Run: 2026-09-02-01M1GQZ5CBGQM34SNY1CXM20N3

The bell above the door jangled, letting in a swirl of October leaves and Hazel Tibbs, breathless and coatless in the November cold. "You look like a woman with news." "Worse. I have a theory." "Then take it back down the street. I've got cinnamon rolls rising and a reputation to protect." "Nonsense. Everyone knows you're the best gossip in three counties." "Baker. Best baker." "Then explain why half the town comes to you before they come to me." "Because my rolls are better than your curiosity. Out with it, then. You've been hovering by the counter since you walked in." "It's about the reverend's boat." "What about it? Poor man drowned in that boat." "Precisely. Drowned. In a lake that barely reaches his chin, wearing boots laced to the knee." "Laced. You're certain?" "Would I walk up here at dawn with my hair unbrushed if I weren't certain?" "You would if it meant beating Doris Pruitt to my counter." "Well—yes. But also the boots." The oven timer shrieked, and flour drifted through the morning light like snow. "Sit down, then. If we're going to question a drowned man, we'll do it over coffee." "And cinnamon rolls." "That's a lot of trust for a woman with unbrushed hair." "That's a lot of rolls for a woman with a theory."