Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ0P97DMDSPTEBZBXD1G277C

The bell over Sugar Maple Bakery’s door gave its usual sleepy jingle as rain tapped against the front windows. Behind the glass case, lemon bars sat in perfect yellow squares, and a tray of cinnamon rolls steamed beside the register. “You’re early.” “You always say that when I arrive before the muffins cool.” “That’s because respectable people wait for muffins to cool.” “Respectable people don’t hide envelopes under sacks of flour.” A wooden spoon clattered against the counter. “I don’t know what you mean.” “You left a dusting of flour on the seal. And your name is printed on the corner.” “That envelope is none of your business.” “It became my business when Mrs. Bellweather’s sapphire brooch turned up in the donation basket, wrapped in one of your pastry papers.” Outside, a truck hissed through a puddle. Inside, the bakery smelled of sugar, yeast, and something sharper—fear. “I didn’t steal anything.” “I didn’t say you did.” “Then why are you looking at me like that?” “Because whoever put the brooch there wanted everyone to look at you.” The oven timer chimed, bright and cheerful. “You believe me?” “I believe cinnamon rolls don’t lie, and yours were rising when the church fair started.” “That’s the strangest alibi I’ve ever had.” “It may also be the sweetest.”