## Dough & Data
The chipped Formica countertop stuck to Detective Leo Reynolds’s elbow. Rain lashed against the window of Mabel’s Diner, mirroring the storm inside him. Website ranking. That was his current hell. Not catching actual criminals, but boosting “Marketing 4/46 Elm” – Mrs. Gimbel’s bakery – out of the digital abyss. The town council, bless their shortsightedness, thought a “local business revitalization” initiative solved everything.
He swirled the lukewarm coffee. Mrs. Gimbel, a woman whose flour-dusted apron held more history than most textbooks, barely understood email. Her advertising consisted of a peeling flyer tacked to the community board and a classified ad in the *Gazette* that hadn’t changed since 1987.
“Rough morning, Leo?” Mabel slid a plate of toast toward him.
He grunted. “The kind where I feel less like a detective and more like a tech support guy.”
Mrs. Gimbel’s bakery, the heart of Havenwood for three generations, was bleeding customers. Slow and steady. The budget they’d allocated to “digital presence” wouldn’t cover a decent SEO consultant, let alone the overhaul she needed. He’d initially pegged it as simple mismanagement. Old ways dying hard. She stubbornly defended her recipes, clinging to techniques she swore maximized bread yield – a stubborn insistence on “grandma’s secrets” when the market demanded gluten-free options and Instagrammable pastries.
“Paul’s got a point, you know,” Mabel said, her voice low. She wasn’t referring to the bakery’s bread yield.
Paul, Mrs. Gimbel’s grandson and current baker, was a quiet guy, perpetually covered in flour and smelling faintly of yeast. A decent baker, no doubt, but his insistence on “traditional methods” felt like willful ignorance in the face of a changing world. Reynolds had dismissed his complaints about recipe optimization and healthy menu alternatives as a millennial’s obsession with trends.
The bell above the door jingled, cutting off Reynolds’ thoughts. A man shook rain from a worn leather jacket. Tall, lean, with eyes that scanned the diner like he was mapping a crime scene.
“Detective Reynolds?” He extended a hand, calloused and firm. “Ethan Hayes.”
Reynolds shook it. “You’re the security consultant?”
Hayes nodded, his gaze meeting Reynolds’ with unsettling directness. “Originally from Philadelphia. Got a call about possible… irregularities.”
“Irregularities?” Reynolds raised an eyebrow. He’d requested Hayes, hoping for a simple security audit of Mrs. Gimbel’s ancient computer system.
“Let’s just say someone isn’t happy about Mrs. Gimbel staying in business.” Hayes pulled up a chair, the movement economical and precise.
The call had come from Old Man Hemlock, the town’s resident conspiracy theorist and surprisingly adept techie. Hemlock had mumbled something about “digital footprints” and a “ghost in the machine.” Reynolds had dismissed it as Hemlock being Hemlock, but Hayes’s presence felt… different.
“Start at the beginning,” Reynolds said, leaning forward. “What exactly are you looking at?”
Hayes’s voice was gravelly, with a hint of an accent Reynolds couldn’t place. “Mrs. Gimbel’s website, or what remains of it. Someone has been systematically sabotaging her online presence.”
“Sabotaging?” Reynolds scoffed. “You mean bad ranking? That’s what I figured.”
“No, Detective. Worse. Someone is actively suppressing her search results, redirecting potential customers to competitors.” Hayes’s eyes narrowed. “And it’s… sophisticated.”
“Competitors?” Reynolds glanced around the nearly empty diner. “Who in Havenwood is willing to go that far for a few extra customers?”
Hayes didn’t answer immediately. He pulled a tablet from his bag, the screen glowing with lines of code. “Let’s just say there’s a player outside Havenwood involved.”
The next morning, Reynolds found Mrs. Gimbel kneading dough, her movements rhythmic and sure. The bakery smelled of warm yeast and cinnamon, a comforting aroma that momentarily eased the knot in his stomach.
“Morning, Mrs. Gimbel,” Reynolds said, trying not to sound too official. “Just checking in.”
“Detective,” she greeted him with a weary smile. “Still trying to fix my website, I presume?”
“We got someone looking into it,” Reynolds said cautiously. “A security consultant.”
Mrs. Gimbel’s smile faltered. “Security? What would a security person need with my website?”
“Apparently, it’s been… tampered with.”
She stopped kneading. “Tampered with? What do you mean?”
“Someone’s making it hard for people to find your bakery online.” Reynolds watched her face carefully.
Her hands tightened on the dough. “That’s nonsense. Nobody cares about my little bakery enough to do something like that.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Reynolds said, trying to sound reassuring. “Just a glitch.”
“Glitch or not, it’s affecting business,” Paul said from behind the counter. He wiped flour off his hands and turned to face them. “Grandma’s regulars are still coming in, but we’re losing the younger crowd. They find everything online.”
“I’ve been trying to tell people that,” Mrs. Gimbel said, her voice laced with frustration. “I even asked Paul to look at maybe a Facebook page or something.”
“She’s open to it,” Reynolds said, trying to inject a note of optimism.
Paul shook his head. “It’s more than just social media, Detective. Someone is actively blocking our search results. I found weird redirects on the website code. It’s like they don’t want people to find us at all.”
Reynolds felt a prickle of unease. He’d dismissed Paul’s concerns as millennial hyperbole, but Hayes’ visit and Paul’s insistence on the website code made him reconsider.
“Hayes is looking into that now?” Reynolds asked, trying to sound authoritative.
Paul nodded. “He thinks it’s connected to a larger operation.”
“Larger?” Mrs. Gimbel frowned, her brow furrowed with concern. “What are you two talking about?”
Reynolds hesitated. He didn’t want to alarm her unnecessarily. “Just a possible competitor using some… aggressive marketing tactics.”
“Aggressive?” Mrs. Gimbel’s eyes flashed with indignation. “I don’t need aggressive tactics. I have the best bread in Havenwood.”
“That’s what we think, Mrs. Gimbel,” Reynolds said, forcing a smile. “We’ll figure it out.”
Hayes called that evening. His voice was grim.
“Detective, you were right to be suspicious about the competitors.”
“What did you find?” Reynolds asked.
“The redirects are traced to a company called ‘Flour Power Solutions.’ They’re based in the city. They specialize in online marketing for bakeries.”
“And?” Reynolds prompted.
“They’re a shell company. Registered to a mailbox in a rundown office building. Someone is using them to systematically eliminate smaller bakeries.”
“Eliminate?” Reynolds felt a cold wave wash over him.
“They create fake reviews, suppress search results, even launch smear campaigns on social media.” Hayes paused. “They’re ruthless.”
“Who?” Reynolds asked, his voice tight.
“That’s where it gets complicated.” Hayes’s voice dropped to a whisper. “The owner of Flour Power Solutions is Victor Martel. He used to work for a major bakery chain that went bankrupt five years ago.”
“Bankrupt?” Reynolds raised an eyebrow.
“Martel blamed the competition. Small, independent bakeries that were taking market share.” Hayes paused again. “He seems to be getting his revenge.”
“Revenge?” Reynolds felt a surge of anger. “He’s targeting small businesses?”
“Looks that way.” Hayes’s voice was grim. “And it’s not just bakeries. He’s targeting restaurants, coffee shops… any small business that threatens his clients.”
“What can we do?” Reynolds asked.
“I’ve traced the source of the attack to a server in Martel’s office. I can disable it, but he’ll just set up another one.” Hayes paused. “We need evidence to take him down.”
“Evidence?” Reynolds felt a glimmer of hope.
“I’ve been collecting data on his activities, but it’s circumstantial.” Hayes paused. “We need to find proof that he’s deliberately sabotaging small businesses.”
“What kind of proof?” Reynolds asked.
“Emails, financial records… anything that connects him directly to the attacks.” Hayes paused again. “I think he’s keeping records somewhere. A hidden server, a secure database…”
Reynolds thought of Mrs. Gimbel’s bakery, the warm aroma of yeast and cinnamon, her stubborn insistence on tradition. He thought of Paul’s quiet determination, his frustration with the changing world.
“I know a place,” Reynolds said, his voice firm. “Old Man Hemlock. He’s got connections. He can get us information.”
Hemlock’s house smelled of dust and electronics. Wires snaked across the floor, blinking lights illuminated shelves crammed with outdated computers.
“Detective Reynolds,” Hemlock greeted him with a conspiratorial grin. “I heard about the troubles at Mrs. Gimbel’s bakery.”
Reynolds explained the situation, carefully omitting Hemlock’s initial conspiracy theories.
“Victor Martel,” Hemlock said thoughtfully. “I’ve heard whispers about him. A nasty piece of work.”
“We need information,” Reynolds said, his voice urgent. “Anything you have on him.”
Hemlock tapped furiously at a keyboard, lines of code scrolling across the screen.
“I’ve been monitoring Martel’s network for years,” Hemlock said, his eyes gleaming. “I found something interesting.”
He pointed to a hidden server tucked away in a remote location.
“This is it,” Hemlock said, his voice low. “Martel’s secure database.”
“Can you access it?” Reynolds asked, his heart pounding.
Hemlock nodded. “I’m in.”
Lines of code flooded the screen, revealing a wealth of information. Emails, financial records, client lists… everything Reynolds needed to take down Martel.
“He’s been systematically sabotaging small businesses for years,” Hemlock said, his voice grim. “Ruining their reputations, stealing their customers… it’s despicable.”
Reynolds downloaded the data, carefully preserving the evidence.
“This is it,” Reynolds said, his voice firm. “We’ve got him.”
The next morning, Reynolds confronted Martel at his office. The evidence was irrefutable. Martel’s face turned pale as Reynolds presented the data, revealing his systematic sabotage of small businesses.
Martel didn’t deny it. He ranted about unfair competition, the decline of big business, his righteous crusade to save the industry.
Reynolds didn’t listen. He arrested Martel on charges of fraud, conspiracy, and cybercrime.
The news spread quickly through Havenwood. Mrs. Gimbel’s bakery was flooded with customers, eager to support the local business that had been targeted by Martel.
Paul beamed as he worked behind the counter, kneading dough with renewed enthusiasm.
“Thanks, Detective,” Mrs. Gimbel said, her eyes shining with gratitude. “You saved my bakery.”
Reynolds smiled. He’d solved his case, rescued a local business, and restored order to Havenwood.
“Just doing my job,” Reynolds said, trying not to sound too proud.
He walked out of the bakery, breathing in the warm aroma of yeast and cinnamon. The rain had stopped, and the sun was shining brightly over Havenwood. He checked his phone. His website ranking had improved significantly, thanks to Hayes’s diligent work.
He was still juggling his duties as a detective and a tech support guy, but he didn’t mind. He’d learned that sometimes the most important cases weren’t about catching criminals, but about protecting the heart and soul of a small town. He had to admit, it felt good.
