Run: 2026-07-09-01KX3ZZB8CJJWCBBB6DTFM367J

The bell over Buttercup Bakery’s door gave its usual cheerful jingle, though nothing felt cheerful about the muddy footprint on the white-tiled floor. “You see that?” “I have eyes, don’t I?” “It leads straight from the back door to the display case.” “And stops beneath my lemon tarts.” Mabel set down a tray of scones. Outside, rain polished Main Street and turned the courthouse clock into a wavering blur. “No customer came in wearing boots like that.” “No customer came in at all before seven-thirty.” “Then someone was here before opening.” “A thief, perhaps?” “If they were after money, they ignored the till.” “If they were after pastries, they ignored the cinnamon rolls. No respectable criminal would do that.” A soft clink came from beneath the glass case. Both women froze. “Was that the tart plate?” “It sounded like the tart plate.” “Do you suppose a mouse could lift silver?” “Not unless it inherited strong shoulders.” Mabel bent, peering through the glass. Nestled beside the lemon tarts was a small brass key, its bow stamped with a tiny blackbird. “Oh, dear.” “You know whose key that is.” “I know whose bird that is.” “The mayor’s.” “And the mayor was found unconscious beside the fountain at dawn.” The oven timer rang brightly behind them. “Well,” Mabel murmured, “at least the scones aren’t murder.”