The warm scent of cinnamon rolls filled the cramped bakery as flour dust settled on every surface. "I heard Martha found him face-down in his prize-winning tomatoes." "That's not what I heard at all. Betty said he was in the greenhouse, surrounded by his orchids." "Well, one of you is wrong. Though I suppose it doesn't matter much where they found poor Henry. Dead is dead." "Don't be so cold about it. He always bought my lemon bars for the church socials." "He also stole your parking spot every Sunday for three years." "That's hardly a reason to speak ill of the departed." A wooden spoon clattered against the mixing bowl. "I'm just saying what everyone's thinking. Henry Walsh wasn't exactly beloved in this town. Half the garden club wanted to throttle him after he accused them of sabotaging his roses." "You think someone actually did it? Killed him, I mean?" "The sheriff seems to think so. She was asking questions at the post office yesterday about who bought rat poison recently." "Rat poison! Heavens." "Mmm. Makes you wonder who else gardens in this town." The oven timer dinged, breaking the heavy silence.