The scent of caramelized sugar and yeast hung heavy in the air, thick enough to coat the tongue. A fresh tray of cinnamon rolls, dripping with maple glaze, slid onto the cooling rack with a metallic clink. "You really think a dash of nutmeg is going to hide the fact that the mayor’s car was seen outside the rectory at midnight?" "I think the nutmeg provides a necessary warmth, and I think you ought to spend less time squinting through your blinds and more time kneading this dough." "He wasn’t wearing his hat. He never goes anywhere without that felt fedora unless he’s in a hurry to hide." "Or unless it was windy. Move the flour, you’re getting it all over my apron." "And the tire tracks? They matched the treads on his sedan perfectly. I saw them this morning before the rain started." "If you aren't careful, people will start wondering why you were prowling around the churchyard in a raincoat before the sun was up." "I was walking the dog. It’s a public sidewalk." "You don't have a dog." "I’m borrowing my sister's. For the exercise. Now, pass me the powdered sugar; we have a funeral to cater, and I won't have it said our eclairs were as lifeless as the guest of honor."