Run: 2026-07-25-01KYCRJ56MX45KQ09NP31N2YP5

The bell over the door jangled, and the smell of cinnamon rolled out to meet the morning. "You're early. The cardamom buns won't be out till eight." "I didn't come for buns. I came because Marjorie Pell's kitchen light was on at two in the morning." "Marjorie's ninety-one. Old people don't sleep." "Old people don't sleep and old people don't haul a wheelbarrow across a wet lawn in a housecoat, either. Something was in that wheelbarrow. Something heavy." "Compost." "In February?" A tray clattered onto the counter. Steam curled up between them. "You've been reading those paperbacks again." "I've been paying attention, which is more than the constable can say. Do you know what else? She bought four pounds of sugar off me Tuesday, and Marjorie hasn't baked since her husband passed." "Maybe she's got a sweet tooth." "Maybe she's got a visitor." "Then it's her business who she feeds." "It's my business when the sugar was paid for with a fifty-pound note. Nobody in this town has seen a fifty since the church raffle, and that money went missing in October." Silence, except for the tick of the oven timer. "...Pour me a coffee. And put a bun in a bag for Marjorie. I'll take it round myself."