The bell over the door chimed a cheerful C-sharp, cutting through the warm, yeasty air of The Rolling Scone. A flour-dusted hand slid a cinnamon swirl, still sticky with glaze, into a white paper bag. “The usual, dear?” “You know it. And an extra blueberry muffin for Mildred. She’s been fretting ever since she heard.” “About a simple fall? I saw the ambulance myself this morning. Awful business, but it happens.” “A ‘simple fall’? Is that the official story?” “Constable Brody seemed quite sure of it.” “Well, Constable Brody doesn't know that poor Mr. Abernathy told me yesterday he was meeting someone important at the old Millpond bridge. Said it was about a ‘decades-old promise’ he meant to see kept.” “The bridge? But it was slick with moss and pouring rain last night.” “Precisely. And he never, ever went out in weather like that without his lucky fishing cap. It wasn't with him, was it?” The crinkle of the paper bag was the only sound for a long moment. “No. It most certainly was not.”