A waft of warm cinnamon and cardamom greeted Clara as she pushed open the bakery door, the bell above tinkling a cheerful welcome. Mrs. Gable, her usually pristine white apron dusted with flour, was meticulously arranging a tray of jam tarts, her silver hair pulled back in a neat bun. "Morning, Mrs. Gable! Those look exquisite, as always." "Clara, dear! Fresh from the oven. You’re just in time for the first batch." She chuckled, the sound a soft, comforting rumble. "And how are you doing, after…everything?" "I’m getting there. Still can’t quite believe it, you know? One minute he’s asking about my petunias, the next…" She trailed off, a familiar pang in her chest. "A terrible shock for the whole town. Poor Mr. Henderson. Who would’ve thought?" Mrs. Gable shook her head slowly, her gaze drifting to the street outside. "He always seemed such a polite, quiet man. Used to bring Mrs. Gable a custard slice every Tuesday." "That’s what everyone says. But then, he was found quite a distance from his usual walking path, wasn’t he? And with that odd little satchel no one seems to recognize." Mrs. Gable paused, her hands still over the tarts. "Oh, yes. The police were asking about that. Didn't look like anything he'd normally carry. A bit too… fancy, for Mr. Henderson, if you ask me."