The bell above the door of “The Rolling Scone” chimed, its brassy note a cheerful counterpoint to the rain drumming against the window panes. The air inside was a warm hug of melting butter and brewing coffee. A porcelain cup clinked against its saucer. "More tea?" "Please. And one of those almond croissants. They look particularly flaky this morning." "Dreadful business about Mr. Abernathy, isn't it?" "A terrible fall. Right in his own garden." "That's what Chief Brody is saying. But Betty from the library overheard his niece on the phone. Said all his prize-winning petunias were trampled flat." "He must have stumbled through the flowerbed on his way down." "That's what I thought. But she said the roses, just inches away, were perfect. Not a leaf out of place. And his little garden gnome, the one he called ‘Sherlock,’ was turned to face the house." A paper bag rustled. "That's... odd." "Isn't it? And she said, given all the rain we've had, there wasn't a single footprint in the soft earth. Not one."