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morning? The most important meal of the day, and all that?”
    â€œAh …” She gave him a wide grin. “I’m so accustomed to spending Saturday mornings with Sara and Al and the rest of the Breakfast Bunch down at Lawson’s that I forgot everyone was decorating the inn and we needed to rustle up our own grub today.”
    â€œI don’t believe you for a second,” Rosco said, laughing. “You forgot about eating. Period.”
    â€œOkay, so I might have had a momentary lapse—”
    â€œRight. And when was the moment you were going to remember that you’d gone without an entire meal?”
    Belle also laughed. “This is why we make such a compatible couple, Rosco. While I’m fretting about cerebral curiosities, you’re concentrating on life’s basic requirements: food, shelter, getting enough shut-eye, wearing foul-weather gear if it’s pouring … which is why I don’t have to worry about any of those things. You do it for me. It’s amazing how these things work out.”
    â€œBrawn versus brain, cereal versus cerebral, is that what you’re saying?” Rosco asked as he pulled two bowls from a cabinet and filled them with granola.
    Belle crossed behind him to open the refrigerator door and retrieve the yogurt they liked to spoon on top. As she passed her husband, she landed a quick peck on his cheek. “It’s not an either/or situation, Rosco.… It’s really brain and brawn. You get to do the physical bit because you’re a he-man and cute.” Then her brain made another rapid shift. “So what are you going to do while I’m on the trail of our elusive cook?”
    â€œOh, I thought I’d do some shelter activities: unclog all the drains, completely overhaul the furnace, fix any potential leaks in the roof, clean the gutters, maybe go out and shoot some bacon.”
    It took a moment before Belle realized he was joking. “Seriously, what are you up to this morning? You finished your last case, right? So now what?”
    â€œBut not the support paperwork, and the final written report. Insurance companies are very fond of having all the I ’s dotted and T ’s crossed … so I guess I’ll be forced to use my sluggish intellect.”
    â€œVery funny.”
    O LD Karl Liebig himself was at the cash register when Belle entered Legendary Chocolates. He was a short, frail man with thin white hair, a hearing aid, and an old world German formality. “Lee-bick” is how he pronounced his surname; the “Karl” was as guttural as a growl. Despite being a chocolate maker for over half a century, it was unusual to see him in a position of responsibility. A stroke, combined with age, had robbed him of a good deal of his memory; and his son, the current owner, generally provided his father with easier activities such as serving as a welcoming presence in the front of the shop. Karl Liebig might forget names or the year or any number of supposedly hard facts, but he still possessed a radiant smile and could produce a compliment for any age group and any occasion. He reminded Belle of one of Santa’s most senior and jovial elves—albeit a slender one.
    â€œHi, Mr. Liebig,” Belle called as she walked in. She waved, as well, in case he’d heard the words but didn’t immediately know who’d spoken them.
    His response was a beatific beam. “Good afternoon,” he said in the accent that proudly proclaimed his heritage. He gave Belle a courtly bow, bending from the waist like an antique mechanical doll. The gesture, combined with the stained-glass mural that filled the wall behind him, the shop’s white marble countertops, and the curlicued, solid brass brackets that supported the shelves displaying the day’s special wares, created a sense of elegance almost unknown in the twenty-first century food business. No shrink-wrapped, microwavable convenience