The bell over the door of The Rolling Scone sang its cheerful little chime, admitting a gust of crisp autumn air that swirled with the warm scent of cinnamon and sugar. A hand, dusted with a fine coat of flour, pointed toward the pastry case. “Just a black coffee today. And… oh, are those lemon curd tarts?” “They are. Made them special this morning. Did you hear about poor Mr. Abernathy?” “I did. Dreadful business. At the annual pumpkin festival, of all places. Right by his prize-winning gourds.” “The official word is ‘natural causes,’ but Mildred from the post office saw him in a heated argument near the corn maze just an hour before.” “Mildred sees everything. Still, an argument is hardly a smoking gun.” “It is when the fellow he was arguing with stood to inherit his entire fortune. A fortune Mr. Abernathy was threatening, very loudly, to donate to a cat sanctuary instead.” A porcelain mug slid across the worn wooden counter, its dark contents steaming. “Well now. That does sprinkle a little something extra on the ‘natural causes’ theory, doesn’t it?” “It certainly does. One lemon tart?”