The glass display case hummed softly, keeping the lemon tarts chilled against the radiant heat of the ovens. Flour dust danced in the afternoon sunlight streaming through the bay window, settling lightly on the worn wooden floorboards. "You’re staring at the front door again." "I am not. I’m monitoring the parking lot. It’s called being vigilant." "It’s called being nosy. You’ve wiped that same spot on the counter for ten minutes." "It’s a stubborn smudge. Besides, did you see who parked next to the gazebo?" "The man in the grey sedan? He’s been there since the mail ran." "Exactly. He hasn’t moved. He’s just sitting there, watching the traffic light change." "Maybe he’s waiting for someone." "In this town? Everyone knows everyone. A stranger sitting in a car for an hour isn’t waiting for a date; he’s conducting surveillance." "You think he’s a detective?" "I think he’s trouble. Hand me the lemon glaze." "He’s getting out. He’s walking this way. He’s wearing a suit." "Lock the register." "He’s opening the door. Smile." "I am smiling. It’s my pleasant customer service face." "It looks like you’re in pain." "Just hand him a scone and find out what he wants."