Run: 2026-07-09-01KX4112HW56VZX2JH43RVE98H

The bell above the bakery door jingled, stirring the warm scent of cinnamon and butter. Outside, rain polished the cobblestones of Marigold Lane; inside, a tray of scones cooled beside a vase of daisies. “You’re early.” “And you’re hiding something.” “I’m glazing apricot turnovers.” “With the back door locked?” “The wind catches it.” “The wind also knock over Mr. Pritchard’s flour tin?” A pause settled between the ticking wall clock and the hiss of the coffee urn. “You’ve been in the pantry.” “I noticed the footprints. Flour leaves excellent evidence.” “Then you noticed they’re size eleven.” “Unlike yours.” “Unlike mine.” A china cup clicked onto its saucer. “The constable said Mr. Pritchard fell.” “The constable hadn’t seen this.” Paper rustled. Rain tapped harder against the windows. “A betting slip?” “Found beneath the cooling rack. Three hundred pounds on a horse called Baker’s Folly.” “That’s hardly proof of murder.” “No. But the note on the back might be.” Another silence. “Meet me at midnight. Bring the recipe.” “Which recipe?” “The one everyone thinks was lost when the old mill burned.” The oven timer chimed. Neither moved. “Who knew Pritchard had it?” “Only three people.” “And one wears size eleven shoes.” The bell above the door jingled again, though no one stood outside. The back door creaked open. “Apparently, the wind has returned.”