Run: 2026-09-03-01M1KAT5AXVG81F9CJ928J79TP

The bell above the door jangled, and the smell of burnt sugar clung to the air. "You know, that raspberry tart you made for Mrs. Higgins’ bridge club? I heard it wasn't the raspberries that made her feel funny." A flour-dusted hand wiped the counter. "What do you mean, funny? It was a classic recipe. My grandmother's." "I mean, funny as in, she saw something she shouldn't have. Right before she took a bite." "Saw what? The dust on my ceiling fan?" "No. She saw the mailman, Bob, putting a letter through the Higgins’ door. A letter with a foreign stamp. And now Bob is missing." "Missing? He was just in here for a sourdough loaf. Said he was going to the coast for a week of fishing." "The coast? He told me he was going to the airport. And he didn't buy sourdough. He bought the walnut bread. The one you made with that special honey from the old Hargrove farm." "That's just clover honey. It's my secret to a good crust." "Is it? Because the inspector came by my place last night. He asked if I knew what happens to people who bake with that honey. I didn't. But I do now." "And what's that?" "They don't wake up for breakfast." "That's absurd. I've been using it for years. I had a slice myself this morning." "Did you? And did you sleep well? You look a little pale, dear."