Run: 2026-03-09-01KKAC16KNR7R8F587Z3NP8Z1T

The bell over the bakery door gave its usual tinny jingle, though everything else in Buttercup Bakes felt wrong. The cinnamon rolls gleamed under their icing, the coffee steamed in the glass pot, and yet the entire shop seemed to be holding its breath. “You moved the gingerbread man.” “I did not.” “He’s always on the left side of the cash register.” “Maybe he finally got tired of watching you overcount nickels.” Flour dust floated in the morning light. Outside, Maple Street was just waking up, but inside the bakery a single square of paper lay on the counter, tucked beneath the sugar jar. “That wasn’t there when I opened.” “What is it?” “A recipe card. No, wait. It’s written on the back.” “Read it.” “‘Meet me where the dough rises. Come alone.’ Well. That’s cheerful.” “Someone’s playing a prank.” “With your cardamom buns missing from the cooling rack? I’m not so sure.” A tray clinked softly as it was set down too hard. The sourdough loaves, lined up like suspicious old men, seemed to listen. “You think the note and the missing buns are connected?” “In this town? A missing pastry is always connected to something.” “That is the most dramatic thing ever said before seven-thirty.” “There’s more.” “Of course there’s more.” “Look at the corner.” “That’s... a smear of blue frosting.” “Exactly. Only one person in Marigold makes blue frosting before breakfast.” “Edith Pomeroy.” “And Edith Pomeroy has been dead since Tuesday.”