The glass display case hummed softly, keeping the lemon tarts chilled against the warmth radiating from the industrial oven. A cloud of flour dust drifted through the morning sunbeams, settling lightly on the countertop. "You’re staring at the bear claws again, aren't you?" "I’m not staring. I’m admiring. There is a distinct difference." "The difference is about three hundred calories and a very pointed lecture from your doctor." "Worth it. Besides, I need the energy. The gossip mill is spinning faster than your mixer today." "Oh? Do tell. I’ve been elbow-deep in dough since five." "It’s about the new antique shop owner. The one with the twitchy eye." "Mr. Henderson? He bought a cherry Danish yesterday. Seemed pleasant enough, if a bit jittery." "Pleasant until the lights went out at the town hall last night. Someone saw him sneaking around the back with a shovel." "A shovel? Maybe he was gardening." "In the middle of a torrential downpour? And why was he wearing a tuxedo?" "A tuxedo and a shovel. That sounds less like a crime and more like a desperate attempt to find a last-minute wedding venue." "You’re too cynical. This is serious. The sheriff just walked past the window twice without coming in for his usual cruller." "That is strange. He never misses a cruller." "Exactly. Something is rotten in the state of the bakery." "Fine. Take the bear claw. But only because you’re scaring the customers."