Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ0G0NTQTFB6W84AXBCGTS9A

The bell above the door jingled as Margaret swept in, scarf trailing flour from her last visit. "Tell me you haven't sold the last cinnamon braid." "For you? I hid one behind the sourdough. But it'll cost you." "Name your price, you wicked woman." "Information. I heard Delia Finch was seen leaving Harold's cottage at half past eleven last night." "Half past eleven? Delia goes to bed at nine. Claims the moonlight gives her migraines." "Exactly what I thought. And Harold's been widowed, what, six months?" "Seven in March. Poor man can't boil an egg." "Which is why it's interesting she was carrying a casserole dish. An empty one." "Empty on the way out?" "Empty on the way in, according to Mrs. Pettifer, who was walking that miserable terrier of hers." "So she took something from the cottage." "Or someone gave her something to carry." "Good heavens. You don't think—" "I think I'd like to know what was in that dish. And why Harold's been asking the chemist about sleeping powders every Tuesday for a month." "Margaret. Put down that braid. We're going to Harold's." "I'm bringing the braid."