Run: 2026-09-02-01M1H580GSFN3DMXTZ6KHHBF4P

The bell above the door jingled as Martha swept in, shaking rain from her umbrella. "You're here early. Don't tell me the festival committee finally ran you ragged." "Ragged doesn't begin to cover it. Someone moved my cinnamon rolls to the display case overnight, and I lock those in the back." "You're saying someone was in here?" "I'm saying the keys haven't left my neck since Tuesday." "Maybe Harold came in early. He's been sneaking around the town hall lately, too." "Harold wouldn't know a good pastry if it bit him. Besides, he only pretends to like cinnamon. I've seen him at the fair—always the lemon bars." "Then who? The mayor's been asking odd questions about your ovens." "The mayor? What business does he have with my ovens?" "That's just it. Nobody bakes at midnight except you, and you were home with the flu." "So whoever it was knew my schedule. Knew I'd be out sick." "And knew exactly which rolls to take." Martha set down her umbrella, eyes narrowing at the empty display. "Only one person ever asks about my cinnamon rolls." "The postmaster's wife." "Bless her heart. She's got some explaining to do."