Run: 2026-04-25-01KQ2HHJNAZ49D7PP0PRKVG5RV

“That’s the third time this morning you’ve looked out the window instead of icing those scones.” “Melba Cartwright’s been standing across the street for almost an hour. She’s not even pretending to shop at the hardware store.” “Maybe she’s waiting for the mail.” “The mail came at ten. It’s almost noon now.” “What’s she wearing?” “That awful mustard-yellow cardigan she always wears when she’s nervous. She only wears it to funerals and—well, and when she’s about to tell someone something they don’t want to hear.” “You don’t think she found out about the missing petty cash from the church bazaar?” “That was three months ago. Nobody found out about that except you and me and Father O’Malley, and he’s not talking.” “Then what?” “She’s moving. Look—she just looked at her watch. She’s working up to something.” “Maybe she’s coming in here.” “She hates my cinnamon rolls. Says they’re too sweet. She wouldn’t cross the street for them.” “The door’s opening. And there she is. Told you.” “Morning, Melba. What can I get you?” “I’m not here for pastries. I need to ask you both something. Something about Gladys Putterman’s last batch of shortbread. The ones she brought to the knitting circle before she… well, before she passed.” A long silence. The scent of vanilla hung heavy. “What about them, Melba?” “They tasted off. But not like burnt. Like medicine. And I was thinking—Gladys never used vanilla extract. She always used almond.” Another silence. The cinnamon rolls sat forgotten. “You’re saying someone swapped the bottles.” “I’m not saying anything yet. I’m just asking questions. And I’m going to need a coffee. Black. Two sugars.”