Run: 2026-07-25-01KYCXP90DZSZ9C2MWT268NZB1

The morning light filtered through the lace curtains of The Rolling Pin, catching the dusting of flour on Mrs. Peabody’s apron. “You’re telling me the blueberry scones disappeared before eight?” “Every single one. And I’d just pulled them from the oven.” “That’s suspicious. Martha never misses her Tuesday scones.” “Exactly. So I asked around. Old Mr. Whitmore saw her sneaking into the back alley.” “With a scone?” “With three, apparently. Wrapped in her own napkin like contraband.” Eleanor wiped her hands on her apron and shook her head. “Maybe she was saving them for her nephew. He’s visiting from Portland.” “He’s allergic to blueberries. Everyone knows that.” The bell over the door chimed; a draft carried the scent of cinnamon. “So who took them?” “I think we should check the garden club. They were arguing about prize ribbons yesterday.” “Ribbons don’t vanish like pastries.” “No, but jealousy does.” Eleanor set a fresh tray of croissants on the counter. “Should we confront her?” “I’d rather bake her a peace offering. A lemon tart. Sweet, but tart enough to remind her we’re watching.” “Subtle.” “It’s a small town. Subtle is the only weapon we have.”<|end_message|>