Run: 2026-03-09-01KK9Q9RY6MC1NN3M9434JGJKR

The bell over the bakery door gave a polite little jingle, and warm air smelling of cinnamon, yeast, and orange glaze folded around the front counter. Snow freckled the windowpanes. On the marble slab beside the register, six blackberry tarts cooled in neat rows—except for the empty circle where a seventh should have been. “You’re staring at that tray like it insulted your grandmother.” “It did worse. One tart is missing.” “Missing, or sold?” “I keep count. Especially this week.” “The Founders Day contest.” “And the judge who swears my crust is too cheerful.” A laugh slipped between the hanging copper pans. “Crust can’t be cheerful.” “Tell that to a retired dentist with a grudge.” Flour dust gleamed in the light from the ovens. Near the back door, a ribbon of melted snow trailed across the tile, ending beside a toppled sack of sugar. “That wasn’t there ten minutes ago.” “So someone came in through the alley.” “In weather like this, only for something worth stealing.” “Or hiding.” The mixer on the prep table ticked as it cooled. From the alley side came the faint scrape of a bin lid and then silence. “You heard that.” “I did.” “Please tell me you’ve got something sturdier than a rolling pin.” “There’s a cast-iron skillet under the counter.” “Comforting.” “You take the skillet. I’ll save the evidence.” “The evidence?” A folded recipe card lay half under the sugar sack, its corner smudged with purple filling. “Oh, this just became interesting.”