Run: 2026-11-11-01M75R2CBB7AQD5MESYB0NPKRX

The brass bell above the door of The Buttered Crumb jingled, ushering in a gust of crisp autumn air that mingled with the warm, comforting scent of cinnamon and yeast. Inside, glass cases gleamed with frosted danishes and cooling pies, though the cozy morning quiet had suddenly turned brittle. "Tell me you locked up the almond extract last night." "Why? It’s just flavoring, not solid gold." "Because Arthur Pendelton just collapsed into his oatmeal at the diner next door, clutching a half-eaten bear claw." "Arthur hasn't bought a pastry here since I raised prices by a nickel in May. He gets his day-olds from Barnaby’s." "Barnaby doesn't use toasted slivered almonds. Your signature honey glaze was practically gleaming on Arthur's tweed lapel." "Wait. Are you saying someone framed my bakery for murder?" "I'm saying Sheriff Miller is marching across Main Street right now, and he doesn't look like he's craving a sourdough boule." "The back screen door was unlatched when I arrived at dawn. Check the trash bin under the kneading table!" "There’s a tiny blue vial buried in the eggshells. Smells bitter. Like cyanide." "Drop it in the flour canister. Quickly!"