Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ0G9WZYCQHXFXJV6S0VVEJN

The bell above the door jingled as Margaret swept in, clutching her handbag like a shield. "You heard about Harold, didn't you?" "Heard? Dorothy, I found the man. Face-down in my sourdough starter at five this morning." "No." "Yes. Ten years I've kept that starter alive, and now the police have it in an evidence bag." "Well, that's not the worst of it." "It isn't?" "His wife was in here yesterday. Three o'clock, sharp. Ordered a dozen of those little lemon tarts. The ones with the candied ginger." "Helen doesn't like ginger. She told me so at the Harvest Festival." "Exactly." "Hand me that rolling pin, would you? I need something to hold while I think." "And Harold was allergic to ginger, wasn't he? Last Christmas, at the Pendletons', he nearly died from that gingerbread." "Mercy. You don't suppose—" "I suppose quite a lot of things before breakfast these days." "Dorothy Finch, we are not detectives." "No. We're bakers. Which means we know exactly who bought what, when, and whether they paid in cash." "...I'll put the kettle on." "Put on two. We've got a list to make."