Run: 2026-03-09-01KK9Q40QBQS3JKVQTCV2726AJ

The bell over the bakery door gave its usual polite jingle, though nothing else about the morning felt polite. Cinnamon and yeast warmed the little shop, and the glass case glowed with apricot danishes, almond twists, and a lemon tart no one had touched since the sheriff came through at dawn. Mabel dusted flour from the counter and glanced at the empty corner table by the window, where old Mr. Pritchard had sat every Thursday for ten years. “You’ve iced exactly twelve buns and stared at that chair forty times.” “Thirty-eight.” “So you counted.” “I count when I’m worried.” The espresso machine hissed like it had an opinion. Outside, Main Street moved slowly under a pale spring drizzle. “They really think he stole the church fund?” “They think he knew who did.” “That’s not the same thing.” “In a town this size, it may as well be.” A tray of scones came from the oven, fragrant with rosemary and cheddar. Mabel set it down harder than necessary. “He left this.” A folded receipt sat on the counter, smudged with butter. On the back, in Mr. Pritchard’s neat block letters, were three words: blue ribbon, cellar, Tuesday. “That isn’t a grocery list.” “No. And Tuesday was the night Mrs. Dalrymple’s silver went missing.” “You’re not thinking what I’m thinking.” “If you’re thinking we should mind our own business, then absolutely not.”