Run: 2026-10-27-01M5YJ12H94GFT1EVK0E1E0A4D

At six on a rain-soft morning, Buttercup Bakery smelled of cinnamon and warm sugar. The baker and the village librarian stood over a tray of raspberry tarts while, beyond the fogged window, Willow Lane slept. “Mr. Bellamy ordered these for his anniversary.” “His wife died three years ago.” “Exactly.” “Perhaps he meant his shop’s anniversary.” “Then why pay extra for a midnight delivery?” A floorboard creaked above them. Only the old clock answered. “Did you lock the back door?” “I always do.” “And the recipe book?” “In the flour bin, where nobody would look.” “Somebody looked.” White dust puffed from the bin, revealing an empty cavity and a single black button. “That’s from the constable’s coat.” “Or someone wanted us to think so.” “You sound almost cheerful.” “I’ve reshelved every mystery in this town. Real ones are much tidier.” “Tidier? There’s flour on your sleeve.” “So there is.” Outside, a bicycle bell chimed. A man in Mr. Bellamy’s brown coat pedaled past in the rain, his basket stacked with raspberry tarts. “Don’t telephone the constable yet.” “Why not?” “Because that isn’t Mr. Bellamy.” “How can you tell?” “Mr. Bellamy can’t ride a bicycle.” Behind them, the back door clicked shut.