The bell above the door chimed as Sarah wiped flour from her hands. "I heard you found poor Mr. Henderson yesterday morning." "News travels fast around here. I was just delivering his usual cinnamon rolls." "Must have been quite a shock. Was he really clutching that old photograph?" "I shouldn't be talking about this. The sheriff said—" "Oh, everyone knows already. My sister works at the police station. She said it was a picture from the town's centennial celebration." "Well, it seemed important to him. His fingers were wrapped around it so tightly." "Strange though, isn't it? That celebration was thirty years ago. Why would he be looking at that particular photo now?" "Maybe he was feeling nostalgic. He had been alone for so long." "Or maybe he finally figured out who stole the town treasury funds all those years ago. You know they never did catch the thief." "That's quite a leap from an old photograph." "Is it? Mr. Henderson was the accountant back then. And now he's dead, holding the only picture of everyone who had access to that money." The timer dinged in the back kitchen, breaking the heavy silence. "I should check on those scones."