The bell above the door chimed, and a rush of warm, buttery air enveloped the small bakery. Sunlight streamed through lace curtains, casting delicate shadows on trays of freshly baked pastries. "I can't believe you think Harold could be involved." "Look, something doesn't add up. He was the last person seen talking to Margaret before she disappeared." "That doesn't make him a suspect. Harold's been delivering bread to this town for thirty years." "Thirty years is plenty of time to build up a secret." The clatter of a rolling pin punctuated the conversation. Flour dusted the wooden countertop like a fine snow. "You're reaching. He's a widower who keeps to himself." "Exactly. Who keeps to themselves that much?" A tray of blueberry scones slid into the display case with a soft clink. The aroma of fresh baking mixed with tension. "The sheriff's already talked to him. Nothing came of it." "The sheriff misses more than he catches." A pause, filled with the soft hum of the refrigerator. "You're going to get yourself into trouble." "Someone has to ask the questions." The bell rang again, cutting through their hushed exchange.