Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK9AGS1PWPWP30E3JXXJJXA

The scones are dangerously perfect this morning; dangerous for the waistline and small-town peace. If Mrs. Pendleton sees them she'll forget the funeral, the fire, and possibly the missing necklace. You can't say "missing necklace" like it's a recipe ingredient. Why not? We measure trouble in teaspoons and gossip in cups. There's a smear of dark mud by the back door and a heel mark on the welcome mat. A heel mark shaped suspiciously like Mrs. Pendleton's zebra-striped pumps. She swore she was home all evening. Her tea cozy would miss her otherwise. I emptied the sugar bin and found a ring nestled under the pastry bag. A ring? The green cameo that matched her brooch? That's impossible. Unless someone wanted her to think it was impossible. Tom's been extra chipper, carrying boxes into the storeroom at odd hours. Tom also sings to the proofing dough. Men can't be that clever. Don't underestimate a man who can coax a sourdough starter into compliance. There's a scrap of paper in his apron pocket: "Too sweet to keep." Who writes like that? Not Tom. He writes invoices and terrible puns. The handwriting leans like Mrs. Pendleton when she's hiding jam from herself. Then either she misplaced it, or someone staged a theft for better aim. Which would be very small-town of us. Set the kettle on and keep an eye on the bell; the culprit will come for their coffee.