Run: 2026-03-06-01KK1GNTSRVKFY8YYFFMWYZTF6

The bakery bell gave its usual cheerful jingle as rain tapped at the front window and glazed the village green in silver. Warm air, sweet with cinnamon and brown sugar, wrapped around everything like a quilt. “You’ve burned them.” “I have not. They’re caramelized.” “They’re one shade away from charcoal.” “Then it’s a very sophisticated shade.” A tray of scones sat on the counter between a jar of striped straws and a vase of late daisies. Behind them, the old clock shaped like a teacup ticked with unnecessary drama. “You’re distracted.” “I’m busy.” “You put salt in the sugar tin.” “That was one time.” “This morning is still technically one time.” A soft huff. Then the scrape of a tray being shifted. “It was Mrs. Pembroke, wasn’t it?” “Why does everyone assume I know everything before breakfast?” “Because you usually do.” Outside, someone hurried past under a tartan umbrella. Inside, the espresso machine sighed. “She said the church fete money is missing.” There was a pause long enough for the clock to make itself important again. “How much?” “Enough for people to start whispering.” “That narrows it down to everyone in Marigold Lane.” “And she thinks it happened during yesterday’s pie auction.” “Convenient. Nothing encourages crime like competitive rhubarb.” Another silence, smaller this time. “You’re going, aren’t you?” “Well, someone has to ask questions.” “And someone has to stop you serving these scones to the public.”