Run: 2026-09-24-01M39VMN0CN1HJ4NC0F20WZ0SB

The bell over the door jangled, and the smell of cinnamon rolls drifted through the bakery. "You're up early, Mrs. Whitfield. The usual?" "Two of everything, actually. The funeral crowd arrives by noon, and I promised a spread." "Funeral? Who—oh. Poor Harold. I still can't believe it." "Believe it? I've thought of nothing else all night. Harold never touched marzipan. Not once in forty years. Said it tasted like soap." "Then why was there a half-eaten slice of almond cake on his plate?" "Precisely. And who brought it? The church ladies all made casseroles. Casseroles, mind you. Not cake." "You don't think—" "I think the new deputy should be asking these questions instead of me. But since he won't, I'm asking you. You delivered to the Hendersons' garden party Tuesday, didn't you?" "Half the town ordered from us that day." "Did you see Harold's nephew? The one nobody knew existed until last week?" "I saw a man carrying a suitcase to his car. Early. Very early for a party." "What time, exactly?" "Seven-fifteen. Maybe seven-twenty." "Seven-twenty. And Harold was found at nine. My, my. Would you look at that—my cinnamon rolls are burning."