The bell over the door of The Rolling Scone tinkled a cheerful goodbye to the morning rush, leaving a quiet hum in its wake. The air, thick with the scent of sugar and yeast, was warm against the cool autumn morning. Sunlight streamed through the bay window, illuminating dust motes dancing over a platter of glossy cinnamon twists. "But a gardener's trowel? It seems a bit... theatrical, don't you think? Almost like a clue in a bad play." "Not if you're a gardener. It’s what you have on hand. Besides, everyone in Havenwood knows Mr. Abernathy was furious about his prize-winning petunias being trampled." "Furious enough for *that*? He's eighty-two. His idea of a rampage is misplacing his reading glasses." A delicate porcelain teacup clinked against its saucer. "He does have a temper. Remember the Great Jam Fiasco at last year's fete?" "That was about pectin levels. It’s hardly the same. No, there's something else here. Something just under the surface." "What’s just under the surface is the last lemon drizzle slice. Are you going to finish that croissant?" "Be my guest. Suddenly, my appetite is gone." "Mine isn't. All this talk of murder makes me ravenous."