Run: 2026-03-09-01KKABX1DST5PVCEP5Y2BGARY9

The bell over the bakery door gave its usual cheerful jingle, though the mood inside Buttercrumbs felt anything but cheerful. Cinnamon hung warm in the air, fighting a losing battle against the smell of burnt sugar from the abandoned tray of éclairs. “You’re early.” “You’re out of cardamom knots. That counts as a local emergency.” “Today, I’ve got a real one.” The woman behind the counter set down a sifter with a soft puff of flour. Morning light caught on the glass case, where lemon bars sat in neat rows beside a cake no one had iced. “Tell me that’s not Chief Mercer’s hat on table three.” “It is.” “And tell me Chief Mercer isn’t upstairs.” “He is.” “With a warrant?” “With indigestion, probably. But also questions.” A pause settled between the trays and teacups. “About Mr. Bellweather?” “About his being found facedown behind the feed store with one of my blueberry tarts in his bicycle basket.” “That doesn’t make you a killer. It makes you the best baker in Maple Hollow.” “It makes me the last person known to have argued with him in public.” “Half the town argued with him in public.” “Yes, but I threw a rolling pin.” “Did you hit him?” “The shelf of pie birds. Very dramatically.” The door to the stairs creaked. “Do I look nervous?” “You look frosted. Here—straighten your apron. And whatever happens, don’t offer the chief a scone.” “Why not?” “Because if he likes it, he’ll stay longer.”