Run: 2026-09-02-01M1GTSKDA888D66X188RNQ82R

The morning rush had faded to one lingering customer and the smell of cinnamon. "Two rolls, please, and—is that police tape still up across the street?" "Frosting's on the house if you don't ask me about it." "That bad?" "Marjorie Hemsworth, dead in her own garden, and half the town's been through here speculating since seven. I ran out of polite around eight." "I heard it was her prize roses. Something in the soil." "You heard that from Dot, didn't you?" "...Maybe." "Dot couldn't keep a secret in a jar with the lid on tight. It was the trowel, dear. Right beside the hydrangeas. And before you ask—yes, I've told the sheriff everything I know." "Which is?" "Marjorie was in Tuesday, ordered a lemon cake for the church bake sale, and squabbled with Priscilla Whittaker over the table by the window. Last anyone saw of her, far as I can tell." "So Priscilla—" "Had a motive the size of a fruitcake. But so did the mailman, the choir director, and every soul in the garden club. Marjorie was generous with her opinions." "One more question. Does that lemon cake recipe exist anywhere on paper?" "Heavens, no. Some things a woman takes to the grave. Speaking of which—your rolls are getting cold."