The bell above the door chimed as the noon rush of customers flooded into the small town bakery. Flour dust hung in the air, mingling with the sweet scent of fresh pastries. The room was alive with the hum of chatter and the clink of cups against saucers. Two women, already seated at a table by the window, scrutinized the assortment of treats on display. “Did you see the detective who went in here this morning?” whispered one, eyeing a rack of cinnamon rolls. “I thought he was just someone from the paper,” replied the other, sipping her coffee. “But he came back in who-knows-what investigating clothing.” She gestured to her own outfit. “Clearly, he cares about getting to the bottom of this.” Their neighbors, a pair of pensioners, leaned in to eavesdrop. “It's that poor dear Mrs. Everhart. She screamed faster than a train whistle at the town hall meeting yesterday.” “Oh, how awful,” whispered both women in unison. “But what could have caused her outburst?” speculated one woman, picking at a raspberry Danish. “It’s not like her to make a scene.” The detective entered the bakery, his official badge glinting on a lanyard around his neck. Customers greeted him with wary smiles. As he approached, the two women fell silent, their eyes fixed on him. “Mrs. Everhart's creampuff,” the detective announced, lifting a solemn, white cardboard box from the counter. “I'll be taking this with me. Thank you, Bernie.” He tipped the baker, who nodded solemnly. The room held its breath as the detective left, the scent of sweets hanging thick and heavy in the air. The women exchanged conspiratorial glances, the mystery suddenly all the more compelling. “Well, it looks like we'll find out sooner rather than later,” said one woman. “This is beginning to smell like a real whodunit.”