The scent of warm cinnamon and melting butter hung heavy in Buttercup Bakery. Mrs. Gable, proprietor and sole baker, hummed along to the tinny radio playing a classic rock ballad. She slid a fresh tray of morning buns onto the cooling rack. “Morning, Mrs. Gable,” a voice chirped from the doorway, bright as the sprinkles on a birthday cake. “Those smell heavenly.” “Nonsense, Poppy. Just another Tuesday. What can I get for you today, dear?” Mrs. Gable’s voice was as comforting as a fresh-baked scone. “Actually, I was hoping to pick your brain. You know everything that goes on in Buttercup Creek.” Mrs. Gable gave a knowing chuckle. “I wouldn’t say everything, but I do tend to hear things over the counter. Spill the tea, as they say.” “It’s about those new folks, the Millers, the ones who bought the old Apple Tree Inn. Did you hear anything about why they left Willow Lake so suddenly?” A pause. The only sound was the crackle of the radio. “Well, now. That’s a curious question, isn’t it? I just heard they wanted a change of scenery. Willow Lake’s a beautiful spot.” “Exactly! Too beautiful to just up and leave, especially when they’d just renovated the old Miller place there. It just seems…odd.” Mrs. Gable fiddled with a stray crumb on her apron. “Odd is a strong word, Poppy. Perhaps they just heard our morning buns were better.”