Run: 2026-03-06-01KK1HDWNMK6KQN6VSY47D2B8T

The bell above the bakery door gave its polite little jingle as a gust of October air slipped in, carrying leaves and the smell of chimney smoke. Behind the glass case, rows of cinnamon buns gleamed under a drizzle of icing, and somewhere in back a mixer thumped like a sleepy heartbeat. “You’re late.” “I had to walk around the square twice. Your window display is causing a traffic hazard.” “That’s the pumpkin tarts. People lose all sense around nutmeg.” “Or around gossip.” A tray landed on the counter with a soft clink. “If you came for a scone, they’re still warm. If you came to pry, you’ll have to buy two.” “Fine. Two blueberry. And a straight answer.” “There are no straight answers in a bakery. Only crooked éclairs.” A laugh slipped out, quickly smothered. Outside, someone passed by with a rake over one shoulder, pausing just long enough to peer in. “So it’s true, then.” “If you mean did I find Mayor Welling’s hat in my flour delivery at six this morning, yes.” “His hat?” “With the library committee pin still attached.” “That doesn’t make any sense.” “Neither did the muddy footprints by the back door.” The espresso machine hissed sharply, as if in warning. “You think someone was here last night.” “I think someone wanted me to find it.” “And you still opened at seven?” “In this town? Murder can wait. The cinnamon rolls can’t.”