Run: 2026-07-09-01KX4037GANVY2TM5R6XWECMA0

By six o’clock, the last cinnamon buns had vanished from the glass case, and rain silvered the windows of Honeybell Bakery. Clara locked the door while Edwin examined a floury envelope beside the till. “That wasn’t there when I counted the receipts.” “It has your name on it.” “It also has a skull drawn where the stamp should be.” “A very cheerful skull. Look at those dimples.” “Edwin, please.” Clara opened the envelope with a cake server. Inside lay a brass key and a strip of paper smelling faintly of almonds. “‘Midnight. The old mill. Bring the ledger.’ What ledger?” “The one Mayor Finch accused your aunt of stealing twenty years ago.” “My aunt never stole anything except hotel soap.” “And my lemon tart recipe.” “She improved it.” Thunder rattled the bread tins. Edwin turned the key beneath the pendant lamp. A tiny number had been engraved along its shaft: 17. “That’s not for the mill. Its doors use iron keys.” “Locker seventeen at the railway station?” “The station closed in 1984.” “The lockers didn’t.” Clara glanced toward the kitchen. On the cooling rack, one Bakewell tart was missing. “You made twelve.” “I sold eleven.” A trail of powdered sugar crossed the floor and ended at the pantry door. “Someone’s still here.” “And they’ve eaten the evidence.” From inside the pantry came a delicate, unmistakable sneeze.