The bell above the door jingled, cutting through the thick, comforting aroma of rising sourdough and vanilla. A sudden gust of autumn wind followed the coat-clad figure inside, swirling the flour dust near the counter. "You’re early. The cinnamon rolls are still cooling on the rack." "I didn't come for the rolls, though heaven knows I should take one for the nerves. I came about the mayor." "Unless the mayor is currently proofing in my back oven, I don't see how I can help. Coffee?" "Please. Large. And don't play coy. You saw who dropped off that package for him yesterday. The one wrapped in greasy butcher paper." "I see a lot of things through this window. Most of them involve people double-parking or tripping over the curb. I don't keep a log of suspicious parcels." "He’s missing, you know. Gone since the parish potluck." "Maybe he just wanted to avoid Mrs. Gable’s tuna casserole. That dish is a crime in three counties. Careful, that mug is hot." "It’s not a joke. The Sheriff found his prized petunias trampled this morning. Someone was looking for something in his garden." "Well, they won't find it here. Unless they’re looking for the secret to a flaky crust, in which case, my lips are sealed. Now, are you buying a bear claw or just taking up space?" "Give me two. I need the sugar rush if I’m going to solve a felony before bingo night."