Run: 2026-09-23-01M37PQDXN7SQCD3B9DJM11A60

The bell above the door jingled, and the scent of cinnamon rolled out into the gray November morning. "You're early. The scones won't be out for another ten minutes." "I'm not here for scones, Martha. I'm here about the pie." "Which pie? I bake forty a day." "The blueberry one. The one that won first prize at the Harvest Fair last night. The one Reverend Collins was eating when he collapsed." A dusting of flour drifted from her apron as she set down the rolling pin. "Now, Sheriff, you can't possibly think I'd poison a man of God. I've been bringing him Sunday muffins for twelve years." "I don't think anything yet. But Doc Pruitt says it wasn't his heart. And that pie had your name on the card." "My name, yes. But did you look at the crust?" "Should I have?" "I always crimp my edges with a fork. Three presses, then a twist. My grandmother's way. Everyone in Willow Creek knows it." "And?" "And the pie on that judging table had pinched edges. Thumb and forefinger. Sloppy, too." "So somebody switched it." "Somebody switched it. Now sit down, have a scone, and let's figure out who in this town hates blueberries more than they love the Reverend."