The scent of cinnamon sugar and proofing yeast hung thick in the air, a warm blanket against the rattling January wind outside. Flour dusted the mahogany counter like a light snowfall. "The almond croissants are peaking, but your brow is doing that crinkle thing again." "It’s the vicar’s tea service. He specifically requested the lemon bars, but the tin I found in the pantry wasn't holding sugar." "You mean the one tucked behind the vintage spice rack? The one with the chipped enamel?" "Exactly. It was holding a roll of film and a key that definitely doesn't fit the parish gates." "Eliza, we discussed this. The rolling pin is for dough, not for playing amateur sleuth before the morning rush." "I can’t help it if the flour bin is the only place people in this town feel comfortable hiding their secrets. Besides, the key has a faint smell of saltwater and old tobacco." "That’s just the sea breeze hitting the docks. Now, stop sniffing the evidence and pass me the powdered sugar. If these bars aren't glazed by eight, the gossips will have something real to talk about." "Fair enough. But if the silver tea service goes missing next, don't say I didn't warn you."