The scent of cinnamon and fresh bread enveloped the little corner bakery as morning light streamed through the windows. Two figures stood by the display case, studying the array of pastries while steam rose from their coffee cups. "Did you hear about Mrs. Finch? Found face-down in her prize-winning rose garden." "No! When?" "Last night. Sheriff thinks she tripped with her pruning shears, but if you ask me, those cuts were too precise for an accident." "You can't possibly think someone in Millfield would—" "All I'm saying is, she was judge for the garden show next week. And we all know who was desperate to win after losing five years running." "Walter Greene? He's seventy-three years old!" "And spry as a fox. Plus, I saw him buying rat poison here last Tuesday." "For his shed. He told everyone." "Convenient explanation, isn't it?" The bell above the door jingled, and both fell silent as Walter himself shuffled in, garden gloves still on his hands. "Morning, ladies. Beautiful day, isn't it? I'll take two of Florence's cinnamon rolls. Shame about poor Florence. Who'll judge the roses now, I wonder?" The coffee cups paused halfway to lips as meaningful glances were exchanged over their rims.