The scent of cinnamon rolls filled the morning air as the bell above the door chimed. "Those eclairs in the window look divine. Are they fresh?" "Made them myself at four this morning. Though I doubt you're here for pastries." "What makes you say that?" "You've been asking questions all over town about Harold's accident. Word travels fast around here, especially when someone's stirring the pot." "Maybe I'm just naturally curious." "Curious enough to visit three different shops yesterday, all asking about Harold's Tuesday night poker game?" "I didn't realize keeping tabs on customers was part of a baker's job description." "Everything's part of my job description. This counter hears more confessions than Father Murphy's booth. Coffee?" "Please. Black." "Just like Harold used to take it. Funny thing is, he switched to tea two weeks before he died. Said coffee made him jittery." "That is odd." "Especially since his thermos smelled like dark roast when they found him at the bottom of those stairs. The eclair's on the house, by the way. Consider it fuel for your... curiosity." "You know something." "I know lots of things. But the morning rush is about to start, and chatty bakers don't keep customers."