The bell above the door chimed as cinnamon-scented steam curled toward the pressed-tin ceiling. Flour-dusted hands paused their work, looking up from the sourdough being scored on the marble slab. "You're here early. The lemon bars haven't even set yet." "I couldn't sleep. The library fundraiser receipts still don't add up, and Mrs. Peabody swears she saw someone lurking near the donation box after Tuesday's knitting circle." "So you think someone stole from the Friends of the Library? In Millbrook?" "Three hundred dollars vanished between seven p.m. and Wednesday morning. That's not a rounding error." A warm croissant slid across the counter, golden flakes scattering like autumn leaves. "You need sustenance before you start accusing the town treasurer. Here. Butter's fresh from Hendricks' dairy." "I’m not accusing anyone. I’m observing. Like you taught me—watch the hands, not the eyes." "And whose hands have you been watching so closely?" "Only Mr. Henderson's. He's been carrying a brand new leather briefcase and buying imported coffee beans by the pound at the general store." "Perhaps he finally got that promotion at the bank." "Or perhaps he's practicing for retirement on other people's dime." "Careful, or you'll find yourself kneading bread at midnight instead of chasing shadows through the mystery section."