Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ0PYNGRWQD3NVMJR4H7PVGA

The bell over the bakery door gave its usual cheerful jangle, though the morning felt anything but cheerful. Rain streaked the front window, blurring the painted letters of Buttercup Bakery, and the scent of cinnamon rolls hung warm and sweet over the empty tables. “You’re early.” “So was the police chief.” “That’s not something you say before coffee.” “He asked about the cherry turnovers from yesterday.” “Half the town bought cherry turnovers yesterday.” “Not the one with the silver button baked into it.” The oven ticked softly behind the counter. A tray of scones cooled beside a flour-dusted rolling pin. “A button?” “From a man’s cuff. Monogrammed. H.W.” “Harlan Whitcomb.” “That was my thought.” “Harlan hasn’t worn cufflinks since the church picnic scandal.” “Maybe someone wanted us to think of him.” “Or maybe someone lost a button while hiding something in my kitchen.” The rain tapped harder, and somewhere in the back, the old mixer creaked as if settling into the silence. “I found this under the sugar sacks.” “That’s a library card.” “Belonging to Miss Pruitt.” “The librarian who swore she never eats sweets?” “Especially not cherry turnovers.” “Well, butter my biscuits.” “Exactly.” “We’re going to the library.” “After coffee.” “And cinnamon rolls.” “Two.” “Three. Detecting is hungry work.”