The copper bell above the door jingled, cutting through the thick, warm scent of yeast and melting chocolate that always clung to the bakery air. Outside, the autumn leaves were just starting to turn, but inside, the ovens were blazing. "You’re never going to believe who I just saw sneaking out of the Mayor’s back garden." A tray of hot blueberry scones clattered onto the granite countertop, sending up a cloud of steam. "Unless it was the health inspector, I don’t have time for gossip. The Harvest Festival is two days away and my sourdough starter is acting temperamental." "The health inspector doesn’t wear a trench coat in September. Or walk with a distinct limp." The piping bag hovered over a half-frosted cupcake, the purple swirl stopping abruptly. "A limp? Like that stranger who checked into the sprawling suite at the Bed and Breakfast yesterday?" "Exactly like him. And he was carrying something wrapped in a garbage bag. It looked heavy." "Maybe it was laundry. Or gardening tools." "At six in the morning? Honest to Pete, you think everyone in this town is a saint. Pass me a cruller." "I think jumping to conclusions is how you ended up accusing the vicar of theft last Christmas. It was his own cat." "That cat looked guilty. Just pour me a coffee, and I’ll tell you exactly where I think he’s going with that bag." "Fine. But if the Sheriff walks in, we are talking about flour prices. Strictly."