The bell above the door finally stopped its jingling, leaving the shop filled with the warm, heavy scent of cinnamon and rising dough. “Did you see the way he was eyeing the raspberry scones?” “He bought a dozen. I’d say he was doing more than eyeing them.” “It wasn’t a hungry look, though. It was… calculated. Like he was measuring them for a crime scene.” “You need to stop reading those thrillers while the bread proofs. He’s a consultant for the new hotel, probably just needed snacks for a meeting.” “In that coat? In July? It’s eighty degrees out there, and he’s dressed like he’s hiding something.” “Maybe he’s just particular about the sun. Did you get the money?” “Of course I got the money. But he paid in cash. Crisp, sequential bills. Who carries cash like that anymore?” “Old people. People who don’t trust banks.” “And he asked about the old mill. Specifically if the basement was accessible.” “Tourists love the mill.” “He’s not a tourist. He knew about the flood of ’98. He knew about the foundation cracks.” “Maybe he’s an engineer.” “Maybe he’s the one who dug up Mayor Higgins’ prize hydrangeas.” “I highly doubt a hydrangea murderer is buying our pastries.” “Evil needs calories too, you know.”