# The Flour-Dusted Clue The bell above the bakery door chimed as Margaret pushed inside, carrying a cardboard box. "I found something odd while cleaning out Mother's attic." Eleanor looked up from arranging croissants in the display case, flour smudging her apron. "Odd how?" "These ledgers. From 1987. Your mother's handwriting, but Father's name is all over them. Payments to someone called 'V.'" Eleanor set down her tongs carefully. "That's impossible. Your parents didn't know mine until 1990." "That's what I thought too." Margaret opened the box, releasing a musty smell. "But look at the dates. And the amounts—they're substantial." "How substantial?" "Thousands. Monthly." Eleanor wiped her hands on a kitchen towel, her jaw tightening. "My mother never mentioned anything about your father. They barely spoke beyond church pleasantries." "Exactly. Which means..." Margaret trailed off. "Either your father was paying your mother's family for something," Eleanor said quietly, "or someone's been lying about when they met." Margaret nodded slowly. "That's why I came to you. Your mother kept meticulous records of everything. Surely there's something in her papers that explains this?" Eleanor glanced toward the back room, where cardboard boxes of her mother's belongings still sat unpacked. "Let's find out together."