Jamie's eyes dart toward Calla's closed office door, then back to me. His hands fidget with the proof sheets.
"I shouldn't have said anything. Calla was right—it's just speculation without proof."
"Forget what Calla thinks for a minute." I keep my voice low, conversational. "Tell me what you observed."
He shifts his weight, clearly torn between curiosity and loyalty.
"Mrs. Dalloway came by yesterday morning, before you arrived. She was upset about a cargo delivery that never showed up—marked complete on the transport records but never actually delivered to her store."
"What kind of cargo?"
"Nothing special. Oils, glass, maybe a couple other things. Nothing particularly valuable, but items people count on this time of year."
I nod, filing away the details. The pattern grows clearer with each piece.
"And then this morning, Calla mentioned Maddie's honey delivery going missing. Same transport company, same discrepancy in the records."
Jamie's voice drops to barely above a whisper.
"It's probably nothing. Supply chains get complicated during festival season. Calla's handled situations like this before—she knows how to manage community concerns without creating panic."
"Patterns don't wait for permission, Torres."
His blonde eyebrows furrow.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean when you see smoke, you don't wait for someone in authority to tell you there might be fire." I straighten, decision crystallizing. "I'm going to follow this lead."
"But Calla assigned you to write about festival decorations."
A grin tugs at my mouth.
"Perfect cover story. Can't write about autumn decor without understanding the full festival preparation process. Transportation, vendor coordination, supply logistics—it's all connected."
I move toward the break area where Calla left the bakery box, my stomach reminding me I skipped lunch. The croissants sit in neat rows, their golden surfaces still radiating warmth despitehours away from Maddie's ovens. The residual magic from her enchanted baking equipment keeps them fresh, a clever bit of practical spellwork.
I grab one, surprised when heat seeps through the flaky pastry into my palm. The first bite releases layers of buttery flavor enhanced by whatever preservation charms Maddie weaves into her work. Rich, complex, infinitely better than the stale bread and questionable stew at the Copper Kettle Inn.
"Damn," I mutter around the pastry. "This is actually incredible."
Jamie watches me with a mixture of admiration and concern.
"You're really going to dig into this, aren't you? Even after Calla told you to drop it?"
"Especially after she told me to drop it." I finish the croissant, brushing crumbs from my jacket. "In my experience, when people get defensive about questions, it usually means the questions are worth asking."
The raven percheson Mrs. Dalloway's outstretched arm, its black feathers ruffled with agitation as it pecks at the scroll tied to its leg. The older woman's face flushes red beneath her graying hair.
"I don't care what your enchanted ledgers say—I never received those supplies!"
The raven caws once, a harsh sound that echoes off the stone walls of her modest shop. Its eyes gleam with an intelligence that suggests it understands every word but lacks the authority to do anything about them.
"Ma'am." I approach slowly, hands visible. Ravens can sense hostility, and an angry bird with magical messaging capabilities isn't something I want to deal with. "Sorry to interrupt."
Mrs. Dalloway turns, her weathered features pinched with frustration. She takes in my orcish appearance with the practiced assessment of someone who's dealt with all kinds of folk.
"If you're here about placing an order, I'm afraid my shelves are running a bit bare at the moment."
