The smell of cinnamon rolls filled the morning air as flour dust settled on the marble counter. "I heard you found Mrs. Patterson's recipe box in the church basement." "News travels fast. I only discovered it yesterday afternoon." "And?" "Three dozen index cards, all in her handwriting. Including the famous lemon cake recipe everyone's been asking about since the bake-off." "The one she promised to share but never did?" "That's the one. Except there's something odd about it." "Odd how?" "The last ingredient is smudged out. Like someone took an eraser to it deliberately. And there's a phone number written in the margin—555-0147." "That's Dr. Morrison's old office number. He retired five years ago." "Exactly. Two weeks before Mrs. Patterson died." A pause. The oven timer dinged softly in the background. "You don't think the recipe has something to do with—" "With her death? I'm not sure yet. But I called that number this morning. It's disconnected, but the message said to try his home line for emergencies." "Did you?" "He didn't answer. But I'm planning to visit him this afternoon. Want to come?" "Let me grab my coat."