Run: 2026-10-06-01M48VZWGZAVS9QRQMYD5FZN9R

The bell above the door chimed as Marigold stepped inside, flour dusting her cardigan from the morning's sourdough. "There you are. I was beginning to think the cat got you." "Nearly. Mr. Whiskers cornered me by the hydrangeas." She set her canvas tote on the counter. "Did you save me a cinnamon roll?" "Two. One's already gone—don't look at me like that. Harold from the hardware store came in early, desperate for something sweet before his wife's appointment." "Harold? The man who thinks 'artisanal' means 'overpriced'?" "Harold who once called your lavender scones 'fancy birdseed.'" A laugh escaped her. "He ate three." Marigold unwrapped her painting—a watercolor of the bakery's window, morning light spilling across the display case. "For the raffle. The historical society's fundraiser." "You're too good to us." "You're the one keeping this town fed when the grocery store burned down." She studied the empty chair by the window table. "Where's Eleanor? I wanted to ask about those murder mystery kits she mentioned." "Upstairs. 'Researching.'" The quotation marks hung in the air. "She's been up there three hours with her laptop and a pot of chamomile." "Researching what, exactly?" "Something about a real poisoning in Millbrook, 1987. The woman who—" A pause, careful. "The one nobody talks about." Marigold's brush hovered over her palette. "Eleanor's been quiet since the new baker arrived." "Everyone's been quiet." The bell chimed again. "Speaking of which—there's your competition." Through the window, a figure in a crisp white apron arranged croissants with surgical precision, glancing up to meet Marigold's eyes, then away. "Charming," Marigold said. "Deadly charming, according to Eleanor's internet." A beat. "She's not wrong about the croissants, though. I tried one. I may have wept." Marigold laughed, but her fingers tightened on her brush. "We'll see who's crying when the historical society votes on that mural commission." "That's the spirit." The older woman reached beneath the counter, producing a paper bag. "Now eat your cinnamon roll before it goes stale. And Marigold?" "Mm?" "Lock your studio tonight. Eleanor left her back window unlatched when she went upstairs." The bell chimed a third time. No one entered.