Run: 2026-07-09-01KX40HF7V5GM1RAQWY69YQWCN

The bell over the bakery door gave its cheerful jingle just as the rain began tapping at the windows. Cinnamon, butter, and something faintly scorched hung in the warm air. “You’re telling me Mrs. Pindle left this on the counter?” “Right beside the lemon tarts. As if it were a tip.” A folded square of blue paper lay between the sugar bowl and a cooling rack of scones. Its corners were damp. “And you opened it?” “Of course I opened it. It had my name on it.” “What did it say?” “‘Ask about the pie.’” The ovens clicked softly behind them. “That’s not threatening.” “It’s odd. Mrs. Pindle has never asked about a pie in her life. She considers fruit filling a moral failure.” “Maybe she meant the blackberry pie she ordered for the garden club.” “She cancelled that order yesterday.” The front window rattled in the wind. Across the street, the clock tower blurred behind a veil of rain. “Was she acting strangely?” “She was wearing her church hat indoors.” “That does sound serious.” “And she kept looking over her shoulder.” “For whom?” “No idea. But then the mayor came in for a cruller.” “A cruller?” “Yes. And Mrs. Pindle dropped her umbrella.” “Did the mayor see the note?” “He saw something. His face went the color of unbaked dough.” A timer dinged. The smell of burnt sugar sharpened. “Is that the apple turnovers?” “No.” “Then what is it?” “The pie.”