The morning sun filtered through the gingham curtains, catching the dust motes dancing above the display case. The air smelled thick with yeast and caramelized sugar, but the mood in the corner booth was anything but sweet. A manicured hand slid a folded newspaper across the flour-dusted table. "You can’t seriously believe the official report." "I don’t have the luxury of belief. I deal in sourdough and scones, not conspiracies. Sheriff Brody says it was an accident." "An accident? He slipped on a patch of ice in July? I didn’t know summer humidity could be so slippery." "Keep your voice down! Mrs. Gable is hovering by the muffins, and her hearing aid is turned all the way up to high definition." "I just want to know why he was seen arguing with your delivery driver an hour before he died." "They were arguing about invoices. My driver charges extra for rush orders; he doesn’t charge for murder. Here, take a lemon bar. It’s on the house." "Bribery won't make this go away." "It’s not a bribe, it’s a silencer. Eat it. It’s tart enough to pucker your lips shut for at least a minute, which is all the peace I’ve had since you walked in."