Run: 2026-09-23-01M36NH1E5DEPY166V05ZZGFYQ

The bell above the bakery door jingled as rain swept in with Clara Bell. “You’re dripping on the lemon cakes.” “Then I’ll buy one to apologize.” “Buy two. The first one’s already sulking.” Clara hung her coat beside the flour-dusted window. “You heard about Mr. Pritchard?” “I heard he was found asleep in the churchyard. That’s not a crime.” “Not asleep. Unconscious. And someone left one of your cinnamon twists in his pocket.” The baker’s hand paused over the tray. “My twists are popular.” “Not with Mr. Pritchard. He claims cinnamon gives him hives.” “Perhaps he changed his mind.” “Perhaps someone wanted us to think he’d been here.” Clara leaned closer. “The vicar says the church’s silver bell is missing.” A gust rattled the panes. The baker glanced toward the empty display case. “And you think the bell is in my bakery?” “I think whoever took it knows this town well enough to hide it where everyone comes looking for something sweet.” “Then we’d better search the flour bins.” “You’re joking.” “Mostly.” Clara lifted the lid of the nearest tin. A sharp metallic note rang out beneath the flour. Neither woman moved. “Well,” Clara whispered, “that’s one way to prove your twists are innocent.” The baker reached for a sieve. “And one very strange way to order a lemon cake.”