The morning sun streamed through the front windows of Sweet Crumbs Bakery, casting warm light across the glass display cases filled with fresh pastries. The bell above the door chimed softly. "You're here early. The cinnamon rolls aren't even out of the oven yet." "I'm not here for pastries, Martha. I heard about what happened at the library last night." "News travels fast in Millbrook. Faster than my sourdough rises, apparently." "They found Harold Pemberton slumped over in the reference section. Heart attack, they're saying." "That's not what Doris told me when she came in for her morning scone. She said there was a teacup next to him. One that didn't belong to the library." "You don't think—" "I think Harold had plenty of enemies in this town. Remember how he voted against the community garden project? And that nasty business with the historical society?" "Martha, you can't go around suggesting such things." "I'm not suggesting anything. I'm just saying that when a man who collected secrets ends up dead surrounded by books, maybe we shouldn't be so quick to blame his cholesterol." The oven timer dinged. "Now, about those cinnamon rolls?"