The scent of cinnamon and yeast hung thick in the air, a comforting blanket against the morning chill. “Another scone for the road?” “Did you hear about poor Mr. Gable?” “Fell down the library steps, they’re saying.” “That’s what *they’re* saying. But Agnes Peabody saw his scarf caught on the newel post. Pulled tight, she said. Like it was holding him back from something.” “Holding him back? Or someone was holding *him*?” “Exactly! And who wears a wool scarf in this weather? It was nearly sixty degrees yesterday. Unnatural.”