The glass display case hummed softly, keeping the lemon tarts chilled against the warmth radiating from the industrial ovens. A fine dusting of flour hung in the air, catching the golden morning light that spilled across the checkered floor. "You’re holding the spatula like a weapon." "Maybe I am. Did you see who was parked behind the dumpster last night?" "I make it a point to avoid the alley. It smells like wet cardboard and regret." "It was the mayor’s sedan. Parked crooked, engine running, for an hour." "Perhaps he was waiting for a cronut. The line has been absolutely ridiculous since the festival." "At three a.m.? Without headlights? He was shaking, hands gripping the wheel like he was trying to steer away from a ghost." "You shouldn't spy on people. It wrinkles the soul." "My soul is pristine. It’s his alibi that concerns me. The sheriff was in here yesterday buying bear claws, and he looked tired. A tired sheriff means a messy investigation." "Speaking of messy, you missed a spot on the counter." "It’s not a spill." A small, dark smear marred the pristine white surface near the register. It looked too thick for jam and too red for fruit reduction. "Then what is it?" "Evidence, I think. Or a very clumsy mistake. Either way, lock the front door."