Run: 2026-07-01-01KWE8TT7F38PY8APHW70MXZ19

The bell above the door chimed as Margaret wiped flour from her hands onto her apron, glancing up at the morning's first customer. "You heard about the Fletcher house, didn't you?" "Heard what? That the roof finally caved in?" "No—someone's been poking around the garden at night. Old Mrs. Fletcher swears she saw a light moving through the hedges." "Probably raccoons. Or teenagers with nothing better to do." "Raccoons don't leave footprints in dress shoes." Margaret paused, cinnamon roll halfway to the display case. "Dress shoes?" "That's what she told the sheriff. Size eleven, she thinks. Pressed right into the mud by the rose bushes." "And nobody's missing anything? No break-in?" "Nothing gone. That's the strange part. Whoever it was, they weren't there to steal." "Then what were they after?" "Maybe they were looking for something that's already buried." The words hung in the warm, sugar-scented air. Margaret set the tray down slowly, forgetting the customers waiting behind the counter. "You're not talking about—" "The necklace. The one that disappeared the night old man Fletcher died." "That was thirty years ago." "Some things don't stay buried forever." The oven timer buzzed, sharp and sudden, and neither of them moved to silence it.