The bell above the door chimed as morning sunlight streamed through the bakery's front window, illuminating dust motes dancing above trays of fresh croissants. "I heard Mrs. Henderson never picked up her special order yesterday." "That's not like her. She's been ordering the same lemon tart every Thursday for fifteen years." "Maybe she forgot?" "Eleanor Henderson doesn't forget anything. Remember when she recalled exactly what Mayor Phillips wore to the harvest festival in 1987?" "You're right. Should we check on her?" "Already tried calling. No answer." "That's concerning. Especially after what happened at the library fundraiser." "You mean the argument with Harold Pemberton? Everyone heard that." "She accused him of stealing from the donation box." "Harold? But he's loaded. Why would he need to steal?" "That's what makes it so strange. Pass me that mixing bowl, would you?" "Here. Maybe we should box up a few pastries and take them over." "Good idea. I'll grab some of those maple scones she loves. If she doesn't answer, we could always ask that nephew of hers." "The one who just moved back to town? Something about him seems off." "Everything seems off lately."