Flour dusted the air as the bakery's owner arranged a tray of freshly baked scones. The scent of sweet cinnamon and melting butter wafted through the cozy shop, enticing the sleepy small town. "You think it was murder, don't you?" The voice was barely above a whisper, concern evident in its tone. "We don't know anything for certain. Let's not jump to conclusions." A hint of caution crept into the other voice. "But what about the rock on the dashboard? And the empty bottle of gin on the floor? Even Chief Jenkins can't ignore those clues." Skepticism laced the words. "Gin, a rock, those don't necessarily spell murder. He could have been drinking and driving – an accident waiting to happen. Or someone might have put the rock there to throw us off the scent. There're a lot of possibilities here." The tone was measured and calm, countering the other's rising anxiety. The sounds of gentle chatter and clinking cups provided a soothing backdrop as the bakery's patrons sipped their morning coffee and speculated about the mysterious events that had shaken the quiet town.