Run: 2026-06-01-01KT1JA7RMYW3SYQA5Z5Q77G3G

The bell above the door chimed as warm air rushed out, thick with cinnamon and butter. "You're here early. Couldn't sleep either?" "How could anyone sleep? Poor Mr. Whitfield, found cold as yesterday's scones behind the post office." "Lower your voice. Mrs. Pruitt's by the window, and you know she repeats everything." "Let her. Everyone's already whispering. They say it was his heart." "His heart was fine. I saw him jogging past here Tuesday, fit as a fiddle and twice as cheerful." "Then what? You don't think someone—" "I think someone wanted his property, that's what I think. That developer's been sniffing around for months, and Whitfield was the only holdout." "You can't go accusing people based on a hunch." "It's not a hunch. It's a pattern. First the Hendersons sold after their barn fire, then the Coles after that 'accident' with the tractor." "That's just bad luck." "Bad luck doesn't wear a tailored suit and drive a silver sedan. Hand me that rolling pin, would you?" "You're baking? Now?" "I think better with flour on my hands. Besides, the funeral's tomorrow, and somebody has to bring something to the reception." "And while you're there—" "While I'm there, I'll listen. People always talk over cake."