Run: 2026-07-09-01KX4008QRSZER8ZEZFJ7FF56Z

The bell above Honeycomb Bakery’s door gave a nervous jingle as rain swept along Maple Street. Inside, the ovens glowed, and cinnamon sweetened the air. “You’re early.” “You’re hiding something.” “Those are not mutually exclusive.” A tray of blackberry scones landed on the counter. Beyond the steamed window, Sheriff Bell’s car sat crooked beside the fountain, blue lights blinking against the wet cobbles. “Did you hear about Mr. Pritchard?” “Everyone has. Mrs. Finch ordered six éclairs and told twelve people.” “He was found holding one of your pastry bags.” “So are half the respectable citizens in town.” “There was a brass key inside.” The rolling pin stopped mid-stroke. “What kind of key?” “Small. Old. Engraved with a bee.” Rain rattled the glass. In the kitchen, the timer chimed, bright and innocent. “You’ve seen it before.” “I’ve seen the mark. My grandmother stamped it on everything she owned—pie tins, recipe books, even the cellar door.” “The cellar you told me was bricked up?” “The cellar that was bricked up.” A floorboard creaked beneath the flour-dusted rug. “That came from downstairs.” “Bakeries settle.” “Bakeries don’t cough.” Silence followed, then a muffled sneeze rose beneath their feet. “Lock the front door.” “Why?” “Because either Mr. Pritchard isn’t dead, or someone else wants the last blackberry scone.”