"And I tell you, Gladys, it was right there in Agatha's blueberry pie!" The plump, flour-dusted woman exclaimed to her equally rotund friend, both of them sitting at the wobbly bakery table sipping on steaming cups of Earl Grey. "No, Bertha, it can't be!" Gladys gasped, her hazel eyes wide with shock and a coaster-sized pair of glasses precariously balanced on the tip of her rosy, round nose. "As small as a raisin, but I kid you not, I saw it with my own two eyes," Bertha insisted, waving a gnarled wooden spoon in the air for emphasis, sending a flurry of flour dancing through the air. Gladys leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Are you sure it wasn't just a piece of...?" She trailed off, unwilling to complete the unthinkable but eventually blurting out, "-cherry pit?" Bertha scoffed, causing her multiple chins to quiver like an earthquake-ridden Jell-o mold. "Cherry pit, my foot! I've been baking pies long enough to know the difference between a cherry pit and... and..." her voice trailed off, but the unspoken word hung in the air thick as the scent of freshly baked bread. Gladys's hand flew to her ample bosom, as if trying to muster the courage to continue the unthinkable conversation. "But, Bertha, do you have any idea what this could mean? For Agatha's reputation? It's been eons since this town's