The morning sun cast long shadows across the flour-dusted floor of ‘The Rolling Pin’. A bell above the door chimed softly, its sound swallowed by the warm, yeasty air. “Nasty bit of business down by the creek.” “Which one? There are so many to choose from this week.” “The old fishing shack. Burned to the ground. Sheriff says it’s arson.” “A shame. Mr. Henderson loved that shack. Said he caught his biggest trout there.” “They found something odd in the ashes. A set of fancy cookie cutters. The kind you’d use for shortbread.” “Lots of people bake.” “Not with monograms. Not with a ‘G’ and a ‘B’.” The rhythmic thud of dough being kneaded stopped. “Flour doesn’t lie, but people do.” “Exactly. Makes you wonder who was trying to send a message, and to whom.”