Run: 2026-10-08-01M4DA3ABDEJY89JRHEXARC3VM

The bell above the door jingled just as the last tray of cinnamon rolls came out of the oven. "You're up early," the woman behind the counter said. "Or you never went to bed." "Never did. Not after what I found in the walk-in." "Lower your voice. Mrs. Pritchard is still waiting on her lemon scones." "Forget the scones. There's a bag of almond flour behind the freezer, Dottie. Unlabeled. Sealed with your own tape." "I haven't used that brand since spring." "Then who's been sneaking into your kitchen after close?" A long pause. A rolling pin thudded against marble. "Maybe the same person who's been ordering peanut butter cookies under my name." "Dottie, those cookies sent Harold Finch to the hospital." "Exactly. And Harold was the only one who knew I bought that brand." "So you think someone's framing you?" "I think someone wants this bakery closed before the festival. Hand me that apron, will you? We have a murderer to catch and two hundred muffins to bake."