaimed.

Ben nodded. “She paid me to swap Florence’s pie with a different one. She said Florence cheated by using store bought jam, and it wasn’t fair. I didn’t want to, but I needed the money.”

“And this year?” Harry asked.

“I swear, I didn’t touch her pie this year!” Ben’s voice was desperate. “I’ve been trying to stay out of trouble. I didn’t even want to be at the festival, but Mr. Porter made me help with deliveries.”

Harry believed him, at least about this year. The fear in Ben’s eyes was genuine, and his story about Mrs. Higgins added a new layer to the mystery.

“All right, Ben,” Harry said. “Thank you for your honesty. Stay out of trouble.”

As they left the apartment, Dotty was practically vibrating with energy. “Mrs. Higgins! Can you believe it? She’s the sweet old lady who sells jam at every market. I never would’ve guessed.”

“That’s the thing about Cedarwick,” Harry said with a wry smile. “Everyone’s got a secret.”

The Jam Lady’s Confession

They found Mrs. Beatrice Higgins at her usual booth near the edge of the square, packing up jars of jam for the day. She was a petite woman in her seventies with perfectly coiffed white hair and a warm smile that could disarm even the most hardened skeptic.

“Good evening, Mrs. Higgins,” Harry said as they approached.

“Oh, hello, Harry! Dotty! What brings you here?”

Harry got straight to the point. “We need to talk about Florence’s pie.”

Mrs. Higgins froze for just a fraction of a second before recovering her composure. “Oh dear. Has something happened?”

Dotty folded her arms. “Don’t play coy. We know you had Ben steal Florence’s pie last year.”

Mrs. Higgins sighed, her shoulders slumping. “All right, you’ve caught me. But that was last year! Florence has been cheating for years, using store-bought jam instead of making her own like the rest of us. I just wanted her to face some consequences for once.”

Harry tilted his head. “And this year?”

Mrs. Higgins shook her head vehemently. “I didn’t touch her pie this year, I swear! I’m not proud of what I did before, but I’ve learned my lesson. Besides, Florence doesn’t even buy my jam anymore. She’s been avoiding me ever since last year’s incident.”

Harry studied her carefully. There was remorse in her eyes, but no hint of guilt about this year’s theft.

“Thank you, Mrs. Higgins,” he said finally. “If you think of anything unusual, let us know.”

As they walked away, Dotty huffed. “Another dead end. What now?”

Harry looked up at the evening sky, his mind racing. “There’s one more person we need to talk to.”

A Late-Night Meeting

By the time Harry and Dotty reached Florence Crenshaw’s sprawling manor, the sun had set, and the town was bathed in the soft glow of streetlights.

“Do you think Florence’s ego will even let her admit she’s wrong?” Dotty muttered.

“She doesn’t have to admit anything,” Harry said. “We just need her to slip.”

Florence answered the door in a silk robe, her hat replaced by an elaborate headband that still managed to feature a fake berry or two.

“Oh, it’s you again,” she said, looking mildly annoyed. “Have you caught the thief yet?”

“We’re getting close,” Harry said smoothly. “But we need your help. Can we come in?”

Florence led them to her sitting room, a grand space filled with overstuffed furniture, porcelain figurines, and a dizzying number of framed photos of Florence holding ribbons, trophies, and other accolades.

Harry’s eyes lingered on one photo in particular—a close-up of Florence with last year’s pie. Something about it caught his attention, but he filed it away for later.

“We’re trying to establish a timeline,” Harry said. “Where were you just before the pie went missing?”

“I was mingling, of course,” Florence said. “Speaking with the judges, the mayor, anyone who mattered. I didn’t notice anything suspicious until it was too late.”

“Did anyone seem jealous of your pie this year?” Dotty asked.

Florence gave a dramatic sigh. “Oh, everyone’s jealous of my pie. They know they’ll never beat me, so they don’t even try.”

Harry’s eyes flicked back to the photo. It hit him all at once, the crust. Last year’s pie had a perfectly braided crust, but Florence’s pies at this year’s festival were noticeably simpler.

“Your pie this year,” Harry said slowly, “you used the same crust recipe as last year, didn’t you?”

Florence stiffened. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

Harry smiled faintly. “No reason. Just curious.”

The Puzzle Pieces

As they walked back to Harry’s house, Dotty groaned. “Well, that was a waste of time.”

“Not entirely,” Harry said. “I think I’ve got it.”

“You do?” Dotty stopped in her tracks. “Then why didn’t you say so?”

“Because I need proof,” Harry said. “And I know exactly where to find it.”

Chapter 5: The Crust of the Matter

The next morning, Harry woke early, his mind sharp and focused. Sherlock the cat, sensing the tension, curled up on the desk beside Harry’s notebook, flicking his tail as Harry reviewed his notes.

Dotty arrived just after breakfast, holding two cups of tea and looking impatient. “Well? You said you had it figured out. Spill!”

“I will,” Harry said, taking the tea. “But first, we need to pay another visit to the festival grounds. I want to check something before I’m certain.”

Dotty sighed dramatically but followed him out the door.

The Return to the Festival Grounds

The festival grounds were still bustling as the town prepared for the final day of celebrations. Vendors were rearranging their booths, children chased each other around the square, and the tantalizing scent of pies baking wafted through the air once again.

Harry led Dotty straight to the judges’ table, where Florence’s empty pie tin still sat as evidence. Mr. Higby, the festival emcee, was nearby, chatting with one of the judges.

“Good morning, Mr. Higby,” Harry called out.

“Morning, Harry!” Higby said, wiping his glasses. “Any luck with the investigation?”

“Getting there,” Harry replied. “I just need to borrow this for a moment.” He picked up Florence’s pie tin, examining it closely.

Dotty leaned in. “What are you looking for?”

Harry didn’t answer right away. He tilted the tin in the light, revealing faint scratches on the surface. He smiled slightly and slipped it into a bag. “Just confirming a hunch.”

“Harry Marston, you’re as cryptic as one of those crossword puzzles you’re always doing,” Dotty muttered. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

“In time,” Harry said. “But first, we’re paying a visit to the bakery.”

A Test of Ingredients

Mr. Porter looked less than thrilled to see Harry and Dotty for the second day in a row. “You again?” he grumbled.

“Just a quick question, Mr. Porter,” Harry said smoothly. “Do you mind if I take a look at your prep area?”

The baker scowled but gestured for them to follow him into the back room. The kitchen was a hive of activity, with flour-dusted counters, racks of cooling bread, and bowls of dough waiting to be shaped.

Harry moved to a corner where a bag of sugar sat open. He dipped his finger in and tasted it.

Dotty stared at him, horrified. “Are you allowed to just eat random ingredients?”

Harry grinned. “When it’s necessary.”

Porter crossed his arms. “What are you getting at, Marston?”

“Just checking something,” Harry said. He glanced at Dotty. “Do you remember Florence’s pie from last year?”

Dotty blinked. “Of course. She wouldn’t stop talking about it for months.”

“The crust,” Harry said. “It was a perfectly braided crust, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Dotty said slowly. “She always makes a big deal about her crusts. Says it’s what sets her pies apart.”

Harry nodded. “And yet, this year’s pies had simple pressed edges. No braiding. Odd, don’t you think?”

Porter snorted. “Not if she doesn’t have the patience for it anymore.”

“Or,” Harry said, “if she didn’t bake it at all.”

Dotty gasped. “You’re saying?”

“I’m saying,” Harry interrupted, “that Florence Crenshaw’s pie wasn’t stolen. It was swapped.”

Porter’s scowl deepened, but Harry caught the flicker of surprise in his eyes. “And you think I did it?” Porter said. “I’ve told you already. I don’t have time for her nonsense.”

“No, I don’t think you did it,” Harry said. “But someone did. And I have a feeling they didn’t want Florence to win this year.”

The Plan

Back at his house, Harry laid out the details for Dotty.

“Florence has a reputation for winning every year, but she cuts corners. Last year, Mrs. Higgins caught her using store-bought jam. This year, someone decided to take it a step further by swapping her pie with a subpar replacement.”

Dotty frowned. “But why not just steal it outright? Why swap it?”

“Because a missing pie would make her a victim,” Harry said. “A swapped pie would disqualify her. And ruin her reputation.”

Dotty nodded slowly. “But who did it?”

Harry smiled. “That’s what we’re going to find out.”

The Setup

That evening, Harry called Mr. Higby and Florence, asking them to gather everyone involved with the festival at the town square for an announcement.

When the group had assembled - Florence, Ben, Mr. Porter, Mrs. Higgins, and a few other contestants — Harry stepped forward, his notebook in hand.

“Thank you all for coming,” he began. “After careful investigation, I’ve uncovered the truth about the missing pie.”

The crowd murmured in excitement. Florence, as dramatic as ever, waved her parasol. “Well? Out with it, Marston!”

Harry cleared his throat. “The pie wasn’t stolen. It was swapped.”

Gasps rippled through the group.

“Swapped?” Florence shrieked. “But why?”

“To discredit you,” Harry said. “And the culprit knew exactly how to do it. They used a store-bought crust, which couldn’t compare to your usual work. They hoped the judges would taste it and accuse you of cutting corners, ruining your winning streak.”

The crowd’s murmuring grew louder. Florence looked ready to faint.

“Who would do such a thing?” she demanded.

Harry turned his gaze to Mrs. Higgins. “At first, I thought it might be you. After all, you’ve had your disagreements with Florence in the past.”

Mrs. Higgins raised her hands. “It wasn’t me, I swear!”

“I know,” Harry said. “Because the real culprit was someone much closer to Florence’s pies.”

He turned to Ben. The young man paled.

“Me? I didn’t.”

“No,” Harry said gently. “Not you. But someone who works in the bakery and had access to the festival grounds.”

All eyes turned to Mr. Porter.

Porter scowled. “You’re out of your mind, Marston.”

Harry held up the pie tin. “This tin has faint scratches on it. The kind you’d only see from someone using a specific type of industrial baking rack. The same racks you use in your bakery.”

Porter’s eyes narrowed.

Harry continued. “You’ve been frustrated with Florence’s domination of the festival for years, haven’t you? You’ve mentioned it to customers. How she buys ingredients instead of making them. And this year, you decided to do something about it.”

Porter opened his mouth to protest, but Florence’s dramatic gasp cut him off.

“You mean that man sabotaged me?”

Porter threw his hands in the air. “Fine! Yes, I swapped the pie. But only because she’s a fraud! She doesn’t deserve to win every year while the rest of us play fair.”

Florence turned beet red. “How dare you!”

“Enough,” Harry said, his voice cutting through the noise. “What you did was wrong, Mr. Porter. But Florence, you’ve been cutting corners for years. Maybe this is a lesson for all of us. Competition is about fairness, not ego.”

The square fell silent as the weight of Harry’s words sank in.

Finally, Mr. Higby stepped forward. “Well, Harry, I think it’s safe to say you’ve solved the case. Thank you.”

Florence huffed. “I demand a recount next year!”

Dotty grinned. “Looks like Cedarwick’s got its very own detective now.”

Epilogue

Back at home, Harry relaxed in his armchair, Sherlock curled in his lap. Dotty sat across from him, sipping tea.

“Well,” she said, “I’d call that a success.”

Harry chuckled. “It was... satisfying.”

As he reached for his notebook, he noticed a folded note tucked beneath it.

“What’s that?” Dotty asked.

Harry opened it and read the simple message: “If you’re looking for your next case, come to the bookshop. Midnight. Bring tea.”

Harry smiled. “It seems the mysteries of Cedarwick are just getting started.”

The End