Run: 2026-07-25-01KYCQTS6XG3FK1GVRSFXY9FTP

The bell over the door jingled, and flour dust rose in the morning light like something startled. "You're early. I haven't even got the cinnamon buns out." "I'm not here for buns. I'm here because Harold Pettibone's van was parked outside your back door at half eleven last night." "Was it." "It was. And Harold Pettibone has been dead a week and buried since Tuesday." "Then it wasn't his van, was it? Sit down. You look like a woman who hasn't had her tea." "Don't you dare mother me. I know that van. Rust along the wheel arch, that awful bumper sticker about trout." "Margaret. There are four hundred white vans in this county." "With trout stickers?" A long pause, filled with the scrape of a tray being pulled from the oven. "His nephew has the van now. He's been bringing me eggs. Cheap, from his own hens, and I'd rather not have the Health Board asking questions about provenance, so I'd appreciate your discretion." "Eggs. At half eleven at night." "Hens are unpredictable." "You're a terrible liar. You've gone the colour of your own raspberry glaze." "Have a bun, Margaret." "I'll have two. And then you'll tell me the truth."