Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK9H9NZSR1CBDFZZKS8GX7H

The bell over the bakery door gave its familiar, apologetic jingle, and warm air heavy with cinnamon rolled out to meet the rain. “Tell me you didn’t do it.” “If by ‘it’ you mean accidentally sell Mrs. Pruitt twelve gluten-free scones when she wanted ‘good old-fashioned’—then yes. Guilty as charged.” “That’s not what I mean. The sheriff just left my porch, and he wasn’t asking about scones.” “Then why are you holding your umbrella like a weapon?” “Because someone’s been murdered behind the flour bins.” The mixer thumped to a stop. For a moment, only the hiss of the espresso machine filled the space. “You’re joking.” “I don’t joke when there’s praline pecan cooling on the rack. And I definitely don’t joke when I see a boot sticking out from under a sack labeled ‘King Arthur.’” “A boot?” “A very expensive boot. The kind that crunches gravel and ignores ‘No Trespassing’ signs.” “Who would trespass in a bakery?” “Someone who thought you were hiding more than recipe cards.” A paper bag crinkled; a croissant slid onto the counter with shaking precision. “Listen. Before you say anything—yes, I saw him earlier. He came in, ordered black coffee, and asked if I knew where ‘the ledger’ was.” “The ledger?” “The one you keep in the tin with the blue ribbon.” “That tin holds grandma’s letters.” “That’s what you told me.” Outside, thunder muttered. Inside, the bell jingled again, softer this time, as if even the door knew to be careful. “We need to call the sheriff.” “We can’t.” “Why?” “Because my fingerprint is on that blue ribbon.”