Run: 2026-07-09-01KX40H21E0F9EGM96EHF6801B

The bell above the bakery door gave a nervous jingle as rain swept in from Maple Street. Inside, cinnamon rolls gleamed beneath glass domes, and the ovens breathed warm vanilla into every corner. “You’re early.” “You’re hiding something.” “I’m glazing scones.” “With the curtains closed?” “Sunlight fades the upholstery.” “It’s raining.” A tray clattered onto the counter. For a moment, only the old wall clock spoke, ticking above a chalkboard menu that promised lemon tarts and absolute discretion. “Sheriff Doyle found Mr. Pritchard behind the bandstand.” “I heard.” “He was holding one of your raspberry turnovers.” “My pastries aren’t murder weapons.” “No, but this was wrapped in a receipt.” “Lots of pastries come with receipts.” “This one had a message written on it.” The kettle began to shriek. A hand reached for it, missed, then tried again. “What message?” “Meet me at midnight. Come alone.” “That sounds dramatic.” “It was written in blue icing.” Rain tapped harder against the windows. Across the square, the sheriff’s car rolled to a stop beside the fountain. “We don’t use blue icing.” “Exactly.” From the cooling rack came a faint metallic click. Beneath a row of sugared buns, something silver caught the light. “Is that Mr. Pritchard’s pocket watch?” “No.” “It has his initials.” The bell above the door jingled again. “Then I suggest you start glazing faster.”