The cinnamon scent was thick enough to taste, clinging to the warm air of The Rolling Pin. “I still can’t believe it. Poor Mr. Abernathy.” “His morning scone is going to waste. I saved him one.” A flour-dusted hand slid a small pastry box across the counter. “Sheriff said it was a heart attack.” “That’s the official story, but everyone knows he and his nephew were arguing again just yesterday. Loudly, I might add.” “Arguing about money, I assume.” The sound of a metal scraper on a wooden cutting board filled a pause. “Worse. The nephew wants to sell the whole property to that developer. Imagine, condos where the Heritage Day festival is held! The town would be ruined.” “A strong motive for a lot of people who enjoy their peace and quiet.” “Exactly! And I heard from Carol at the post office that the nephew was seen buying a specific kind of fertilizer last week—one you’re not supposed to use near prize-winning roses.” “Well, someone’s certainly been pruning the family tree.”