The warm scent of cinnamon and burnt sugar hung thick in the air. Flour dusted every surface, from the worn oak counter to the apron of the woman humming softly as she shaped dough. The bell above the door jingled, announcing a visitor. "Morning, Maeve. Anything fresh out of the oven?" "Just. The apple turnovers are still warm enough to melt the butter." A slow smile spread across the other's face. "Perfect. Two of those, please. And a large black coffee." "Coming right up. Rough night for you, wasn't it?" A gentle question, laced with a hint of concern. "You could say that. Found Mrs. Higgins' prize-winning poodle… well, let's just say Fluffy won't be gracing the village fête this year." A sharp intake of breath. "Oh, dear. How?" "That, my friend, is the million-dollar question. And one I think I might just be asking you about later." The clinking of ceramic against saucer. "Unless you have some insights brewing along with those turnovers?" A soft chuckle. "Just the aroma of good baking. The rest is a mystery, even to me."