The morning sun slanted through the front windows of Butter & Bramble, casting gold across flour-dusted counters and baskets of still-warm sourdough. Cinnamon and yeast hung in the air like a promise. “You hear about poor Mr. Hensley?” “The one who ran the hardware store? What happened?” “Found him this morning behind the dumpster out back. Not natural. Mrs. Gable says his coffee cup was still warm, and she swears he never took sugar.” “That’s odd. He loved his sweets. Always bought two blueberry muffins every Tuesday for the office.” “Exactly. And look—someone took a bite out of one of his famous apple turnovers yesterday but left it on the bench by the post office. Mrs. Peavey picked it up with tongs and bagged it. Said it felt like a message.” “A message? From whom?” “Who else? Ever since he refused to sell his property to the Creekstone developers, he got quiet. Nervous. Like he knew something was coming.” “You don’t think—” “I don’t know what I think. But Doris made that turnover. She remembers the glaze, the crimp on the edge. Only someone who knew him would leave that as a sign.” A bell chimed above the door. Flour sifted silently from a sifter held mid-air. “You think it’s in the icing again?” “Only one way to find out. Doris keeps a ledger. Every batch, every customer. Nothing gets missed in this town. Not even the lies in a buttercream swirl.”