The little bell above the door jingled, a sound as familiar as the scent of cinnamon and yeast. “Just one scone today, please. The blueberry.” “Of course. Anything else for you?” A moment of silence, filled only by the rustle of a paper bag. “Well, I suppose you’ve heard the news about Abernathy’s place.” “I’m afraid I’ve been elbows-deep in focaccia dough since dawn.” “Someone got into his garden shed overnight. Broke the lock clean off. And do you know what they took?” “His prize-winning petunias?” “Worse. Much worse. The entire set of his late mother’s Limoges teacups. The ones he keeps polished to a mirror shine. Sheriff Mills is over there now, looking utterly baffled.” The baker paused, dusting flour from her hands onto her apron. She slid the scone into the bag, her movements precise and unhurried. “And was anything else touched?” “Not a thing. It’s the strangest thing.”