Run: 2026-07-09-01KX40GWXXAEE5M8R1PXVMZMKV

By eight, the bakery windows had fogged with warmth, and cinnamon drifted onto Willow Lane. Clara arranged cherry scones beneath the glass dome while Mr. Pritchard stood rigid beside the flour-dusted counter, clutching a silver teaspoon. “You’re certain this is the one?” “It has my initials. E.P., right there on the handle.” “So it does. Though anyone might own such a spoon.” “Anyone might. But not everyone lost one in the mayor’s study last night.” A tray clattered in the kitchen. Both glanced toward the swinging door. “You said you went straight home after the council meeting.” “I did.” “Then how did your spoon travel from your waistcoat pocket to a locked room?” “Perhaps it walked.” “On tiny silver legs?” “This isn’t amusing, Clara.” “No. The mayor missing and your spoon beside an untouched cup of tea is deeply inconvenient.” Outside, the church clock chimed. Clara lifted the scone dome and frowned. One pastry bore a neat crescent where a cherry should have been. “Did you touch these?” “I haven’t eaten since yesterday.” “That wasn’t my question.” “No.” Clara pinched something from the empty cherry hollow: a curl of blue wax. “The mayor seals his private letters with blue wax.” “And?” “And someone hid a message in my scones.” The kitchen door creaked open. “Then whoever did it may still be here.” Clara reached beneath the counter for the rolling pin. “Lock the front door.”