Run: 2026-03-11-01KKFK0566TVBGYQQGF15T895A

Sun slanted through Honey Crust Bakery’s gingham curtains, dusting lemon poppyseed muffins cooling on the oak counter, cinnamon roll steam fogging the front window. The only people left were the two leaning over the linen counter, a half-empty mug of chamomile sweating between them. Said it was clasped around the handle of her wicker basket when she came in yesterday for a pear scone. Left the basket by the jam display to chat with Mabel outside, came back ten minutes later, and it was gone. Checked every display bin, swept the back storage twice, even fished the day’s trash out of the dumpster behind the general store. Nothing. Except this, tucked behind the salted butter dish when I unlocked up at five this morning. The small brass locket thudded onto the counter, its heart edge dented, the tiny engraved lily on its back half-scraped off. Who would sneak it back, but not hand it over face to face? Jesse, the handyman that fixed the oven’s pilot light yesterday. Saw him hovering by the jam shelf right after Mrs. Hale left. Didn’t even know he was back in town.