Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ0N1SJR7DZH340QTNKDNWGH

The bell over Buttercup Bakery’s door gave its usual bright jingle, though the street outside lay hushed beneath a quilt of morning fog. Warm cinnamon and yeast curled through the shop, softening even the sharp edges of worry. “You’re early.” “So are you.” “I own the place.” “And I own a key to the town hall, which is why I know the mayor’s desk was locked last night.” A tray of sugared buns slid onto the counter, golden and fragrant. Behind the glass case, lemon tarts sat in neat, sunny rows. “Then how did his speech end up tucked inside my flour bin?” “I was hoping you’d tell me.” “If I were hiding evidence, I’d choose somewhere less dusty.” “That paper had raspberry jam on the corner.” “Half this town has raspberry jam on its fingers by noon.” “Not the mayor. He hates seeds.” A pause settled between the ticking wall clock and the low hum of the ovens. “Mrs. Peabody bought a raspberry thumbprint yesterday. Said it was for her nephew.” “She doesn’t have a nephew.” “No. But she does have a grudge about the new parking meters.” “And a key to the back alley, if memory serves.” The bell jingled again. “Speak of the devil.” “Smile. And hide the speech under the éclairs.”