Run: 2026-07-01-01KWE9F78G8PV1NKARXRXW41KP

The bell above the door chimed as Margaret stepped inside, the smell of cinnamon and fresh bread wrapping around her like a shawl. She made her way to the counter, where Eleanor was already wiping down the same spot for the third time. "You heard, then." "The whole town's heard. Old Mr. Finch, dead in his greenhouse. Found this morning by the paperboy." "Heart attack, they're saying." "Are they? Funny thing, though—Finch hated tomatoes. Wouldn't touch them. So why was there a basket of them sitting right by his chair?" Margaret paused, her hand hovering over a blueberry scone. "Maybe someone brought them as a gift." "Maybe. Or maybe someone wanted it to look like he'd been out there gardening, when really he never set foot in that greenhouse without his gloves. And his gloves were nowhere in sight." "You've been thinking about this all morning, haven't you?" "I think better with flour on my hands." "So who do you suspect?" "His nephew visited yesterday. Ordered a dozen of my lemon tarts—paid in cash, wouldn't meet my eyes. Then this morning, gone before sunrise." Margaret set down her purse, all thoughts of pastries forgotten. "Tell me everything."