The scent of cinnamon rolls filled the morning air as the front door chimed. "I'll have my usual, please. And maybe you can tell me why Harold Pemberton was lurking around here at midnight last Tuesday." "Harold? Are you sure? I closed at six that day, same as always." "Mrs. Chen saw him from her apartment window. Said he was trying the back door." "Well, that's peculiar. Though he did ask about buying my sourdough starter last week. Offered me five hundred dollars, can you believe it?" "Five hundred? For bacteria and flour?" "That's what I said. Told him it wasn't for sale. Been in my family for three generations." "Hmm. Did you hear his restaurant is failing?" "The Brass Monkey? But it's always packed on weekends." "Appearances can be deceiving. My nephew works there—says Harold hasn't paid the staff in weeks." "Oh dear. Still doesn't explain why he'd break into my bakery." "Unless he thought he could steal your starter. Desperate people do desperate things." "Good heavens. Should I call the police?" "I would. Before Tuesday night's lurking becomes Wednesday night's breaking and entering." The cash register dinged as floury hands counted out change.