Agnes's Floury Fumbles

The scent of sugar and cinnamon, usually a comforting hug, was doing little to soothe my nerves. Agnes Appleby’s bakery, ‘The Rolling Pin,’ was a whirlwind of flour and frantic energy. Agnes herself, a vision in a perpetually dusted apron, was darting between her industrial-sized mixers and cooling racks, her movements as jittery as a hummingbird on caffeine. The Gnome Festival was less than forty-eight hours away, and the disappearance of Bartholomew, our beloved, garishly painted garden gnome, was casting a rather large, unsettling shadow over the proceedings.

“Oh, Penelope, dear, you’re here!” Agnes exclaimed, nearly dropping a tray of perfectly golden croissants. Her eyes, usually the colour of warm honey, were wide and a little panicked. “It’s just… a disaster! An absolute catastrophe! Bartholomew! Gone! Poof!” She clapped her hands together, sending a small cloud of flour into the air.

I offered my most reassuring smile, the one that usually worked wonders on a wilting petunia or a grumpy neighbour. “Don’t you worry, Agnes. We’ll find him. Every mystery, no matter how gnome-umental, has a solution.” I winked, a little pun thrown in for good measure. Agnes, bless her heart, just wrung her hands.