Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ0PHSK672V8QCZCPZ4X3SS3

The bell over Honeycrust Bakery’s door gave its usual timid jingle, nearly lost beneath the hiss of the espresso machine and the rain ticking against the windows. Warm cinnamon clung to the air, though the tray of apple buns on the counter sat untouched. “You’re early.” “Couldn’t sleep.” “On account of the mayor turning up dead behind the flour mill, or on account of the button I found in the lemon tart box?” A pause settled between the glass case and the cooling racks. “You shouldn’t have told anyone about that.” “I didn’t. I’m telling you.” “That’s worse.” “It’s mother-of-pearl, isn’t it? From a man’s cuff. Expensive.” “Lots of men own fancy cuffs.” “Not in Briar Glen. Not unless they want everyone to know.” A gust pushed the door open an inch, and both glanced toward the empty sidewalk, where puddles trembled under the striped awning. “The sheriff thinks it was a drifter.” “The sheriff also thinks my sourdough starter is a pet.” “Fair point.” “Yesterday, the mayor bought six lemon tarts. Said they were for the council meeting.” “There wasn’t a council meeting.” “No.” The oven timer chimed, bright and cheerful. “So who were the tarts for?” “That’s what I hoped you’d tell me.” “Why me?” “Because your missing cuff has five buttons.”