The bell above the door of The Rolling Pin Bakery chimed, its cheerful ring lost in the scent of cinnamon and proofing yeast. A porcelain mug clinked against a saucer. “I’m just not buying it. A simple fall down the library steps.” “The coroner was quite clear. It was a tragic, clumsy accident.” “Then explain the scone.” “The scone?” “He bought a cranberry-orange one from me not ten minutes before it happened. Said it was for his four o’clock tea. He was very particular about his four o’clock tea.” “So? He got peckish on the way.” “Perhaps. But they only found two crumbs in his tweed jacket pocket. Two. A man doesn’t take a single bite of a scone he’s saving for later and leave only two crumbs behind. It’s simply not done.” A heavy sigh stirred the flour-dusted air. “It just doesn’t crumble that way.”