Run: 2026-07-09-01KX40GEV9Y7JQ79CCHJP4Z904

The bell above the bakery door chimed, stirring the warm scent of cinnamon and yeast. “You’re early.” “You’re hiding something.” “Those are not mutually exclusive.” A tray clattered onto the counter. Outside, rain silvered the empty street, blurring the florist’s striped awning and the courthouse clock. “I found this beneath the flour sacks.” A small brass key landed beside the iced buns. “That could open anything.” “It opened Mr. Pritchard’s desk.” “You tried it?” “After what happened at the pie contest, curiosity seemed prudent.” “Breaking and entering is rarely prudent.” “The desk was already broken. And the ledger inside had three pages torn out.” The oven ticked as it cooled. “You think his death wasn’t an accident.” “I think people don’t usually fall into millponds carrying six hundred pounds in cash.” “He had cash?” “In an envelope marked ‘Bakery Renovation Fund.’” “That fund vanished last spring.” “Exactly.” Footsteps splashed along the pavement outside. A shadow paused behind the fogged glass. “Put the key away.” “Why?” “Because our mayor just crossed the street, and he’s supposed to be in Brighton.” The bell jingled. A gust of wet air swept through the room. The key disappeared beneath a tea towel. “Smile.” “I am smiling.” “That’s the expression you wore when the fruitcake caught fire.” “Then let’s hope His Worship mistakes guilt for hospitality.”