Run: 2026-05-29-01KSSJJHRWBC2GAVMX1XBFDVCW

The bell above the door chimed as the morning light spilled across the flour-dusted counter. "You're here early. Couldn't sleep either?" "How could I? After what happened to poor Mr. Abernathy at the church social, the whole town's gone sideways." "Keep your voice down. The walls in this place are thinner than my pie crust." "I'm just saying, it's strange. He'd been coming here every Tuesday for twenty years. Same order. Two cinnamon rolls and a black coffee." "And yesterday?" "That's the thing. Yesterday he asked for the lemon tart. Said someone recommended it." "Who would recommend the lemon tart? I only made three of them, and they were special order for the Whitcombs." "Exactly. So how did Mr. Abernathy end up eating one?" A long silence settled between them, broken only by the soft tick of the oven timer. "You don't think—" "I don't know what to think. But I do know the sheriff was asking about my recipes this morning. Wanted to know if I use almond extract." "You don't, do you?" "Never have. But somebody's lemon tart did. And Mr. Abernathy was allergic to almonds. Everyone in this town knew that." "Everyone," came the quiet reply, "except whoever made that tart."