Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ0GCH3DTZTAAT4RGQ55YWA6

The bell above the door jingled as Margot swept in, flour-dusted apron still tied around her waist. "You heard about Edwin, didn't you?" "Heard what? I've been elbow-deep in cinnamon rolls since four." "Found facedown in his prize-winning petunias. Mrs. Henley nearly fainted on her morning walk." "Oh, for heaven's sake. The man was ninety-two and drank gin like it was lemonade." "That's the thing, though. His back door was wide open, and Tibbles was sitting on the kitchen counter eating a whole roast chicken." "Tibbles eats everything. That cat once made off with my sourdough starter." "Edwin never left that door open. Not since the break-in at the Pritchards' in '09." "Hmm. Pour yourself some coffee. The ginger snaps are fresh." "And another thing—his reading glasses were on the garden bench, but his book was on the kitchen table. Open. To chapter twelve." "A man can set down his glasses." "Not Edwin. He wore them on a chain around his neck for forty years." "...Well." "Well, indeed." "I suppose we ought to finish these cinnamon rolls first." "Naturally. One doesn't investigate a murder on an empty stomach."