The early morning sun caught the flour dust dancing in the air, turning the kitchen into a haze of gold and yeast. A wooden spoon rapped rhythmically against the side of a ceramic bowl, the sound sharp against the low hum of the industrial refrigerator. "You added too much nutmeg." "I added exactly the amount the recipe called for. Besides, nutmeg hides the taste of almonds." "Bitter almonds? Now you sound like the sheriff. Please tell me you aren't actually considering him a suspect." A tray of blueberry scones slid onto the cooling rack with a heavy clatter. The heat radiating from the oven smelled of butter and secrets. "He was the last one seen arguing with poor Martha before she tumbled down the gazebo stairs. And he’s the only one in town who benefits from her estate sale." "He’s also the vicar. Vicar Higgins doesn't push little old ladies, he helps them cross the street." "Everyone has a breaking point. Especially when the church roof fund is short five thousand dollars." Icing was piped onto a cinnamon roll with aggressive precision. "So, what are you going to do? Bake him a confession cake?" "I might just drop by the rectory with a basket of muffins. People tend to talk when their mouths are full." "Just make sure you don't eat anything he offers you." "Noted. Now hand me the sprinkles. This investigation needs a little color."