Flour motes danced in the shaft of afternoon sunlight cutting through the glass jar of cinnamon sticks. Next to the rolling pins, a display of lemon drizzle cakes looked impeccable against the scarred oak counter. "Another shipment of granola from the new farm down the road?" "Just the oats and honey, but I can't seem to get the crunch right." "You could coat the dried fruit in sugar before you bake it. That’s what my neighbor said, and she wins pies at the county fair every autumn." "She doesn't lose weekends watching for slipping on the front porch." "Word travels fast around here. Especially when the prize-winning turkey turned up with a missing head on Sunday." "Don't start. I’m just trying to count the registers. Mrs. Henderson was here early asking if we had any salt." "Salt to sprinkle on the carpet to catch the culprit's footprints?" "It’s not a murder, Edith. It’s a pest problem. Or a very bored cat."