Run: 2026-09-23-01M37PFKCQ9YSX7Y2ZBBJASCCD

The cinnamon rolls had just come out of the oven when the bell over the door jingled. "Tell me it's not true." "Depends what you've heard." "That they found Mayor Whitmore's car out by the mill pond. Empty. Keys still in the ignition." "Then I suppose it's true. Though I'd take anything Doris Pettigrew says with a grain of salt—and you know how I feel about salt." "That's why I came to you instead of the diner. You actually listen." "Mm. Hand me the sprinkle tray—the one with the yellow handle. And you didn't hear this from me, but the mayor came in Tuesday. Ordered his usual lemon scone, then stood right there by the jelly case for ten minutes, staring at the parking lot." "He never waits. He takes his scone and runs." "Exactly. And Tuesday he paid with a fifty. Harold Whitmore hasn't carried anything bigger than a ten in thirty years." "So he was scared." "Or paying someone off. Now pass me that piping bag before the glaze sets." "You're going to investigate, aren't you?" "I'm going to bake sixty danishes for the church bazaar. What I do after dark is nobody's business." "Fair enough. One cinnamon roll for the road, then." "Two. You'll need the energy."