The bell above the door jingled, cutting through the thick, warm scent of yeast and candied lemon. Flour dust hung suspended in the morning sunlight like tiny, edible stars. A heavy tray of blueberry scones hit the glass display case with a decisive, resonant clatter. "You’re going to bruise the fruit handling them like that." "I’m not bruising them, I’m arranging them with vigorous intent. There’s a difference." "Is the intent to scare off the tourists or just the Sheriff?" "Both, if I’m lucky. Hand me that red piping bag. The royal icing is starting to harden." "You know, hiding behind a wall of buttercream won’t change the fact that his cruiser was parked in the alleyway last night." "It was a courtesy check. He likes the apple fritters." "Sheriff Miller is gluten-intolerant. I saw him weeping over a baguette last Christmas. He wasn't here for snacks." "Maybe he cured himself. Miracles happen in this town." "Murders happen in this town. Speaking of which, stop whisking for a second and look at this. I found it wedged under the espresso machine." "That looks like a cufflink." "Not just any cufflink. It’s shaped like a miniature gavel. And it’s covered in what looks suspiciously like strawberry jam." "We haven't made jam in three days." "Exactly. But the judge found in the gazebo certainly had."