The scent of yeast and caramelized sugar hung heavy in the air, masking the underlying tension of a Tuesday morning. Sunlight caught the dust motes dancing above the scarred butcher-block table, where a mound of dough was being pummeled into submission. "You’re going to stare a hole through that lemon bar if you’re not careful." A paper napkin was methodically shredded into anxious confetti on the countertop. "It simply doesn't add up. Mrs. Gable doesn’t just leave town without collecting her dry cleaning. Not three days before the Harvest Festival." The rhythmic *thump-whoosh* of dough hitting the wood served as a metronome for the silence. A cloud of flour drifted up like smoke. "Maybe she decided she preferred wrinkles to the rumors about her ex-husband. Hand me the cinnamon, would you?" The spice jar slid across the formica, colliding gently with a chipped ceramic mug. "The Sheriff thinks she took the library renovation fund with her to Florida. But I saw her in here yesterday, standing right where you are. She bought a dozen raspberry tarts." Strong hands paused, fingers buried deep in the pliable mixture. "Raspberry? Martha Gable is deathly allergic to berries. One bite and her throat closes up." Eyes locked over the tray of cooling blueberry muffins. The warmth of the industrial ovens suddenly felt a little stifling. "Exactly. So who was she buying them for?"