The scent of cinnamon and yeast filled the air, a warm blanket against the autumn chill outside. A dusting of flour covered the checkerboard floor. "I'm telling you, something's wrong. Old Man Hemlock didn't just trip over a root. That man knew every inch of the woods behind his house." "Maybe he was distracted. His mind hasn't been the same since Martha passed." "No. This is different. I found his favorite walking stick snapped clean in two, about twenty feet from where they found him. And there was a deep scratch mark on the oak tree right beside it. Looked like someone was trying to climb it in a hurry." "A scratch? That’s not evidence. The Sheriff said it was a tragic accident." "And we both know the Sheriff would rather finish his bear claw before noon than do any real investigating. He missed the most important part. The clasp on Hemlock's coin pouch was broken. The pouch was empty."