Run: 2026-05-31-01KSYXA7ECDZYWSM85JWVWBWDH

The bell above the door chimed as warm air rushed out, thick with cinnamon and yeast. "You're here early. The scones aren't even out yet." "I didn't come for the scones. I came because Margaret Whitfield was found this morning, and you were the last person to see her alive." A pause. The soft thud of dough hitting the floured counter. "That's quite an accusation to make before sunrise." "It's not an accusation. It's a question. She bought a dozen of your lemon tarts yesterday afternoon. The receipt was in her purse." "Half the town buys my lemon tarts. That doesn't make me a murderer." "No one said murder. Why would you assume murder?" The rolling pin stopped moving. "Small town. People talk. A woman dies suddenly, tongues wag. You're wagging yours right now." "She was poisoned. The doctor's certain. And those tarts of hers—every one had a single bite taken out, then set aside. Like she tasted something wrong." "Then perhaps she had a delicate palate." "Or perhaps someone wanted me to think it was the tarts." "You're clever for a baker's apprentice." "And you're awfully calm for an innocent woman." Flour drifted between them, settling like snow on the silence. "Sit down. I'll put the kettle on."