Run: 2026-07-25-01KYCSJ4PJT7GY3NDVP1XSX9AD

The bell over the door at Mrs. Peabody’s Sweet Crumb Bakery jingled like a nervous cat. “You’re out of cinnamon rolls,” said the voice behind the glass display. “That’s not suspicious at all.” “They’re not out, they’re reserved. For evidence.” “Evidence? Did someone bake a clue into the dough?” “Not the dough, the glaze. Look closer. Three perfect concentric circles of icing. Like a target.” The other customer leaned over the counter, scarf trailing powdered sugar. “That just means Mrs. Peabody had a steady hand this morning.” “Mrs. Peabody hasn’t had steady hands since the bridge club riot of ’97.” “So who reserved them?” “Mayor Tuttle. Said he’d be back at ten sharp to collect them. That was forty minutes ago.” “And?” “And the mayor never misses a pastry. Especially not ones he specifically reserved before anyone else woke up.” The bell jingled again. A draft of cool air swept through, carrying the scent of pine from the town square. “So you think he—” “I think those rolls know something. Or someone knew he was coming for them.” “That’s ridiculous. It’s a cinnamon roll.” “It’s a cinnamon roll that disappeared without a crumb. Not even the napkin was touched. And the kitchen door was locked from the inside.” The oven timer behind the counter dinged, sharp and sudden. Both of them jumped. “Maybe,” said the voice by the display, lowering to a whisper, “we should check the back alley. Before the frosting sets on whatever this is.” “I’m right behind you. But I’m taking a scone for protection.” “Wise choice. The raspberry ones are lethal.” They slipped out past the racks of sourdough, leaving only the faint aroma of sugar and unanswered questions behind.<|end_message|>