Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ0NN8MPTGRGRJZKFB813HNJ

The bell over the bakery door gave its usual sugared jingle, though the morning felt anything but sweet. Rain silvered the windows, and the scent of cinnamon rolls curled around the empty tables. “You’re early.” “So are the police.” A tray clattered softly onto the counter. “They only asked questions.” “About Mr. Pritchard collapsing at the harvest supper?” “About the almond tart he ate before he did.” “But you don’t use almonds. Half the town knows that after Mrs. Vale’s allergy scare.” “Exactly.” Behind the display case, rows of lemon buns shone under glass, innocent as Sunday hats. On the flour-dusted worktable lay a torn scrap of blue paper, caught beneath the rolling pin. “What’s that?” “I found it tucked under the tart box.” “It’s a receipt.” “From Hartley’s Hardware.” “For rat poison?” “And signed with my name.” The rain tapped harder, as if eager to hear more. “That’s a clumsy frame.” “Clumsy, unless everyone believes a baker knows how to hide bitter flavors.” “Did anyone come into the kitchen yesterday?” “Half the committee. Mayor Bell, Dora Finch, that choir director with the nervous hands.” “And Mr. Pritchard’s nephew?” A pause settled between the warm ovens and cooling racks. “He brought the tart box.” “Then I think we’d better save that scrap.” “And the last slice?” “Especially the last slice.”