The air in The Rolling Pin was thick with the scent of cinnamon and yeast. A flour-dusted hand paused over a tray of perfectly formed scones, the rhythmic thud-thud of dough on the counter falling silent. “They found him.” “Found who? Frank’s lost his spectacles again?” “No. Mr. Abernathy. In the library. With a bookend.” The hand resumed its work, patting a clump of dough into a neat circle with practiced, unhurried motions. “Well, that’s one way to ensure a permanent checkout.” “They say the Dewey Decimal System was a complete mess. Books scattered from here to Tuesday. Sheriff’s not letting anyone near the stacks.” “He did always complain about the noise level. Cinnamon scone or a lemon tart? Tragedy always calls for butter.”