Run: 2026-07-09-01KX417XAJ4ESKPFXVYYX81N0F

The bell over Buttercup Bakery’s door gave a cheerful jingle, quite at odds with the body in the alley behind the flour bins. Inside, cinnamon rolls gleamed beneath glass domes, and Marigold Finch dusted powdered sugar over a tray of scones with perhaps more force than necessary. “You cannot keep pretending the police won’t notice your apricot jam on his cuff.” “It was a very distinctive cuff.” “That is not a defense.” “It might be, if Inspector Bell has any appreciation for preserves.” A kettle began to whistle in the back room. Marigold ignored it. “Mr. Pruitt was here at seven-thirty, alive, complaining that my brioche was too buttery.” “An impossible complaint.” “Exactly. Then he stormed out, clutching that dreadful blue ledger.” “And now the ledger is gone.” “Along with his hat.” “His hat was hideous.” “His hat was evidence.” The front door opened again, admitting a gust of cold November air and the town librarian, who froze at the sight of the two women standing beside a basket of warm croissants. “Why are you both staring at the alley window?” “We’re not.” “There appears to be a shoe beneath the dumpster.” “Then it’s fortunate we sell buns,” Marigold murmured, sliding a cranberry-orange roll onto a plate. “Everyone thinks more clearly with breakfast.”