Run: 2026-03-18-01KM09VHJTW6APEB0F9ZC2PN5A

The bell over the door gave a tired jingle, and the whole bakery seemed to exhale warm cinnamon. Marigold Finch wiped her hands on her apron and leaned over the cooling rack, watching the rolls puff up like they had secrets to share. “Your custard tart is singing,” she murmured. “It’s not singing,” came the reply, soft but firm. “It’s hiding something. I tried a bite and it tastes like… almonds and trouble.” Marigold blinked. “That’s the frangipane. Trouble doesn’t come with a recipe card.” A floury knuckle tapped the counter. “Then why did Mrs. Dalrymple ask for extra vanilla yesterday, and then complain today that the filling was ‘too honest’?” Marigold leaned closer to the tart, as if listening. “Maybe she just has a poetic palate.” “If this town had one honest thing,” the voice said, “it wouldn’t be baked on Tuesdays. Besides, the delivery log shows no almond shipment.” Marigold’s eyes widened. “Unless someone smuggled it in.” “Or replaced something.” The other person picked up the receipt she’d been holding. “Take a look at the signature.” Marigold swallowed. “That handwriting… it’s the same as the note in the evidence box.” Outside, the street went quiet. Inside, the tarts cooled—patiently—waiting to see who would confess first.