"Morning, Clara. Usual?" The aroma of fresh bread wafted through the air as the baker, a rotund man with flour dusting his apron, greeted the elderly woman. "Please, Henry. And a scone, if you've any left." Clara's voice was steady, despite her age. "One scone coming up." Henry turned, his hands busy with the pastries. "Heard about old man Thompson's place. Quite the turn of events." Clara nodded, her eyes scanning the empty bakery. "Terrible business. Who'd have thought he'd be found like that?" Henry shrugged, placing the scone on a plate. "Small towns, Clara. Never know what's hiding behind closed doors." She took the plate, her gaze meeting Henry's. "You think it's someone local?" Henry leaned in, lowering his voice. "I've heard whispers. But you know how it is. Folks talk." Clara smiled, her eyes twinkling. "Well, Henry, we both know I'm not one to spread rumors." He chuckled, wiping his hands on his apron. "No, Clara, you're not. But if anyone can get to the bottom of this, it's you."