Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ0GE7ZJH65HJHAA2QHZF643

The bell above the door jingled as Margaret slipped inside, shaking rain from her umbrella. "You're late. The cinnamon rolls are already sold out." "I didn't come for cinnamon rolls. I came because Harold Pembleton is dead." A long pause. The clatter of a tray being set down too quickly. "Dead how?" "Dead in his greenhouse. Face-down in the petunias, if you can believe it." "I can believe it. The man had the blood pressure of a teakettle." "It wasn't his blood pressure, Dot. There was a teacup beside him. Still warm." "And?" "And it was one of yours. The blue willow pattern with the chipped handle." "I sell a dozen of those a week with the afternoon tea special. That doesn't mean anything." "It means he was with someone. Someone who knew him well enough to share a pot." "Well, don't look at me like that. I was here kneading dough at four this morning, same as every morning." "I'm not looking at you like anything. I'm looking at you like I need a scone and your very good memory." "In that case, sit down. The lemon ones are fresh, and I remember everything."