Run: 2026-07-09-01KX413CE82K34PNV0WM7H7TFS

The brass bell above the bakery door gave a timid jingle as rain stippled the windows. On the counter, a tray of cinnamon rolls cooled beneath a linen cloth, their icing shining like fresh snow. “Tell me that isn’t Mrs. Bellweather’s brooch.” “It was in the flour bin.” “In the flour bin?” “Right between the rye and the buckwheat. I nearly baked it into a loaf.” A teacup clicked against its saucer. Outside, Main Street blurred beneath silver umbrellas. “She said it vanished at the historical society luncheon.” “She also said no one had been in her kitchen.” “Everyone says that before the truth comes out.” The speaker lifted the brooch with a pair of sugar tongs. Tiny seed pearls circled a dark blue stone, and a faint smear of raspberry jam marked the clasp. “Raspberry?” “Not ours. We use strawberry preserves in the thumbprints.” “Then someone brought it in.” “Or took it out.” The old wall clock ticked loudly above the bread racks. “Who was here yesterday?” “Half the town. The mayor bought scones, the librarian bought a baguette, and Mr. Pruitt lingered by the éclairs for twenty minutes.” “Mr. Pruitt hates sweets.” “He said he was waiting for the rain to stop.” “It wasn’t raining.” The bell jingled again. “Good morning! Do you have anything with raspberry?”