Run: 2026-04-24-01KPZVA7WDKJZ2YFTVREAXAF5H

The bell above the door jingled as Margaret swept in, clutching her handbag like a shield. Flour dust motes danced in the morning light, and the smell of cinnamon wrapped around her like a shawl. "You've heard, then." "Heard? The whole town's heard. Edna Pritchard doesn't lose a prize-winning rosebush without making sure of it." "She thinks it was Harold." "Harold can barely bend down to tie his shoes, let alone dig up a rosebush in the dead of night." "That's what I said. But you know Edna." A pause, filled with the soft thump of dough against the marble counter. "Two scones or three today?" "Three. And a cruller, if you've got one left." "For you, always." "The odd thing is, I saw Marcus Bell walking past her garden Tuesday evening. Carrying a shovel." The kneading stopped. "A shovel?" "A shovel. And he had that look about him—you know the one." "The look he had before the business with the mailboxes?" "Precisely that look." "Well. That changes things, doesn't it?" "I rather thought it might. Another coffee, while we think it over?" "Pour two. This is going to take some considering."