"The croissants are burning again." "I know. Third batch this morning." "You’re distracted." "Hard not to be when the library fund vanished overnight. Ten thousand dollars in donation jars, all locked in the community chest." "You think it was someone local?" "In a town this size? Everyone who contributed was at the square dance until midnight." "Except Mrs. Gable. She stayed home with her gout." "She also happens to keep the spare key in her teapot." "Convenient." "Suspicious, you mean. Pass me that apron?" "You’re not suggesting the town matriarch—" "I’m suggesting these scones need glaze. And that her nephew bought a cherry-red pickup yesterday. Paid in cash." "That’s circumstantial." "It’s a pattern. Like the swirl in cinnamon rolls. Consistent and undeniable." "Fine. I’ll swing by her garden gate. See if she’s planting anything expensive this spring." "Bring muffins. She can’t resist lemon poppyseed." "And if she asks why I’m asking questions?" "Tell her the oven’s on the fritz. Like alibis." "That’s terrible advice." "But the muffins aren’t. Take the fresh batch. And wear gloves. The glaze is sticky, and evidence sticks worse."