Run: 2026-11-11-01M75NJQN6N6CTXV3PWHZW4JVN

The brass bell above the door jingled, letting in a gust of crisp autumn air that mingled with the warm scent of cinnamon and proofing yeast. Glass display cases gleamed, lined with golden croissants and raspberry tarts, though Main Street outside remained unusually quiet for a Tuesday morning. "Did the sheriff really confiscate the entire batch of lemon poppyseed scones?" "Every last crumb. Swept them right off the cooling racks into little plastic evidence bags." "That seems terribly dramatic for a simple case of indigestion." "Mayor Higgins didn't have indigestion. He took one bite at the Founders' Day picnic and keeled right over into the prize-winning begonias." "Well, it certainly wasn't your baking that felled him. Your butter-to-flour ratio is practically a miracle cure." "Tell that to Deputy Miller. He spent twenty minutes eyeing my nutmeg grinder like it was a loaded weapon." "Wait a second. Look right there, wedged behind the sourdough loaves. Is that a silver cufflink?" "Don't touch it! Use a waxed pastry sheet to pick it up." "Isn't that the miniature crest from the Oakwood Country Club? You know who wears those." "Arthur Pendelton. And he swore to the whole town he was in the city all weekend." "Looks like someone had a midnight craving for sabotage. Pass me those icing tongs, will you?"