Run: 2026-09-24-01M39VGNN8ADKKAC0RHCNGYGAK

The bell above the door jangled, letting in a gust of October wind and Marjorie Plum. "You're open. Thank heavens. I simply cannot survive another minute of Ethel's whispering." "Rye or sourdough?" "Neither. Information. Is it true what they're saying about Harold?" "That depends on what they're saying." "That he was found face-down in the community garden, clutching one of your cinnamon buns." A pause. The till drawer slid shut with a clunk. "I did give him a bun yesterday. He looked peaky. Everyone looks peaky after a parish meeting." "Peaky, yes. Poisoned, apparently." "The coroner will sort that out. Meanwhile, I need two dozen rolls for the wake. Harold's sister called ahead." "You're catering the wake of a man who possibly died eating your pastry?" "He loved those buns. Practically a tribute." The espresso machine hissed into the silence. "Marjorie, that is the most macabre thing I've ever heard." "Small towns, dear. We grieve on a budget. Now—was there anything odd about Harold when he picked up that bun? Did he seem... worried?" "He asked me to keep the box plain. No bakery sticker." "Interesting." "Why?" "Because the box they found in his hand had one."