The smell of cinnamon rolls hung thick in the air as flour dusted the counter between them. "I heard you were asking about Margaret's recipe box." "Just curious. She promised to leave it to the historical society." "Funny thing about that recipe box. My mother swears she saw it at the estate sale last week, but when she went to bid, it had vanished." "Estate sales are chaotic. Could've been misplaced." "Or stolen. Especially if someone knew about the note tucked in the lemon cake recipe." A pause. The espresso machine hissed. "What note?" "The one mentioning where Margaret really kept her jewelry. The pieces everyone assumed were stolen in that burglary five years ago." "That's just small-town gossip." "Maybe. But it's interesting how you knew exactly which recipe I was talking about. I never mentioned lemon cake." The bell above the door chimed as a customer entered. When they looked up, the color had drained from one face entirely. "I should go. My croissants are probably burning." "You're not making croissants today. I can see your prep station from here." The rolling pin clattered to the floor.