The golden afternoon sun filtered through the window, illuminating a cloud of flour dust dancing over the ceramic counter. Steam rose from the copper pot on the stove, mingling with the aroma of overproofed yeast and tension. "She stormed out ten minutes ago, practically slamming the cash register." "Poor dear. You’d think she’d have more faith in your baking after three generations of winning ribbons at the county fair." "It’s not the fair ribbons she's worried about. It’s the pie. Specifically, that very specific, dark spot near the center that looked remarkably like something dead." "That was a blackberry, not a body part. You know how dark fruit stains the sponge in the center." "I know that, but Mrs. Higgins stood right there and threatened to sue the board of health if I didn't prove it wasn't toxic waste." "You can't sell logic, Martha. You only sell sugar and spice. Maybe you need a lawyer, not a snooping detective." "The lawyer would charge me a fortune. The detective is actually buying a cinnamon roll as his retainer."