Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ0NBWYNR25ZNRWCEF79J633

The bell above the bakery door gave its usual sugared jingle, though the morning felt anything but sweet. Rain ticked against the windows, and the scent of cinnamon rolls couldn’t quite cover the sharp tang of lemon polish on the floor. “You moved the raspberry tarts.” “They were on the counter when I locked up.” “They’re in the cold case now, right beside the éclairs.” “That’s impossible. Unless Mrs. Peabody came back for them.” “She came back for her umbrella, not tarts. And she was wearing gloves.” “Everyone in Briar Glen wears gloves when it rains.” “Not flour-dusted ones.” A pause settled between the display cases. Outside, a bicycle splashed past, its basket wrapped in oilcloth. “Look at this tray.” “That’s not raspberry.” “No. Currant jam. From the church pantry.” “The jar that went missing after the fundraiser?” “And whoever used it left a thumbprint in the glaze.” “Please tell me you didn’t touch it.” “With these hands? I haven’t even iced the scones.” “Then we call Constable Finch.” “Or we find out why someone broke into my bakery to bake six perfect tarts.” “Five.” “What?” “There are only five.” In the warm silence, the oven timer dinged. From the back room came a soft clink, like a spoon against china.