Sparrow Creek Extras

🐾 BISCUIT INVESTIGATES

A Sparrow Creek Cozy Short Mystery

Biscuit knew something was wrong the moment the butter smelled anxious. Butter was not supposed to smell anxious. Butter was supposed to smell rich and calm and faintly superior, like it knew it was the reason pastries existed. This butter, however, had an edge to it. Sharp. Uneasy. As if it had been removed from the refrigerator too early and was regretting its life choices.

Biscuit lifted his head from his position on the windowsill and flicked one orange ear.

Down below, his human, Vera Holloway, was pacing.

This alone was concerning. Vera was a creature of routine. She arrived before dawn, tied on her apron, murmured good morning to the ovens, and spoke to Biscuit in the soft, apologetic tone humans used when addressing beings of obvious authority. Pacing disrupted the natural order of things.

“I know I put it right here,” she said, moving the stack of parchment papers for the third time.

Biscuit narrowed his eyes.

Humans were always misplacing things and then blaming the universe. The universe was innocent in most matters. Biscuit, however, was not convinced the same could be said for the bakery today.

He jumped down from the windowsill and padded across the flour-dusted floor, careful to avoid the spot near the back door where the floorboards still held the faint scent of not-bakery. Biscuit had been deeply offended by that scent earlier and had informed the door of his displeasure at length. The door had not apologized.

Vera was kneeling in front of the prep counter now, peering underneath it.

“Biscuit, have you seen my notebook?” she asked.

Biscuit sat and stared at her. The notebook in question was not for Biscuit’s eyes. It was filled with lists, diagrams, and the frantic handwriting humans used when they believed organization might save them. Biscuit had seen it earlier. He had also seen who had moved it. This was important information.

Vera sighed. “I can’t open without it. Grandma’s cinnamon roll ratios are… very specific.”

Grandma Eleanor. Biscuit approved of this human immensely. She understood three critical truths: good butter, patient dough, and cats belonged wherever they pleased.

Biscuit stood and walked toward the counter, tail high. He paused deliberately at the spot where Vera’s notebook now rested, nudged just far enough under the shelving unit to be out of human sight but well within cat awareness.

He sat.

Vera followed his gaze. “What is it?”

Biscuit did not move.

She leaned closer. “Biscuit?”

He blinked once. Slowly.

Vera sighed again and got down on her hands and knees. “You’re doing that thing again.”

She reached under the shelf and pulled out the notebook. “Oh! There you are.”

Biscuit flicked his tail. Case solved. Or so it would seem. But Biscuit wasn’t finished.

The bakery door chimed, bringing with it the morning breeze and Mrs. Peters, who smelled like lilac and disapproval.

“Good morning! I hear you’re trying something new today.”

“I am,” Vera said, forcing a smile. “If I can get the ratios right.”

Mrs. Peters’ eyes slid to the display case. “Your grandmother never changed her cinnamon rolls.”

Biscuit bristled. Change was not the enemy. Bad change was the enemy. Biscuit knew the difference, even if Mrs. Peters clearly did not.

Mrs. Peters leaned closer to the counter, peering at the cooling racks. Her handbag dangled open suspiciously. Biscuit’s eyes narrowed. When Mrs. Peters left ten minutes later, she smelled faintly of cinnamon and guilt.

Vera frowned at the tray. “That’s odd.”

Biscuit was already on the counter, inspecting the scene. One cinnamon roll was missing. Not eaten. Not sold.

Taken.

He sniffed the air. The trail was obvious now that he knew to look for it. Lilac. Cinnamon. Wool coat. Determination.

Biscuit hopped down and trotted toward the front window, where he could see Mrs. Peters marching down Main Street with purpose and a slightly bulging handbag.

Vera noticed Biscuit’s sudden focus. “What is it?”

Biscuit chirred sharply and darted to the door, then back to Vera, then to the door again.

She frowned. “You want to go outside?”

He sneezed.

That meant yes, but for important reasons.

Vera grabbed her jacket. “All right, but just for a minute.”

Biscuit led the way. They followed the scent trail to the community bulletin board near the town square, where Mrs. Peters stood with two other women, gesturing animatedly. Biscuit sat at a polite distance, ears swiveling.

“…not as good as Eleanor’s,” Mrs. Peters was saying. “Dry. Overbaked. I had to check.”

Vera crossed her arms. “You stole my cinnamon roll?”

Mrs. Peters sniffed. “Borrowed. For quality control.”

Biscuit stared at Mrs. Patterson with the full force of his judgment.

She noticed his glare. “That cat doesn’t like me.”

“He knows you took it,” Vera said mildly.

Mrs. Peters flushed. “Well. I just wanted to be sure.”

Vera sighed. “Next time, just ask.”

Mrs. Peters looked chastened. She reached into her handbag and produced the cinnamon roll, still wrapped carefully in a napkin. “For what it’s worth,” she said, “it was very good. Just different.”

Biscuit approved of this conclusion. Back in the bakery, Vera knelt and scratched behind Biscuit’s ears. “Thank you,” she said softly. “I never would have guessed.”

Biscuit purred. He accepted payment in chin scratches and a small piece of turkey later that afternoon.

As the bakery settled into its familiar rhythm, Biscuit returned to his windowsill, eyes half-closed. Order had been restored. The butter smelled calm again. The bakery was safe. For now. Biscuit yawned, displaying his fangs to the sun.

Mysteries, he knew, had a way of finding Sparrow Creek. And when they did, he would be ready.