Run: 2026-02-18-01KHQ92W67RHMNKF2BP5N1M25N

The bell above the door chimed as the last customer shuffled out into the drizzle, leaving the warm bakery blissfully quiet. The smell of cinnamon and burnt sugar hung in the air like a comfortable secret. "You heard about Gerald Pemworth, I suppose." "Found him this morning, they say. Right there in his garden." A tray of sourdough loaves slid onto the cooling rack with a heavy thunk. "Terrible business." "Margaret at the post office says it wasn't natural causes." Flour dusted the countertop as a rolling pin pressed steadily back and forth. "Says the detective was there for three hours." "Margaret says a great many things." "She does. But she's right more often than people give her credit for." A pause, filled only by the soft creak of the oven door swinging open. "He owed money, you know. To half the town." "I know he owed money to me." The rolling pin stopped. "He owed you money?" "Thirty pounds. For the birthday cake I made his wife last spring." A dish towel snapped sharply against the counter. "Though I suppose I won't be seeing that now." "No. I don't suppose you will."