PART 1: The Ghost That Smelled Like Cinnamon

The first time the ghost screamed inside the abandoned warehouse, twelve grown men ran into the street.

The second time, the sheriff dropped his lantern and swore he was retiring.

By the third night, the little town of Willow Creek had collected seventy-five dollars to hire the only cowboy foolish enough to investigate.

His name was Jack Mercer.

And Jack didn’t believe in ghosts.

He believed in whiskey, bad decisions, and people doing things they didn’t want their neighbors to know about.

“Seventy-five dollars?” Jack asked, leaning against the saloon counter. “For catching something that’s already dead?”

Sheriff Walter Briggs rubbed his forehead.

“Just find out what’s making those noises.”

“What kind of noises?”

“Screaming. Banging. Something that sounds like a dying mule.”

“You sure it isn’t your singing?”

The saloon erupted in laughter.

The sheriff wasn’t amused.

“Three people saw a white figure moving through the warehouse windows. Mrs. Patterson fainted. Reverend Collins says it’s a restless spirit.”

Jack took a slow sip of coffee.

“And what does the mayor say?”

“Mayor Whitcomb says we should handle it quietly.”

Jack raised an eyebrow.

“Now that’s interesting.”

That night, Jack arrived at the warehouse shortly before midnight.

The building had been abandoned for eight years. Its windows were dusty, its wooden walls leaned slightly, and the old sign above the entrance creaked whenever the wind blew.

Jack tied his horse behind a nearby fence and settled into the shadows.

For twenty minutes, nothing happened.

Then a light appeared in an upstairs window.

A tremendous crash followed.

“OH, FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE!”

Jack sat upright.

That ghost sounded remarkably human.

Another crash shook the building.

Then came a string of muffled complaints, followed by what sounded suspiciously like someone kicking a bucket.

Jack crept toward the warehouse.

Through a crack in the wall, he spotted a figure wearing a long white apron.

The figure was covered in something pale and powdery.

It bent over a wooden table, lifted an enormous bowl, and suddenly sneezed so violently that a cloud of white dust filled the room.

Jack nearly laughed aloud.

The ghost wasn’t covered in graveyard dust.

It was covered in flour.

Before Jack could enter, the figure grabbed a lantern and hurried through a rear door.

Jack followed.

The mysterious visitor crossed an alley, slipped through a narrow gate, and disappeared behind Mrs. Eleanor Bell’s bakery.

Jack knew that bakery.

Everyone in Willow Creek did.

Mrs. Bell made the finest apple pies in three counties, and she possessed the terrifying ability to make grown men confess their mistakes with a single disappointed look.

Jack approached the bakery window.

Inside stood the supposed ghost.

He had removed his apron.

His expensive waistcoat was dusted with flour. His carefully combed gray hair stood in wild directions. A streak of frosting decorated his left cheek.

Jack stared.

Then he whispered, “Well, I’ll be…”

It was Mayor Theodore Whitcomb.

The most dignified man in Willow Creek was standing in a bakery at midnight, arguing with a cake.

“Why won’t you rise?” the mayor demanded.

He poked the cake with a wooden spoon.

The center collapsed.

“Oh, you miserable little mountain of disappointment!”

Jack pushed open the door.

“Evening, Your Honor.”

The mayor screamed.

He spun around, knocked over a bag of flour, and stumbled backward into a tray of fresh dough.

For several seconds, neither man spoke.

Then Jack folded his arms.

“So. You’re the ghost.”

The mayor straightened his waistcoat.

“Absolutely not.”

“You’re covered in flour.”

“A coincidence.”

“You were in the haunted warehouse.”

“Another coincidence.”

“And you just threatened a cake.”

The mayor closed his eyes.

“Mercer, how much money would it take for you to forget everything you’ve seen tonight?”

Jack grinned.

“That depends. Why is the mayor of Willow Creek sneaking around baking cakes like an outlaw?”

For the first time, Theodore Whitcomb looked genuinely embarrassed.

He pulled out a chair and sat down heavily.

“Tomorrow is my wife’s thirtieth wedding anniversary.”

Jack blinked.

“Your wife’s?”

“Our anniversary, you idiot.”

“Just making sure.”

The mayor sighed.

“Every year, Margaret makes me something with her own hands. Scarves. Quilts. Little wooden picture frames. And every year, I buy her jewelry or flowers because I haven’t the slightest idea how to make anything.”

He looked toward the ruined cake.

“When we were first married, I promised her I’d learn to bake her mother’s famous cinnamon cake. I’ve been promising for thirty years.”

Jack’s smile softened.

“So you finally decided to try?”

“Mrs. Bell agreed to teach me after closing. But her kitchen is too small for all my mistakes, so she let me practice in the old warehouse where she stores extra equipment.”

“And the screaming?”

“Hot pans.”

“The banging?”

“Falling shelves.”

“The white ghost?”

The mayor glanced at his flour-covered clothes.

“Apparently, me.”

Jack burst out laughing.

The mayor pointed a stern finger at him.

“Not one word to the town.”

“Your Honor, the town paid me seventy-five dollars to catch you.”

“I’ll pay you a hundred to keep quiet.”

Jack considered the offer.

Then he glanced at the ruined cake.

“Keep your money. My mother taught me how to bake. I’ll help you finish the thing.”

The mayor stared.

“You can bake?”

“Better than you can haunt a warehouse.”

For the next two hours, the most respected politician in Willow Creek took baking lessons from a cowboy who smelled of saddle leather.

They measured flour, cracked eggs, and argued about cinnamon.

At three in the morning, they finally pulled a beautiful golden cake from the oven.

The mayor looked as proud as a father holding his firstborn.

“Margaret will love it,” he whispered.

Jack smiled.

“Then I’d say the ghost has been laid to rest.”

But just as the mayor reached for the cake, someone knocked three times on the bakery door.

Both men froze.

A familiar woman’s voice called from outside.

“Theodore Whitcomb, open this door immediately.”

The mayor turned pale.

“That’s my wife.”

Jack shrugged.

“Well, at least she’ll get her surprise early.”

But then Margaret Whitcomb spoke again.

“And you’d better explain why Mrs. Bell just told me you’ve been sneaking out every night with another woman!”

The mayor stared at Jack in horror.

And from somewhere behind the bakery, Mrs. Bell suddenly shouted:

“Don’t open that door! There’s something about Margaret’s anniversary cake you both need to know!”