Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKAWVEYFRJJ3F1QM7R31FST

The bell over the bakery door gave its familiar, apologetic jingle as the morning rush thinned. Warm air, thick with cinnamon and butter, curled around the glass cases where lemon tarts gleamed like little suns. “You’re early. That’s suspicious.” “Or hungry. Is it a crime to want a bear claw before nine?” “Not in Briar Hollow. Not unless you pay with nickels and an alibi.” A paper bag rustled. Flour dust drifted down like quiet snow. “Speaking of alibis—where were you last night?” “Here. Proofing dough. Listening to the mixer complain. Why?” “Because Sheriff Daley just called. Mrs. Pritchard’s prize rosebush was dug up again, and this time someone left a monogrammed napkin.” “A napkin? From here?” “From you. The little ‘H’ in the corner. Very charming. Very incriminating.” “I haven’t monogrammed napkins since the Harvest Festival. And those were for the mayor’s luncheon. The mayor who hates roses.” “He hates everything that grows, including his own hair.” “Don’t be unkind. He can’t help his scalp’s choices.” “Your napkin doesn’t have choices. It has fingerprints.” “That’s why we wear gloves.” “Not everyone does. I saw someone yesterday—someone with garden soil under their nails—asking for a dozen macarons and a spare napkin.” “A dozen? Who buys a dozen when they only have one secret?” “Someone planning to bribe a judge. Or feed a witness.” “Or lure a dog away from a rosebush.” “Dogs don’t eat macarons.” “People do. People who dig.”