The brass bell above the door chimed, slicing through the heavy morning silence. The air inside was thick, a comforting blanket of yeast and caramelized sugar that usually signaled warmth, but today felt laced with tension. A single fly buzzed against the display case glass, desperate to reach the tray of raspberry turnovers. "I’m telling you, the glaze was perfectly clear when I boxed it up." A heavy tray of cinnamon rolls hit the wooden counter with a dull thud, shaking a cloud of flour into the sunbeams. "The coroner’s report says otherwise. They found traces of arsenic in the icing. Enough to drop a horse, let alone the town librarian." "That’s impossible. I tasted that batch myself. If it was poisoned, I’d be toes up right next to her." Hands, coated in white dust, aggressively kneaded a lump of dough, punching it down with rhythmic, angry thumps. "Maybe it wasn't in the pot. Maybe it was added after?" "Who has access to my kitchen besides me? You? The cat?" "The delivery boy. He was lingering by the cooling racks yesterday while you were out front arguing with the supplier about the price of vanilla bean paste." The kneading stopped abruptly. "Timmy? He’s twelve. He thinks ‘arsenic’ is a geometrical shape." "Or he’s smarter than he looks. Didn't the librarian give him detention last week?" "For reading comic books in the reference section. Hardly a motive for murder." "In this town? I’ve seen people kill for a prize-winning pumpkin. Just think about it." "Fine. Hand me the rolling pin. But if you’re wrong, you owe me a dozen danishes."