Run: 2026-10-05-01M46BH7EDH506YSH0WXQJ52VY

By seven, the whole of Bellweather smelled of cinnamon. Inside the bakery, rain ticked against the windows, and a single muddy footprint spoiled the flour-dusted floor. “That’s not mine.” “I hadn’t asked.” “You were looking at my boots.” “They’re very interesting boots. Especially the left one.” Beside the till sat Mrs. Pike’s prize-winning lemon drizzle cake, delivered for the church raffle. Someone had cut a neat square from its center. “Burglars usually take money.” “In Bellweather, good cake is practically currency.” A teaspoon lay beneath the radiator. Its handle bore the mayor’s initials. “Oh, dear.” “Before you arrest anyone, remember he donated twelve spoons to the jumble sale.” “I wasn’t going to arrest the mayor.” “You’ve put your notebook away rather quickly.” The bakery clock chimed. Behind the counter, the missing square appeared on a saucer, untouched except for a narrow slit through the sponge. “There’s something inside.” “Please let it be a raisin.” Wrapped in greaseproof paper was a tiny brass key and a note: *The recipe isn’t the only thing she stole.* Outside, the church bells began their cheerful morning peal. “Shall I telephone Mrs. Pike?” “Not yet. Put the kettle on.” “Why?” “I investigate better with frosting.”