The bell over the door chimed, its sound immediately swallowed by the warm, yeasty air of "The Rolling Scone." A tray of glistening cinnamon rolls sat cooling on the counter, next to a glass dome protecting a single, slightly lopsided lemon meringue pie. "Did you hear about poor Eleanor?" "About her petunias? Of course. In a town this size, you hear about a sneeze three streets over before the person has found a tissue." "It's just so malicious. Flattened. Every last one. And right in the middle of the garden bed, a single chess piece." "A white knight, I heard." The clink of a ceramic mug being set down was sharp. "That's the part that bothers me. So deliberate. Agnes is convinced it’s a message from that developer who wanted Eleanor's land for his ghastly new condominium." "Agnes is also convinced the postman is a government spy who replaced her prize-winning cat with a convincing lookalike. Still, you have to admit, it’s a bit dramatic for a dispute over flowers." "In this town? Nothing’s too dramatic."