Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ06V3AZP0P5H8S9J755A90X

"Marjorie, you simply cannot serve the lemon tarts today." "And whyever not? Mrs. Henderson already paid for two dozen, and the church social starts at noon." "Because I saw exactly what happened to the sugar bowl behind the counter. The one with the chipped blue rim." "Don't be dramatic, Claire. It's cane sugar, same as always." "It's cane sugar mixed with something else. Something white and powdery that came from a tiny vial in a stranger's coat pocket." "A vial? In my bakery? When?" "During the morning rush. Tall man, tweed cap, asked for three scones and kept his left hand buried deep in his pocket. I was wiping the pastry case when I saw him sprinkle it all over the work surface near your mixing bowls." "Then why on earth didn't you stop him?" "Because I was crouched behind the sourdough rack, trying to remember where I'd left my reading glasses. By the time I realized they were on my own head, he'd vanished into the fog like a guilty shadow." "Claire, that was powdered vanilla. He brought it from home—he's terribly allergic to imitation extract, and he's far too polite to make a fuss." "Oh." "Yes. Oh. Now hand me the icing bag; these tarts won't glaze themselves, and I won't have the Ladies' Auxiliary claiming I poisoned the vicar with wild imagination." "For the record, my instincts were spot-on. He was definitely acting suspiciously." "He was sneezing, dear. Pass the sprinkles."