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 you found Mrs. Henderson's prized poodle." "Poor Duchess was hiding behind the library dumpster, covered in what I hope was chocolate frosting." "Chocolate? From whose bakery, I wonder?" "Now don't start. I run a respectable establishment." "So respectable that you leave your back door propped open with a rolling pin?" "That's for ventilation. These ovens get hot." "Hot enough to burn evidence?" "What evidence? I make pastries, not... whatever you're implying." "Then explain why Tom Morrison saw you arguing with Mrs. Henderson yesterday." "She wanted me to make a dog-friendly birthday cake. I refused. I don't bake for pets." "Yet Duchess was covered in frosting that smelled suspiciously like your famous triple chocolate." "Coincidence." "In this town? Please. Nothing's coincidence in Willowbrook." "Fine. Maybe I left a rejected batch out back. But that doesn't mean—" "Doesn't mean what? That Mrs. Henderson's mysterious accident had nothing to do with her threat to give your competitor that wedding contract?" "You're fishing." "And you're sweating more than those ovens warrant."