The warm scent of cinnamon rolls hung thick in the air as Martha wiped down the counter for the third time that morning. "I heard they found him behind the old mill. Face down in the creek." "That's terrible. Poor Harold. Though I can't say I'm entirely surprised." "What do you mean by that?" "Well, you know how he was always arguing with Frank about that property line. Got quite heated last month at the town meeting." "Frank wouldn't hurt a fly. Besides, Harold had plenty of other people upset with him. What about his nephew? The one who showed up last spring expecting an inheritance?" "You mean David? He seemed pleasant enough when he came in for coffee cake on Thursdays." "Pleasant doesn't mean innocent. I saw him and Harold shouting outside the hardware store just last week." "Still, drowning seems like an odd way to—" "Who said anything about drowning?" The bell above the door chimed. Both women looked up as Sheriff Morrison stepped inside, rain dripping from his hat brim. "Morning, ladies. I'll take my usual. And whatever gossip you're spreading today." "We were just discussing the weather, Sheriff." "Sure you were."