The bell above the door jingled, and a gust of cinnamon-scented air swirled through the tiny bakery. "I can't believe you think Gerald did it." "Look, something doesn't add up. He was the last person seen with Margaret before she disappeared." Flour dusted the marble countertop, and a half-decorated lemon tart sat abandoned near a rack of cooling scones. The older woman wiped her hands on her flour-streaked apron, her silver hair escaping from a loose bun. "Gerald's been a fixture in this town for decades. He wouldn't hurt a fly." "People have secrets. And Margaret knew something—I'm certain of it." A whisk clattered into a ceramic bowl. "You're talking about speculation. Pure gossip." "I'm talking about evidence. Her journal. Those coded entries. Something was going on." The oven timer dinged, punctuating the tension. Golden-brown pastries emerged, their buttery aroma filling the small space. "You're going to stir up trouble in Maple Grove. People don't take kindly to accusations." "Sometimes trouble needs stirring. Margaret deserves justice." Silence hung between them, heavy as the morning's bread dough, waiting to be kneaded into something substantial.