The morning sun spilled through the lace curtains of Butter & Whisk, painting golden stripes across the flour-dusted counter. The air hummed with the warmth of fresh sourdough and cinnamon rolls, their scent curling like a promise. “Morning delivery was late again. Old Man Higgins said his truck sputtered near the bridge.” “Again? That’s the third time this week. Seems convenient, doesn’t it? Right before the pie contest.” “Maybe. Or maybe it’s just that engine. He’s held on to that rattle-trap since ’89.” “Still. Feels off. I could’ve sworn I saw his taillight near the community hall last night. After hours.” “You’re not suggesting he’s sabotaging ovens, are you?” “Wouldn’t put it past him. Remember when he rigged the bingo cage at the fall festival? Lost his prize zucchini medal over it.” “Hard to believe someone’d go that far for blue ribbon short of murder.” “Don’t say that. Not after what happened to Marjorie.” A long pause. The clock ticked. “You think... her sourdough starter had something to do with it? That batch she wouldn’t share?” “Everyone wanted it. Even Doris tried to sneak a jar at the potluck.” Footsteps creaked near the back door. Both women turned, dusting sugar from their fingertips. “Speaking of starters—yours looks lively this morning.” “It’s been fermenting since four. But so was Marjorie’s... the night she died.”