Page 4 of Bear and Order

"She's had a rough few months."

"I still don't understand those complaints."

"Neither does anyone else."

Their voices fade behind me. A few minutes later I pass a flower shop and the owner outside arranging displays notices me immediately, her expression cycling through narrowed suspicion, widened recognition, and narrowed suspicion again in under five seconds. I keep walking, and behind me I hear her call inside to someone.

I resist the urge to sigh. Apparently my arrival qualifies as public entertainment, which is another reason temporary assignments are preferable — people become curious and invested and then disappointed when you leave, and avoiding all of that is considerably easier.

I claim a corner table at a coffee shop and open the bakery file again, reviewing every complaint and every attached record with fresh eyes, and the inconsistencies become more obvious the longer I look.

One complaint alleges sanitation issues, another focuses on permits, a third references safety concerns — different accusations, different wording, different filing methods, same target.

The pattern bothers me because patterns usually mean something. I glance out the window and notice a woman with shopping bags pausing near two older men, and within seconds they're discussing something animatedly with one of them pointing toward Sweetbell Bakery down the road.

I pull one report closer and notice that the complaint dates align almost perfectly with seasonal business fluctuations, and then another detail catches my attention and then another.

The filings aren't random — they're spaced and timed and careful, not enough to attract immediate scrutiny but enough to create repeated problems for whoever is on the receiving end. That rarely happens by accident.

Through the café window, Sweetbell Bakery sits between a bookstore and a gift shop, the exterior well-maintained and the display windows attractive, customers entering and leaving without any visible sign of a business in distress.

Yet half the paperwork on my table revolves around that building, and the complaints might be legitimate or they might not be, but assumptions are useless either way. Evidence matters. Observation matters. Inspection matters.

I pull out my schedule book and write the entry in under ten seconds

Sweetbell Bakery. Initial Inspection Review.

The moment I finish, a strange awareness lies in my chest — not excitement, not curiosity, just the particular feeling that the first real question in Maple Hollow is waiting behind that bakery's front door.

One business, three formal reviews, multiple anonymous complaints, no verified violations. The pieces don't fit yet. But they will. Every report tells a story eventually, and I intend to find out whether Juniper Bell is the victim of bad luck, poor management, or something else entirely.

3

JUNIPER

The bell above the bakery door jingles, and I don't look up immediately because experience has taught me that customers don't care whether you're balancing invoices or quietly questioning every decision you've made in the last six months — they want pastries, preferably quickly. "Welcome to Sweetbell—" The words die halfway out of my mouth. A broad-shouldered man stands just inside the entrance holding a folder beneath one arm, dark-haired and serious-faced, and I recognize him immediately from the window yesterday. The new inspector. Of all the people who could walk through that door this morning.

His gaze settles on me. "Ms. Bell?"

"That's me," I reply, straightening behind the counter.

"I'm Brock Winn," he says, and I tell him that the entire town has been talking about him since he arrived, and one eyebrow lifts slightly — not enough to qualify as a reaction, just enough to prove he heard me.

"I have an inspection scheduled," he says.

"Of course you do," I answer, pulling out the customer-service smile rather than the genuine one. Something in his expression shifts, and maybe he notices the difference or maybe I'm imagining it, but either way he doesn't comment.

"Is now still a good time?" he asks, and the question surprises me — not because of the words but because he bothered asking at all. I expected someone who walked in announcing authority, not requesting permission.

"Sure," I reply. "Why not."

He nods once. "I'll try to stay out of your way." I almost laugh, because nobody conducting an inspection stays out of the way — that's practically the opposite of the job — but three customers are sitting near the front windows sipping coffee and another is browsing the pastry display, and drawing attention to myself feels unwise. I remember when every table was occupied and customers waited for seats, and the sight of the half-empty room leaves a familiar ache that I've stopped trying to talk myself out of.

Brock opens the folder. "I'd like to start with permits and safety records."

I gesture toward the office. "This way."

The office feels smaller with him inside it, maybe because he's large or maybe because he brings the Council with him, and I pull open the filing cabinet. "Everything is organized alphabetically."