Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKA1XNBQ7FD5PTP7CS8D3AR

You left the back door open and the oven nearly ate the morning. I left it open on purpose; I had to follow a trail of flour three doors down. Flour? Who else in Marigold bakes at two in the morning? The mailman, Sam, delivered a postcard with a smear of pastry on it and a corner torn like someone was in a hurry. A postcard? From whom? No name, just "We don't forget recipes," and a pressed sprig of rosemary tucked inside. Who would send a passive-aggressive herb like a hostage? Mrs. Pennington? She thinks recipes are county secrets and keeps a sieve like it's a sheriff's badge. She was at the quilting circle until midnight. Someone dropped something more telling on my prep table. What, besides threatening aromatics? A single button with my initials sewn under it and a smear of ink that isn't mine. You mean like someone came here, rifled through your recipe box, and left a calling card? Exactly. And the raspberry danish I set out for the window sitter—gone, crumbs leading toward the alley. So either a very hungry person with a flair for stationery, or someone's sending you a message. Either way, you didn't call the sheriff? Not yet. I thought I'd ask the person who knows people by their loaf sizes first. And if your adviser suspects Mrs. Pennington? Then we bake a dozen scones and see who shows up pretending to forget their manners.