Run: 2026-09-02-01M1GRTRATSRE0FSRQNY1T60XA

Flour dust hung in the morning light, and the last cinnamon roll sat unsold behind the glass, going stale beside a tray of maple scones nobody would touch. "You're telling me Gerald Pemberton ate one of my maple scones the morning he died, and now this whole town thinks my pastries are poison?" "I'm telling you that's what Prudence saw." "Prudence also swears she saw a UFO over the church steeple in 1998." "All I know is he was fine at eight, and by nine—" "Indigestion. The man ate like a woodchipper." "The coroner didn't say indigestion." "Heart trouble, then. Runs in his family." "He said he'd know more Friday." "Friday. Four days of Marjorie ordering from the grocery store bakery. The grocery store." "Give it time." "Easy for you to say. Your livelihood isn't shaped like a suspect. The Harvest Festival is Saturday, and if I show up with anything maple, they'll run me out of town on a rail." "So don't bake maple." "So don't—" A brittle laugh. "You know what he had with that scone? Tea. Prudence's tea, from her little cart outside the bank. But no, blame the bakery." A pause. The oven door creaked shut. "Prudence's tea, you say?"