Run: 2026-09-23-01M36NK1NZRFWJVY48ZT51279Z

The bell above the bakery door gave a tired little jingle as rain swept in behind Elsie. “Your sleeves are dripping on the lemon tarts.” “Then the lemon tarts should be grateful for the company.” “You’re avoiding the question.” “I’m avoiding several questions. It’s a small town; they travel in packs.” The ovens hummed, warming the windows while rain blurred the street outside. Elsie peeled off one glove and set a brass key on the counter. “I found it under Mr. Vale’s chair at the church supper.” “Does it open anything?” “His office. Or the locked cabinet in the vestry. I haven’t decided which is more alarming.” “Neither is as alarming as finding him face-down beside the pie table.” Elsie glanced toward the empty café. “You saw the flour on his coat?” “I saw everything. He’d been in here that morning, asking whether we still kept the old delivery ledger.” The baker’s hand paused over a tray of cinnamon buns. “Why would a church treasurer care about our ledger?” “Because someone altered the charity account, and the ledger records every delivery we made to the vicarage.” The bell jingled again. Both women looked up. A man in a rain-darkened coat stood in the doorway, staring at the key. “Is that what you’re looking for?” Elsie asked. “I was hoping,” he said, “you’d found something less incriminating.” The baker reached for the rolling pin. “We’ve got stale scones.” “Those will do,” he said, stepping inside. “For now.”