The scent of yeast and cinnamon hung heavy in the air, fighting against the sharp tang of bleach used to scrub the prep tables. A small box slid across the glass counter, the ribbon tied in a slightly shaky bow. "One cranberry scone, fresh from the oven. Still warm." "Perfect. You always did know how to take the chill off a morning." "Especially this one. The whole town is in an uproar." "I noticed the Sheriff’s car parked out back. He’s been there for an hour." "Just asking questions. Standard procedure." "Is it? He was taking photographs of the trash bins." "Maybe he likes the decor." "Or maybe he found what he was looking for. They say the victim was poisoned." "That’s ridiculous. It’s a bakery, not a chemistry lab." "But the victim was here yesterday, wasn't he? Right before closing." "He bought a baguette. Like everyone else." "Did he leave happy?" "He left. That’s all that matters. Now, take your scone before the glaze hardens." "Don't worry. I wouldn't miss a bite. I hear appetite is the best alibi."