Run: 2026-06-01-01KT1H4A9FDK9KWKBQ633EC5JD

The bell above the door chimed as Margaret wiped flour from her hands onto her apron. "Two dozen lemon bars, and I swear they're for the church social, not because you're sweet on Pastor Whitfield." "Honestly, Marge, the man has discerning taste. That's all." "The man has discerning teeth. Yours are a different story." Marge laughed, reaching for the display case. "Speaking of discerning, did you hear about Dolores? Found a whole sack of her prize-winning rhubarb stems sliced clean through this morning. Right at the base." "Every single one?" "Every last stalk. And her entry was due at the fair tomorrow. Fifteen years she's taken blue ribbon." Outside, the morning light caught the old streetlamps lining Main. A delivery truck rumbled past, its brakes squealing at the corner of Birch and Holloway. "Well. I suppose someone finally got tired of losing to her." "Margaret, that is *terrible*." "I didn't say I did it. I said someone did." She slid a box across the counter, lemon bars nestled in wax paper. "You know who was over there last night? Hank Briggs. Came in around seven wanting a pie. Pecan. Seemed nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs."