Run: 2026-07-09-01KX410T92Y449ZFZ9KGGY2DGJ

The bell above the bakery door jingled as rain silvered the windows. Inside, cinnamon buns cooled beside a pyramid of lemon tarts, filling the little shop with the warm scent of sugar and spice. “You’re early, Constable.” “And you’ve baked enough scones for a funeral.” “In Bellwether, people expect refreshments at a crisis.” “Is that what we’re calling Mayor Finch’s disappearance?” “What would you call it?” “Suspicious. His bicycle was found behind the church, and his hat was floating in the duck pond.” “That hat always looked eager to escape.” “This isn’t a joke, Clara.” “No. It’s a clue.” “The hat?” “The bicycle. Mayor Finch hasn’t ridden it since Easter, when Mrs. Pruitt’s terrier chased him into the bandstand.” “Then why leave it by the church?” “To make us think he did.” A tray clattered softly onto the counter. “You know more than you’re saying.” “I know he came in yesterday and ordered a blackberry pie.” “He hates blackberries.” “Exactly.” “Who was it for?” “He wouldn’t say. But he paid with this.” A silver button gleamed beside the flour jar, engraved with a tiny fox. “That crest belongs to Foxglove Hall.” “And Foxglove Hall has been empty for twenty years.” “Lock the door.” “Why?” “Because there’s mud on the mat.” “It’s raining.” “Red mud, Clara. Foxglove mud.” From the kitchen came the slow creak of a floorboard.