Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ0N5P8J5VKV7SKDKJJ4N7YE

The bell over the bakery door gave a sugared little jingle, and warm air rolled out smelling of cinnamon, butter, and rain-damp wool. Outside, Bramblewick’s high street shone with puddles; inside, rows of iced buns sat as prim as church ladies. “You’re early for lemon tarts.” “I’m not here for tarts.” “That’s a shame. People who aren’t here for tarts are usually here with trouble.” “Mrs. Finch found something in the flour bin this morning.” “If it was another mouse, tell her my ginger cat is available for consultations.” “It was a brooch. Silver. Shaped like a swallow.” The rolling pin paused on the dusted counter. “That old thing?” “You recognize it.” “Half the town would. Miss Peabody wore it every Thursday, pinned crooked over her heart.” “Miss Peabody hasn’t been seen since choir practice.” “And you think she crawled into my flour?” “I think someone wanted the brooch found here.” A tray of currant scones emerged from the oven, golden and innocent. For a moment, only the ticking wall clock spoke. “Then someone has a poor understanding of bakeries. Flour remembers.” “What do you mean?” “Boot prints in the spill by the pantry. Not mine. Not Mrs. Finch’s.” “Could you show me?” “After you buy a tart.” “This is official.” “Then buy two. Evidence makes me hungry.”