Run: 2026-09-02-01M1HHAXJRTV0ECC6GPZ0D4769

The copper bell chimed, cutting through the warm scent of cinnamon and rising yeast. "You’re using the almond extract again." "Clover Hill expects almond in the bear claws. Tradition keeps the lights on." A cloud of flour settled like fresh snow across the marble counter. "Besides, it masks less pleasant aromas." "That isn't funny. Not after yesterday." A wooden rolling pin paused mid-glide. "Who said I was joking? Arthur Pendelton didn't tumble into the gorge on clumsy feet." "The sheriff ruled it misadventure." "The sheriff also thought a bear broke into the apothecary last winter, and we both know that was just Mrs. Gable hunting for peppermint schnapps." A sharp scrape of the bench scraper punctuated the thought. "Arthur was clutching a sugar cookie. Star-shaped. Red sugar crystals." "You only bake those for custom orders." "Precisely." The air thickened, heavy as chilled buttercream. Through the lace-trimmed bay window, autumn leaves skittered past the darkened storefront of Pendelton’s Antiques. "Who placed the order?" "The receipt had a name, but it certainly wasn't Arthur’s." An apron-dusted thumb flicked toward the glass display case. "Take a bear claw. We have a funeral to attend, and an alibi to dismantle."