The scent of caramelized sugar and yeast hung heavy in the air, thick enough to coat the tongue. A dusting of flour sat like fallen snow on the mahogany counter, save for the circular cleared space where a single, lopsided éclair rested on a doilies. "It’s a bit heavy on the ganache, don’t you think?" "It’s heavy on the motive, more like. Nobody orders a dozen of these for a simple bridge club meeting." "Unless they were trying to sweeten the pot before the bidding started." "Or mask the metallic tang of something that doesn’t belong in a choux pastry." A pair of silver tongs nudged the éclair. The pastry shell gave way with a soft, pathetic crunch, revealing a cream filling that was just a shade too grey to be vanilla bean. "I told the Sheriff that Martha wasn't one for shortcuts. She wouldn't use cheap extract." "She wouldn't use almond extract at all. Not with the Mayor’s nut allergy being town gossip for twenty years." "Then we aren't just looking at a ruined dessert." "No. We’re looking at a recipe for disaster. Lock the back door; the cooling racks can wait."