Run: 2026-07-25-01KYCPMV9HM04PCY1JTFPKKN5A

The smell of scalded sugar still clung to the kitchen when the bell over the door jingled. "You're out of the cinnamon twists again." "I'm out of everything again. Mrs. Ladner bought four dozen at seven this morning. Four dozen, for a woman who lives alone and claims she's watching her sugar." "She's not eating them." "Well, she's certainly paying for them." "Think about it. Four dozen pastries, the day after Harold Beecham turns up floating in the millpond. Who eats when there's a funeral? Nobody. Who bakes?" "Grieving neighbors. Guilty ones, too, though they tend to bring casseroles." "So she's making the rounds. Handing out cinnamon twists in your white boxes with your gold sticker, and everybody in town saying what a comfort that woman is." "That's not a crime. That's Tuesday." "It is when she was seen at the millpond Sunday night with a flashlight and a canvas bag." A long pause. Somewhere in the back, a timer went off and was ignored. "Seen by whom?" "By me. I was walking the dog." "You don't have a dog." "I was walking someone's dog." "Sit down. I'm putting the kettle on, and you're going to start over from the flashlight." "Can I have the last twist?" "You may not. That's evidence."