Run: 2026-11-11-01M75P9AS7APANFHHBC403ENH5

Warm scents of cinnamon and yeast filled The Rolling Pin. Morning sunlight slanted across the checkered floor, illuminating rows of glistening pastries behind curved glass. Near the register, beneath a chalkboard menu of daily specials, two mugs of coffee steamed untouched as whispers passed across the flour-dusted counter. "Tell me you didn't sell Arthur a lemon tart this morning." "Why wouldn't I? He buys two every Tuesday like clockwork." "Because the sheriff just stretched yellow tape across his azaleas. Arthur’s dead on his porch swing, clutching one of your pink boxes." "Merciful heavens. His heart?" "Not unless heart attacks smell like bitter almonds. Deputy Miller thinks it’s cyanide." "In *my* pastry? I use strictly organic vanilla and local butter!" "Hush, Evelyn’s walking her poodle past the window. Think carefully. Did anything odd happen?" "Nobody dies from my baking. Though, come to think of it..." "What?" "Arthur didn't pick up his order today. His nephew came in instead. Even insisted on dusting the tarts with sweetener from a little silver tin in his coat pocket." "Why would a man bring his own sugar to a bakery?" "Flip the door sign to *Closed*, and grab your notebook. We’re going to find out."