Run: 2026-07-09-01KX4129BXBPVM8EDGBJ0BGZ3D

The bell above the bakery door gave a nervous jingle as rain tapped the front windows. Cinnamon and butter softened the gray morning, but the tray of lemon tarts sat untouched beneath the glass. “You moved the blue ribbon again.” “It was crooked.” “It was tied around Mrs. Bellamy’s prize pie. Nothing about that woman is ever crooked.” “Her alibi is.” A kettle began to whistle in the back. Flour dust floated through the warm light like tiny ghosts. “You cannot accuse the president of the Garden Club because she ordered decaf.” “She always orders espresso. Double. Says it keeps her roses honest.” “Perhaps she’s trying to sleep.” “Then why was there mud on her hem? The community garden paths are paved.” The espresso machine hissed. “Maybe she walked through the churchyard.” “At midnight? In the rain?” A pause settled between the racks of sourdough. “You found something, didn’t you?” “Under the display case.” “What?” “A pearl button.” “That could belong to anyone.” “It has a little silver bee stamped on it.” The rain seemed louder. “Mrs. Bellamy wears bees.” “So does the mayor’s wife.” “The mayor’s wife is in Vermont.” “Exactly.” The bell rang again. Both turned as Mrs. Bellamy entered, smiling brightly beneath a dripping yellow umbrella. “Good morning,” came a cheerful voice. “Do you still have lemon tarts?”