Run: 2026-10-08-01M4DYHCJEAHBJTVQ7SHG8HGGV

The bakery's ovens were still ticking as they cooled, and the back kitchen smelled of cinnamon and scorched sugar. "You're in early. Couldn't sleep?" "Somebody was in here last night." "Don't be ridiculous. I locked up myself." "Then explain the window over the sink. It's cracked open, and there are heel prints in the mud beneath it." "Heels? Nobody in this town wears heels before nine." "One person does, and she bathes in that gardenia perfume." "Vivian Thorne would sooner die than climb through a window. She'd use the front door and complain about the draft." "Then look at the cinnamon tin. It's empty, and someone tied a blue ribbon around it." "Blue, like the first prize at the Harvest Fair. The judges taste our pies at ten tomorrow, and she knows it. Oh, that woman." "Wait. Nobody leaves a calling card that obvious unless they want us to blame her." "Then someone's trying to make us look the wrong way, and I'd like to know who." "Which means someone's been watching us bake for weeks, long enough to know exactly where we keep the cinnamon." Across Main Street, a car idled at the curb with its headlights off.