Run: 2026-10-27-01M5YFXVFG39002J43EMWX88Z6

At dawn, the little bakery on Maple Street smelled of butter, cinnamon, and rain. Beyond the fogged windows, the village green was empty except for a strip of police tape stirring around the bandstand. On the counter lay one ruined scone and a recipe card spotted with something dark. “Tell me you didn’t touch that.” “I touched the kettle. Does that count?” “Not remotely.” “Then we’re safe. Mostly.” “Mr. Pruitt died after eating here, didn’t he?” “He died after judging the pie contest. There’s a difference.” “Not to the coroner.” “Not to my customers, either. Three have already cancelled their orders.” “Look at the card. Vanilla, cardamom… and lavender?” “I never use lavender. It tastes like soap.” “Someone does. The new tea shop puts it in everything.” “The new tea shop also uses blue ink.” “So?” “The note under the card is blue.” “What note?” “The one sticking out beside your thumb.” “Oh.” “‘Ask who switched the plates.’ That’s helpful.” “It’s threatening.” “It’s practically an invitation.” “We should call the constable.” “We should. But first, check the oven.” “Why?” “Because it’s set to two hundred degrees, and I turned it off last night.” From inside came a soft click. The oven door creaked open, revealing a single lavender biscuit—and another blue note.