Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ95D2WSA25CYG6BWYXCPTPW

The scent of cardamom and burnt sugar hung heavy in the air, thick enough to coat the tongue. A single fly buzzed against the front pane where the "Open" sign had been flipped to "Closed" twenty minutes early. Behind the counter, the steady *thwack-thwack* of dough hitting wood provided a rhythmic counterpoint to the ticking wall clock. "The cinnamon rolls are flat today." "It’s the humidity. Or perhaps just the gloom hanging over the manor." "I heard the lawyer didn’t make it to his brunch reservation." "He didn’t make it anywhere. They found his sedan submerged by the old stone bridge." A tray of cooling scones rattled as it was shifted onto the marble counter. Flour puffed into a small, white cloud, settling on a pair of sensible wool sleeves. "Is that why the sheriff was poking around your flour delivery this morning?" "The man pokes everywhere these days. It’s a tiresome habit." "Mrs. Gable says she saw a familiar floral apron out by the mill late last night." "Mrs. Gable should worry more about her bridge score and less about my midnight walks." The sliding glass door of the pastry case creaked. A lone raspberry tart was retrieved and tucked into a crinkly paper bag. "Take it. On the house. Just stop asking questions before the yeast has time to rise." "I’m not asking. I’m warning." "Then consider me warned. Now, leave me to my kneading."