The bell over the door chimed, a sound lost beneath the warm, yeasty aroma of proofing bread. A flour-dusted hand slid a tray of glistening sticky buns onto the cooling rack, their cinnamon scent mingling with notes of coffee. “Just dreadful about poor Mr. Abernathy, isn’t it?” “A terrible shock. I still can’t quite believe it.” “They’re saying he tripped on the garden path, but I’m not so sure. Beatrice Miller saw his prize-winning petunias. Trampled, she said. Deliberately.” A knife paused mid-slice over a crusty sourdough loaf. “He did love those flowers. He was in here just last week, buying a baguette. Said his secret ingredient for the soil had a distinct smell. Sweet, almost like marzipan.” The clatter of a coin on the marble countertop was sharp. “Marzipan? How odd. Well, I suppose it doesn't matter now. Just give me one of those buns, dear. The comfort of carbs is the only thing for it.” A white paper bag was twisted shut, its crinkle loud in the quiet shop. “The only thing.”