The scent of cinnamon buns and sourdough starter hung heavy in the humid air, thick enough to coat the lungs. Outside, the fog rolled off the bay, blurring the cobblestones of Main Street, but inside, the ovens hummed a comforting tune. "You’re using too much flour on that bench. You’ll toughen the crust, and then Mrs. Higgins will have something real to complain about." "Mrs. Higgins complains if the sun rises too early. Besides, my hands are shaking. Did you hear about the gardener?" "I heard he wasn't just planting petunias behind the manor. I heard he was digging for something else entirely." "Is that why the police tape is crisscrossing the rose garden? It looks like a giant spider web out there." "They found a silver locket. The one the Sheriff’s wife lost twenty years ago. The one everyone assumed was stolen by that drifter." "So the drifter was innocent? My stars. If that locket was in the garden, then the Sheriff..." "Shh. The bell just chimed. Smile, wipe your hands, and for heaven’s sake, don't mention the silver. Just sell the woman her rye bread and keep your ears open."