Run: 2026-03-12-01KKHZRM4T1W4CKSZXSFEMXYCT

The scent of warm cinnamon rolls wrapped around the little bakery like a hug as the morning light slanted through the gingham curtains. “I still say it was Mrs. Pickering. That woman has a grudge against every hydrangea on Maple Street.” “Only because her prize roses keep losing at the county fair. Doesn’t mean she’d poison the lemonade at the church picnic.” A soft clink of coffee mugs. “Besides, the coroner said it was nightshade. Mrs. Pickering grows nothing but roses and complaints.” “Exactly. Who else in town even knows what nightshade looks like?” The oven timer buzzed. A tray of golden scones slid onto the wooden counter between them. “Old Mr. Henderson keeps a whole poison garden behind his shed. Calls it his ‘historical collection.’” “Mr. Henderson can barely remember his own address. You really think he’s mixing herbal death cocktails?” A thoughtful pause filled with the rustle of wax paper. “Well, someone slipped those berries into the punch. And if it wasn’t Mrs. Pickering and it wasn’t Mr. Henderson…” “Then we have a bigger problem than bruised egos and bad pie recipes.” The bell above the door tinkled as a customer stepped in, and both voices dropped to a conspiratorial hush.