Run: 2026-10-13-01M4TBE639P48XQ333ER25N1SG

The morning fog hadn't yet lifted off Maple Street when the bell over the bakery door chimed. "You're early. The cinnamon rolls aren't even glazed." "I couldn't sleep. Not after what happened at the Harvest Festival." "Marjorie, it was a pie contest, not a crime scene." "Then why was Judge Halloway's scorecard torn in half and stuffed in the flour bin?" The oven timer ticked. Somewhere in the back, dough proofed under linen cloths. "You found that?" "This morning. Behind the fifty-pound sack of stone-ground wheat." "Did you tell anyone?" "Just you. And I'm telling you because your apple crumb won first place, which makes you a suspect." "That's ridiculous. I was churning butter with Reverend Poole when the judging happened." "Was he facing you the whole time?" The stand mixer whirred, then went quiet. "...No. He kept turning toward the pantry." "Exactly. And who has a key to that pantry?" "You do." "So does your sister. Hand me that spatula, dear, and start remembering everything you saw yesterday. Every crumb of it."