"The cinnamon rolls are fresh, but you’re not here for pastry, are you?" "Your marzipan roses are getting better. Almost too perfect to eat." "Mrs. Peabody taught me the new technique with the almond extract. She was in yesterday, dropping off her apricot preserves. Seemed shaken." "She mention the library book? The one found in the donation bin with the hand-drawn map inside?" "Only that someone’s been stealing her prize rhubarb. Three stalks, precisely cut at the base. Amateur work, she called it." "Professional thieves don’t bother with vegetable gardens. The map showed the old community garden plots, didn’t it?" "You’ve been talking to Sheriff Lang. He thinks it’s some kind of treasure hunt." "I think Mrs. Peabody buried something in the summer of '92 that she doesn’t want unearthed. The muddy footprints lead directly to plot seven." "Plot seven is where she planted her husband. The rosebushes." "Exactly. Pass me that pistachio macaron. We’re going to need sugar for what comes next." "Take two. The green matches the rhubarb leaves. And Claire?" "Yes, Margot?" "Bring back a stalk if you find any left. I’m making pie for the Founders Day contest, and I’d hate to use store-bought." "As if you’d ever. Check your oven timer—something’s definitely burning." "Just the apricot tarts. I'll save you the extra-crispy edges." "Deal. And if the sheriff asks where I've gone?" "Tell him the bakery closes at six. Anything dug up before then is strictly between you, the soil, and whatever skeletons are waiting."