Run: 2026-07-25-01KYCRMKE29EARVZAB5MQQFRGY

The bell over the door jangled, and a gust of November air rolled through the shop, carrying the smell of wet leaves. "You're early. The cinnamon rolls won't be out till eight." "I'm not here for cinnamon rolls." "Then you're here for gossip, and that costs the same. Two dollars. Sit." A stool scraped. Outside, the streetlamp on Bellweather Lane flickered twice and gave up. "Did you know Harold Quimby was in here Tuesday night? After close." "Half the town's been in here after close. I never did learn to lock a door properly." "He bought four dozen lemon bars." "He did not. He bought three dozen and asked me to hold the fourth, which I did, in the walk-in, and which is gone this morning." "Gone." "Gone. Along with my good piping bag and the spare key I keep in the flour tin, which nobody knows about." "I know about it." "You're not nobody. Pour yourself some coffee, you look like a drowned cat." Ceramic clinked. Somewhere in the back, a timer began its patient ticking. "Harold Quimby doesn't even like lemon." "No. He doesn't." "Then who was he buying them for?" "That, sweetheart, is the two-dollar question. And I've been asking it since four this morning."