Sunlight glinted off the array of powdered sugar-dusted tarts, suspended in the quiet hum of the oven. The air smelled of nutmeg and secrets. Elara wiped her hands on her apron, eyeing the window where the townsfolk were gathering. "Did you hear the news? Mr. Abernathy’s prize-winning rhubarb pie has gone missing from the display case." "Unbelievable. That family has more dignity than this entire county combined. Though I did see Mrs. Higgins whispering to the checkout lady. She looked like she was confessing to something." "Paying with a penny? That’s old news. But that stranger in the trench coat who ordered a large coffee and sat in the corner reading a map? He’s been staring at the kitchen door since noon." "A ghostwriter for his memoirs? Or someone looking for the recipe. That rhubarb has a secret ingredient that rivals any poison I’ve ever used." "Pass the apron. I need to put up a 'Closed' sign before the mayor decides to rob us blind."