Run: 2026-07-09-01KX409E3A7J5TK6DFN27M426A

The bell above the bakery door gave a nervous jingle as rain tapped the windows. “You’re early.” “I could say the same about you.” “I own the place. Early is practically a job requirement.” “Then explain why there’s a dead man behind your flour delivery.” The whisk in Clara’s hand stopped midair. “Mr. Pritchard?” “Face-down, very much not kneading dough.” She glanced toward the kitchen, where the ovens hummed and cinnamon rolls cooled beneath a glass dome. “Did you touch anything?” “Only the door handle. And one éclair.” “Evidence?” “Breakfast.” “Put it back.” “I already ate it.” Clara lowered her voice. “No one can know yet. The morning crowd will be here in ten minutes.” “They’ll notice the body.” “Not if we move the delivery cart.” “That sounds like tampering.” “That sounds like keeping Mrs. Bell from fainting into the blueberry muffins.” A police siren wailed faintly somewhere beyond Main Street. “You called them?” “Of course.” “Then why are you locking the front door?” “Because whoever killed Pritchard may still be inside.” The ovens clicked. From the pantry came a soft scrape. Both of them stared at the narrow door. “That wasn’t the pipes,” he whispered. “No,” Clara said, reaching beneath the counter for the rolling pin. “And if it’s who I think it is, we’ve just run out of éclairs.”