Run: 2026-09-23-01M36NPKSGGMY3Q7H8FXNR7ZEX

The bell over the bakery door gave a nervous jingle as rain swept in behind a man in a dripping tweed coat. “You’re late for someone who ordered a dozen lemon buns.” “I’m early for someone who plans to poison them.” Mabel stopped frosting the buns. “That’s a dreadful thing to say in a bakery.” “Worse things have been said over your cinnamon rolls.” She glanced at the empty shop. Through the steamed window, the little town’s clock showed ten past four. “Who told you about the buns?” “Mrs. Vale. She says her husband ordered them, though he’s been dead since Tuesday.” Mabel set down the piping bag. “Mr. Vale was buried yesterday.” “And yet someone paid cash this morning.” A soft thump sounded from the back room. “You’re not alone,” he whispered. “I’m never alone in a bakery. The sourdough starter has a personality.” The thump came again, followed by a scrape. “That’s not the starter.” “No. The starter’s in the icebox.” They edged past the flour sacks. Mabel lifted a rolling pin; he picked up a tray, clearly less prepared for danger. The storeroom door swung open. A tabby cat darted out, trailing a strip of ribbon. Mabel stared at the ribbon. “That’s from the funeral wreath.” “And the flour on its paws?” She looked down. A fresh set of footprints led from the back door to the counter—and ended beside the lemon buns. “Someone came in while we were talking.” The bell jingled. “Then let’s see who’s hungry.”