"You heard about the mayor's prize-winning roses?" "Every petal sliced clean off. Found them scattered in the compost bin behind the library like tragic red snow." "Even the thorns?" "Sharp as accusations. Mrs. Peabody swears it was the garden club treasurer." "Because of the zoning dispute over the community center?" "Or the raspberry jam competition. She came in second. Pass me that cinnamon, would you? The good stuff from the back shelf, not the supermarket jar." "Here. But Eleanor makes that lavender honey—she wouldn't hurt a living bloom." "Unless those prize-winning roses were covering something up in that soil." "Like what?" "Fresh footprints in the herb garden. Size eleven. Distinctive tread. Baker's boots." "My boots are flour-dusted and entirely innocent." "Then why were you lurking behind the library at midnight with flour on your apron and a streak of dirt on your cheek?" "Delivering warm cranberry scones to the night watchman. He gets peckish around eleven, and I tripped over a hose." "Convenient timing." "Delicious timing. Try the new lemon glaze on that turnover before you officially arrest me." "Is that a bribe?" "It's an alibi. With buttery crumbs as witnesses." "The watchman confirms this?" "He'll confirm twelve of them. I left a baker's dozen on his desk."