The bell above the door chimed, followed by the heavy thud of the oak panel swinging shut. Flour dusted the checkered countertop like fresh snow, settling into the crevices of the morning’s receipts. A blueberry scone sat half-eaten on a napkin, crumbs scattering like evidence. "Is that cinnamon I smell, or just trouble?" "Both. Mrs. Higgins came in twenty minutes ago, shaking like a leaf in a storm." "Did she buy the usual lemon tart?" "No. She bought a cherry turnover. And she paid in cash." "That settles it. She’s guilty." "You can't condemn a woman based on her pastry choice. It’s un-American." "In this town? You absolutely can. She never carries cash. The Mayor was found with a cherry pit in his pocket, remember?" "I thought that was just a metaphor." "It wasn’t. And now she’s fleeing the scene of the crime with a bag of pastries. It practically screams 'alibi.'" "Or breakfast." "Look closer. She forgot her napkins. No guilty conscience eats a turnover without wiping their hands."