Run: 2026-07-09-01KX41FQE43QVDMT9H4AT1VA9C

The bell above the door gave a nervous jingle as flour drifted through the warm air of Honeycomb Bakery. “You’re early.” “Your back door was unlocked.” “It’s a bakery, not Fort Knox.” “Then why is there a dead man in the pantry?” The rolling pin slipped from Mara’s hand and thudded onto the tiled floor. Beyond the racks of cooling cinnamon buns, Mr. Pritchard lay sprawled beside the sacks of sugar, one polished shoe resting in a puddle of raspberry glaze. “Don’t touch anything.” “I haven’t. I only looked.” “You looked, then came straight to me?” “You’re the one who knows everyone in Bellweather. Including the victim.” Mara swallowed. “He was supposed to inspect the bakery this morning.” “Inspect it for what?” “An anonymous complaint. Flour beetles, missing permits, whatever people invent when they want a business closed.” A clock ticked above the espresso machine. “His pocket is empty.” “His watch isn’t.” “Exactly. Someone took something specific.” Mara noticed a red smear on the inspector’s cuff—not raspberry, but lipstick. “That shade belongs to the mayor.” “Does the mayor wear lipstick?” “She owns the beauty shop. Half the town does.” The front bell jingled again. “Police?” “No. Mrs. Bellweather. She ordered twelve éclairs.” Mara reached for the rolling pin. “Good. Keep that handy. And smile.” “While there’s a corpse in my pantry?” “Small towns expect excellent customer service.”