Run: 2026-09-24-01M39X61HS1RJXD6KZM2EFXTHJ

The bell above the door jingled, and the smell of cinnamon and yeast hung thick in the warm morning air. "You're early. The sourdough isn't even out of the oven yet." "I'm not here for bread, and you know it." "The whole town's talking. You'd think they'd have the decency to wait until the poor man's cold." "He was cold by the time they found him. Face-down in the fountain, clutching a lemon tart." "My lemon tart? I sold the last one to... oh no." "Exactly. So you'd better remember who bought it." "I remember everyone who buys my tarts. That's the trouble with small towns—everyone's a suspect and nobody's a stranger." "Then start with the ones who weren't strangers. Who came in yesterday, angry?" "Well, there was Mayor Pruett, demanding a discount. And that woman from the inn, complaining about raisins." "Raisins. In a lemon tart?" "Hidden, yes. She called them an abomination." "Anyone can hide raisins. But who hides poison in pastry?" "That's what I intend to find out—right after these rolls come out." "You're baking? Now?" "Murder keeps, dear. Cinnamon rolls don't."