The bell above the door tinkled as the aroma of fresh-baked cinnamon rolls wafted through Sweetie Pie's Bakery. A gentle hum of conversation filled the cozy space, punctuated by the clink of coffee cups on saucers. "Did you hear about old Mrs. Finch?" "No, what happened?" "They found her face-down in her prize-winning petunias this morning." "Good heavens! Natural causes?" "That's the thing. Chief Thompson's not so sure. Apparently, there was a half-eaten scone next to her." "A scone? But Mrs. Finch was gluten-intolerant." "Exactly. And get this – the scone came from right here at Sweetie Pie's." "You don't think..." "I don't know what to think. But I saw Betty, the owner, talking to the police earlier." "Betty? She wouldn't hurt a fly!" "True, but remember when Mrs. Finch criticized her lemon bars at the county fair last year?" "Oh my... You don't suppose..." "Shh! Here comes Betty now." The conversation hushed as the plump, flour-dusted baker approached with a warm smile and a plate of her famous blueberry muffins.