Ten customers collapsed and died. Donut eaters and coffee drinkers, stopping for their pre-dawn pick-me-up, had swallowed poison.

The insane baker had been found by the oven, a jelly donut stuffed in his mouth, berry oozing down his cheeks. His eyes fixed wide.

"Strychnine," said the Coroner, wearing rubber gloves and examining a syringe. "He injected the pastries, sold some, then bit one."

The cameras flashed, the yellow tape unreeled. Detectives questioned witnesses.

"One woman waddled that way," said a cab driver, pointing to the parking lot.

"Move out men," ordered the detective. "She might still be alive."

A dozen flatfoots swarmed the parking lot, searching, searching for the waddling woman.

She sat in her suburban, dancing to a happy tune and jiggling to its beat. She smiled in joy, admiring the treat in her hands. "Mmmm! Yummy pastry," she said to it, "I'm going to eat you all up!" She hefted it to her face, sniffed its sweet scent, and salivated in anticipation.

The Police surrounded her.

She paled at their presence.

The detective rapped on her window. She rolled it down.

"If you want to live," said the Detective, "Don't eat that cream puff."