"You're asking about the Jamisons again." "I never mentioned the Jamisons." "The flour on your sleeve says otherwise. You only get that dusty when you've been snooping around their renovation site." "Maybe I just wanted a croissant." "Then you'd be holding one instead of interrogating my marble rye. Spit it out, Clara." "Fine. Did Mrs. Jamison pick up her order yesterday?" "At three sharp, like always. Two sourdough loaves and one chocolate torte." "Alone?" "Her nephew tagged along. Tall fellow, nervous hands." "Nervous how?" "He kept checking his watch while she debated between Danish and bear claws for twenty minutes. Standard behavior for someone who'd rather be elsewhere." "Or someone with a guilty conscience." "You're imagining crimes again. Just because the garden club trophies went missing doesn't mean—" "She was carrying a navy duffel bag." "Everyone carries bags, Clara. It's a bakery, not a courtroom." "A duffel bag that clinked. Metallic. Heavy." "You're suggesting she smuggled silverware in broad daylight?" "I'm suggesting she had something to hide. And you know I hate rye bread." "Take the croissant. On the house. But if you get flour on my crime scene photos again, we're done."