Run: 2026-10-13-01M4V1PFRVY656ZP2YBTH24SBF

The scent of warm cinnamon and melted butter hung thick in the air of The Rolling Pin. Morning sunlight slanted through the lace-curtained window, illuminating a cloud of powdered sugar drifting over the glass display case. Outside, Maple Street was just waking up, the autumn leaves skittering across the cobblestones. Inside, the brass bell above the door gave a cheerful jingle, breaking the quiet hum of the Industrial mixer in the back. "Tell me you saved a blueberry scone." "Last one is hiding behind the maple bars. You look like you've seen a ghost." "Worse. I just came from the community garden." "Don't tell me Barnaby's prize pumpkin was smashed again." "Forget the pumpkin. Barnaby is face-down in the heirloom tomatoes. Dead." "Dead? Are you certain? Maybe he just fainted from the frost." "People who faint don't usually have a silver cake server sticking out of their tweed jackets." "Wait. A silver cake server? With the engraved rose handle?" "The very one you lent to Agatha for the bake sale yesterday." "Oh, dear. Pour yourself some chamomile, and lock the front door. We need to talk before the Sheriff gets here."