Run: 2026-05-20-01KS25S0GNBDYR0A184VF9RJ3D

The scent of warm cinnamon and yeast hung thick in the air, competing with the hum of the vintage refrigerator behind the counter. Outside, a gentle autumn rain tapped against the glass of the Bakery on Main, casting a cozy blur over the small harbor town. "I’m telling you, flour doesn't lie." "And I'm telling you, Clara, the man was dead before the first batch of croissants even went into the oven." "Explain the dusting on his boots, then. It wasn't standard baking flour. It was King Arthur’s Special Patent, the exact brand only the library committee orders for the annual bake-off." "He was the treasurer, not the baker." "Which is precisely why his boots shouldn't look like they’ve been wading through a snowdrift of unbleached white." A pair of silver tongs clicked rhythmically against a metal tray of freshly glazed scones. "You think someone poisoned the scone mix?" "I think someone wanted us to look at the scones so we wouldn't look at the sourdough starter." "Clara, that starter is eighty years old." "Exactly. The perfect place to hide a key."