The scent of caramelized sugar and yeast hung heavy in the air, thick enough to coat the tongue. Sunlight streamed through the front window, illuminating the flour dust dancing above the glass display case where three lonely lemon tarts remained. “You’re late. The scones are already cooling, and the crumb is peaking at perfection.” “I had a bit of a run-in at the post office. Mrs. Gable was handing out flyers for the harvest festival like they were get-out-of-jail-free cards.” “Did she try to corner you about the fundraiser? She’s a bulldog when she smells a checkbook.” “Worse. She wanted to know why the Chief’s car was parked behind your shop at midnight.” “He was helping me move the industrial mixer. It’s heavy, and my hip has been acting up since the rain started.” “That’s not what the knitting circle thinks. They say you were trading secrets for sourdough.” “Let them talk. Gossip doesn't bake bread, and it certainly won't help us figure out whose earring I found in the poppy seed muffin batter this morning.” “Wait. A gold hoop? With a tiny blue stone?” “Exactly. And if I’m not mistaken, it matches the one the Mayor’s wife was wearing yesterday.”