The scent of burnt sugar and yeasty dough hung heavy in the air, thick enough to cut with a knife. Outside, the autumn rain tapped against the fogged-up window, blurring the view of the town square. "You’re going to wear a hole in that linoleum if you keep pacing." "I can’t help it. It doesn’t make sense. Who brings a poisoned éclair to a charity bake sale and then just leaves it on the table?" "Someone who wanted to make a statement without getting their hands dirty. Or someone who hates the Women’s League." "Mrs. Higgins swears she saw the vicar eating a Danish at ten, but the body was found at nine." "Maybe her watch is fast. You know she sets it by the church bell, which hasn’t been right since the storm." "It’s not the time that bothers me. It’s the blue ribbon. It was missing from the prize basket." "You think the murder was over a baking contest?" "In this town? Pride is worth more than gold. Hand me that sifter." "Here. But if you start quoting mysteries again, I’m drinking the rest of this tea myself."