Run: 2026-03-09-01KK9Q7AG9TZ5FWE9A534G6DWQ

The bell over the bakery door gave its familiar tinny jingle, and warm air smelling of cinnamon, yeast, and orange zest rolled out to meet the rain-damp morning. Behind the glass case, berry scones sat in neat rows beside a single lemon tart with one slice missing. A dusting of flour still lingered over the counter like pale fog. “You’re early.” “You’re open.” “Barely. I haven’t even had coffee.” “That explains why your icing looks like a threat.” “It always looks like a threat. People find that charming.” Outside, Main Street shone slick and empty, but inside the bakery everything felt snug except for the folded newspaper lying by the till. The front page showed a black-and-white photograph of the mayor’s annual Founders Day pie contest. “You saw it, then.” “Hard not to. ‘Prizewinning cherry pie disappears before judging.’ Little dramatic for Brambleford Gazette, isn’t it?” “It’s not the headline that bothers me.” “The flour on the mayor’s cuffs?” “The pie server in his pocket.” A tray clinked softly as it was set down. For a moment, only the hum of the refrigerator filled the room. “You think he stole his own contest pie?” “I think somebody wanted us to think he did.” “Us?” “You, specifically.” “Me?” “Your bakery box was found behind the bandstand.” “That’s impossible.” “So is vanilla being sold out before eight, and yet here we are.” Another pause, heavier now. “Tell me you still have yesterday’s receipt book.” “Tell me you’re staying for coffee.”