Run: 2026-04-27-01KQ74GF1C950WMSB4WTFC5PAZ

The oven timer dinged. Dust motes danced in afternoon light on the flour-dusted tables. Burnt sugar masked the metallic tang of fear. "You're humming again. That means you're nervous, or you've just solved a murder." "It means the sourdough is perfect. Unlike some people who leave muddy boots on the evidence counter." "These aren't boots. And it wasn't evidence. It was a warning." A bell jingled. A customer entered. Neither baker looked up. One kneaded rhythmically, the other scrubbed the counter with aggressive circles. "Mrs. Higgins wants the scones. She mentioned you were arguing with the vicar near the crypt." "We weren't arguing. We were debating theology. And the location of the missing parish funds." "The vicar turned pale when you mentioned the safe. You must have slipped up." "I slipped nothing. I simply mentioned I'd found a receipt in the confessional. A receipt for a very expensive necklace, signed in a hand I recognized." "Oh, dear. Did you say whose hand?" "That's why I'm kneading. So the dough doesn't hear me whisper it." "Well, whisper faster. The vicar is heading this way, and he's wearing that red velvet sash."