Run: 2026-03-06-01KK1GRBVBAVWAW63YS8Y7TM38

The bell above the bakery door gave a polite jingle each time the wind worried it. Morning light pooled over the glass case, turning the apricot danishes to stained glass and the sugared scones to little drifts of snow. Somewhere in back, a mixer thumped like a steady heart. “Tell me that is not another pie.” “It is absolutely another pie.” “You made three before sunrise.” “Four. The cherry is cooling by the window.” “June, when people bring sympathy casseroles, they usually don’t also bring rumors.” “I didn’t bring the rumors. I baked near them.” The cinnamon in the air almost hid the sharp smell of coffee. On the corner table sat a folded newspaper, its headline black and alarming beside a plate of untouched shortbread. “They’ve printed his name already?” “Page one, above the grain prices.” “That poor man. Though I always said anyone who wears cuff links to a town council meeting is begging for trouble.” “That is not a character flaw, that is accessorizing.” “There was mud on his doorstep.” “There is mud on everyone’s doorstep. This is Maple Hollow, not Paris.” “Yes, but red mud. From Miller’s Creek.” A pause settled in, soft as flour dust. “Well.” “Well?” “Miller’s Creek is behind the old cannery.” “And the old cannery was locked.” “Not last night.” The bell over the door jingled again. “Smile. Here comes someone who either wants a muffin or answers.”