Sunlight filtered through the gingham curtains, illuminating the dust motes dancing above the butcher block table. The rhythmic *thump, slap* of dough hitting the counter provided a steady backbeat to the early morning hush. "You’re kneading that like it owes you money." "It’s sourdough. It requires aggression. Besides, have you seen the police tape around the gazebo?" "Hard to miss. Neon yellow doesn’t exactly blend with the petunias." "They say it was the Mayor’s prize-winning jam. Arsenic in the apricots." "That explains why he looked so pale at the potluck." "Pale? He was green. I thought it was just my quiche." "Your quiche is innocent this time. But if the Mayor goes down, who judges the bake-off?" "Priorities, dear. A man is in the hospital." "And my lemon tarts are in the oven. Life, and pastry, must go on." A heavy sigh puffed a small cloud of white flour into the air as the rhythmic pounding ceased. "Fine. But if the Deputy comes asking, we didn't see the widow buying rat poison last Tuesday." "Of course not. We were too busy glazing donuts. Speaking of which, pass the vanilla."