Run: 2026-09-02-01M1H56VWTHT2KS9QTSJ650H4Y

The bell over the door jangled as Marigold ducked in from the rain, shaking droplets from her cardigan. "You're soaked through. Here, I just pulled cinnamon rolls out of the oven—sit by the radiator." "Don't mind if I do. Although I'm really here about something else." "I wondered. You never come in before eight unless you're on a mission." "Is it true about Harold Pemberton?" The oven door clanged shut. "That he's dead? Yes.Found him myself this morning, face-down in my flour bin." "Good heavens. In your flour bin?" "Right where the ganache should have been. Which reminds me—someone was in here last night. The back door was unlocked when I arrived." "You always leave it unlocked." "I do not. I've been meaning to fix that latch for a month, but I haven't gotten around to it yet. So whoever came through knew to try it anyway." "You think it was the murderer?" "I think whoever it was wanted what was in that bin more than the money in the till. Harold was clutching something when I found him." "What?" "That's just it. I can't find it anywhere. But someone left footprints in my flour—size nine, and the tread's got a distinctive crack right across the heel." "How on earth do you know that?" "Because I baked the man's bread for twelve years. Harold had the most peculiar boots in Bramblewick."