The Case of the Missing Biscuit Tin

"Oh, just like that," Lorraine said, gesticulating wildly with her hands as if that made any difference. "Gone! Could you imagine just reaching for a biscuit and finding nothing there? It's preposterous! Downright scandalous!" I sipped my lukewarm tea, attempting to feign interest. Lorraine was practically vibrating with energy, which, to anyone else, might've been cause for alarm. But I'd known her long enough to understand this was her natural state: perennially agitated. "And you're sure it's stolen," I asked, setting the teacup down. She nodded vigorously. Her steel-gray curls bounced around the rim of her glasses with each affirming nod. "Charlie, it's been crafted from scratch just this once for the Spring Fête—was a special vintage tin with a lovely blue pattern!" I sighed. "Well, what do you want me to do about it, Lorraine? I'm retired, remember? Past tense: was a detective." But Lorraine was undeterred by my attempt to shake her off. "For old times' sake," she pleaded, clasping her hands together. "Just one more case?" It wasn't like Lorraine to take no for an answer. ------ Our investigation led us down High Street, Lorraine chatting away about who'd had the pleasure of her biscuit gift last. That, in itself, should've been a clue. "Colin," she mused, stopping abruptly to adjust her knitted scarf. "He's always hovering over my sweet tray, isn't he? Always taking two more than is polite at the town meetings!" Colin, the local GP, visited three times a week for tea and talk. But surely, a biscuit thief? "Come now, Lorraine," I said, shaking my head. "Would Colin stoop so low?" "Well, what about Beatrice? She bought some duplicate tins just last month and was bragging about her latest recipe. But could hers match mine?" Lorraine sniffed with impressive indignation. The investigation was exhausting me already. Every passerby we stopped offered their own unique flavor of bewilderment at the biscuit debacle. They talked about feuds over the best scone recipe or triumphs in the local bake-off like Lorraine’s was a James Bond mission. ------ By the time dusk fell, we were no closer to the culprit. We ended up at Colin's front gate when a whiff of something distinctly not vanilla biscuits snaked its way out from an open kitchen window. Was that ... lavender? Intrigued, we invited ourselves in. Colin, rosy-cheeked, was happy enough to see us. "Tea, anyone?" he offered. As a nonchalant small talk bubbled between them, I received another olfactory hit—floors polished with rosemary wax, though I'm certain the odd biscuit aroma lingered just a heartbeat longer. "If I say Lorraine's biscuits are magnificent," Colin began, "it's because I can't quite replicate their peculiar flavor. You see, she once admitted she'd add an extra sprinkle." I glanced at Lorraine, pretending not to hear the compliment. One thing Lorraine loved more than baking was humblebragging. But he went on. "Once, it spurred me into competition mode. I must've spent weeks crafting what would've been the ‘ultimate’ biscuit. Except, some disappeared—" Lorraine, fidgeting before her tea spilled over, interrupted. "Yes, Charlie, isn't that a coincidence?" Ah, the pieces clicked. Lorraine, sneaky devil she was, had tried a new recipe before using her vintage tin for the fête. Could she have absentmindedly plunked them onto his countertop? Perhaps knowing Colin's obsession with surpassing her culinary feats, she planned a baking truce. At that moment, Colin rummaged in a drawer, pulling out Lorraine's illustrious blue biscuit tin. "This?" Lorraine snapped it from him, grinning wide. "My tin! The secret ingredient I had to keep from you, Charlie! And I'd forgotten. Truly, age is a dear old friend, but fickle." Colin chuckled, settling back down. "Well, least that mystery's solved." That unexpected twist was all it took to let fly a flock of forgiveness: Lorraine apologized, saying she was just eager for Colin to appreciate her gift in every sense. Lorraine and I left Colin's humble abode with a fresh resolve. I'd wandered into her whirlwind, found myself returning to a case—a chuckle, some biscuits, and, mayhem aside, a heaping of warmth and friendship. Fade-out, with us sharing a tin full of cosmic, lightly lavender-scented truce slathered in a good chuckle. I realized I walked into exactly the kind of case I was missing.