Run: 2026-10-27-01M5YEZ1YN0KPEJ7XJWV9J6NXF

By dawn, the ovens at Honeycrust Bakery had filled the little shop with the smell of cinnamon, though the village beyond its steamed windows remained gray and quiet. “You’re using the funeral china.” “It was either that or the bowl with the chipped rooster.” “The vicar wouldn’t have minded.” “The vicar minded everything. That’s why I don’t believe he ate your scone by accident.” “My scone?” “Don’t change the subject. Someone swapped his plate yesterday.” “Half the town was in here.” “Half the town doesn’t smell like mothballs and lavender.” A floorboard creaked above them. Both glanced toward the ceiling, then at the empty staircase. “You said your aunt was in bed.” “She is.” “With her shoes on?” “Probably. She distrusts burglars and comfortable feet.” On the counter, a paper bag crackled. Inside lay a single sugared bun and a brass key tied with green twine. “That wasn’t there when I made the coffee.” “Neither was the note.” “What note?” “The one tucked under your elbow.” The paper bore five words in neat, old-fashioned ink: *Ask who ordered no almonds.* “But that was the vicar’s order.” “No. He always asked for extra.” “Then someone wanted us to think he was allergic.” “And someone in this bakery knew better.” Upstairs, a door clicked shut.